My name is Skythinos, not the author
of Herakleitos Commentaries
but just one epigram. I wrote it while
at school and Plato saw it and kicked me out.
It was in praise of Beauty, origin
of mind. It sealed my fate. I tutored children
in this village and died a pauper. Do not pity
me; flowers grow here all year round.
Time is mortal. It is perhaps the most mortal “thing” — the essence of mortality. But in a particularly dense and poetic passage, Desmond speaks of the origin of time: “The ecstasy of time is time’s own ecstasy, but as given from the origin, it is also a rejoicing with the origin which leaps in its leaping . . .” (God and the Between 297).
eternity loves time
my cat toys with his old toy
a fine pas de deux
NOTES Other possible sections: time’s ecstacy , time flows in time . . .
The ambiguity of the “of” in the phrase “the gift of time” is confusing but ultimately helpful. There ARE two interpretations, and each has its truth.
Time presupposes its other as eternity. This is dialectical logic and is supported by usage. So we can say that time is the gift of eternity. “The gift of time.”
The second interpretation is also valid: all things happen in time. “The gifts of time.” This is a matter of contention, perhaps; idealists protest but the logic holds in usage. The space we live and move in is temporal; we are temporal. Every thing is the gift of time.
Sometimes I work into the night.
I murder every rhyme on sight
As other to my thought until
I’m left alone with naked will.
just that daffodil
against a sun-bleached wooden fence
and all shall be well
Blustery Spring day
A bird flies out the window
of this condemned house
Epigram or haiku, I am partial
To the short forms that rhyme with Martial.
Here lies a distinguished Formalist
Who wanted us to understand
The world not of the open hand
But the closed fist.
An image is a raveled narrative.