Death of an Idealist (Ode to Bacchus)

[lofro]

"Death of an Idealist (Ode to Bacchus)"

This is the world of experience,
not, to Plato's chagrin, the world of forms.
The chair I sit on is not the Ideal Chair;
No glass-topped table will ever equal
the Table from which all Tableness is measured.
The dinner I am about to eat
will never be the same as the Ideal Dinner;
these things exist only in that Platonic world
which no man knows directly.
Somewhere an ideal Dr. Pepper
is smirking at the tawdry reflection in my glass.

But how many ideal suppers would you trade
for one bite of veal parmigania,
the coarse breading's feel against your tongue?
How many ideal women would you give
for one smile from the waitress
as she takes out her pen for your order?
How many ideal nights are worth
one dark walk in the snowy streets
racing to catch your own steaming breath?

My answer, at least, is all of them;
For I cannot taste the ideal supper,
Cannot flirt with the ideal woman,
Cannot laugh in the ideal winter's chilly air.

Let Plato have his dead world of ideals.
Give me the philosophy of a real February night.

-2/23/2008