Graham Words

I am a poet Sometimes I rhyme, sauntering like a picnic ant, not wishing to surprise Other times I am a topsy-turvy wordsmith  who doesn't make the... Should I claim a blue-collar work ethic, saying I produce poems like a printing press, or should I upcharge the simile and call myself a mystical artist instead? (Can I be mystical and verbose? Wittgenstein, John of the Cross, those observers of apophatic silence, would they not be provoked?) The literal is not that far from the mystical, for both methods are direct So lead me to the gallows for creative philistines and liberals who worry about consonants and vowels  and question why figurative words are more valuable than literal Besides, Peter van Inwagen's metaphysics would have me say that this poem does not exist anyway "The Anti-Poet" is a composite of elementary particles arranged word-wise, so its poemness is merely a product of mind Therefore, I am not a poet, though I did initially try my hand at some verse An...

At the heart of logical positivism was a novel way of dismissing certain non-scientific views by declaring them not merely wrong or false, but meaningless .  According to the verification theory of meaning , sometimes also called the empiricist theory of meaning , any non-tautological statement has meaning if and only if it can be empirically verified. —Aaron Preston, "Analytic Philosophy," Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy Please let me introduce myself: My name is Robert Ralph, better known as "Rob the Ockhamist", your trusted logical positivist. Bored on this winter day, I go outside to play, and as I see a snowflake, my thoughts begin to quake. To say that "snowflakes are white as angels" would not be valid. In fact, it would be rather mystical and pallid. Snowflakes are ice crystals, not spirits in flight. Contrary to appearance, they're clear and not white. It is true that it is snowing, for it is false that it is not. But to believe in a Wint...

As I walk amidst this blue, placid daylight, I ponder the stoic stones. They sit as still as monks, or at least school children in the presence of a good teacher. This tranquility escapes me, says nothing of industry and liability, education and the arts, interpersonal relations, God. My hopes have shy eyes, longing for a silence that they avoid. Though maybe some day far off, along the end of the rail, that silence will glow like gold low in the ground. And the noise will be interrupted, like a clear sky by an airplane, will be pierced, like grapes under a scorching sun.

Why should I feel at peace among  stones on these azure days that are brisk and  bright ? That same material for idols and  thrones , why should the creature of conscience not  bite ? Pantheism shines no  light— God is the rock apart from all  stones. How the trees recoil at slightest wind  blown . Why should their branches put up a  fight, as if swords were drawn over lofty  thrones, or dogs were competing for medals of  meat? Placid among ponds and paths, left and right, such anxiety is not found in stones. Equality in nature? That is deceit. The incomprehensible peace at the heights— kings and commoners cannot share this throne.

Why should I feel at peace among stones on these azure days that are brisk and bright ? That same material for idols and thrones , why should the creature of conscience not bite ? Pantheism shines no  light— God is the rock apart from all  stones. How the trees recoil at slightest wind blown . Why should their branches put up a fight, as if swords were drawn over lofty thrones or dogs were competing for medals of meat? Mute, unthinking, void of eye sight , is that what it is like to be a stone ? Objects of nature have no peace, for stillness is reached at the heights of worry and strife: there is found the throne .