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Plato is boring.

Friedrich Nietzsche in Twilight of the Idols, What I owe to the Ancients
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I'm Boring

I like you and we get along great.
Like a little bit of pepper with salt for taste.
And I don't want you thinking I'm snooping just to peek,
But I got to use this minute quick to make sure this is it.
I'm boring,
Deeper into you I feel it needed.
I'm boring,
'Cause of possibilities I see.
I'm boring...
Way beyond the meeting of the greeting,
'Cause I see right now you are meant for me.

I'm boring,
Deeper into you I feel it needed.
I'm boring,
'Cause of possibilities I see.
I'm boring...
Way beyond the meeting of the greeting,
'Cause I see right now you are meant for me.

Deeper,
Are the questions of you that I ask.
Deeper,
Are your answers given back to me.
And deeper,
Into ourselves we get...
And this deepness makes us happy.

Deeper,
Are the questions of you that I ask.
Deeper,
Are your answers given back to me.
And deeper,
Into ourselves we get...
And this deepness makes us happy.

I'm boring,
Deeper into you I feel it needed.
I'm boring,
'Cause of possibilities I see.
I'm boring...
Way beyond the meeting of the greeting,
'Cause I see right now you are meant for me.

I like you and we get along great.
Like a little bit of pepper with salt for taste.

Deeper,
Are the questions of you that I ask.
Deeper,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Being Boring

(tennant/lowe)
---------------
I came across a cache of old photos
And invitations to teenage parties
Dress in white one said, with quotations
From someones wife, a famous writer
In the nineteen-twenties
When youre young you find inspiration
In anyone whos ever gone
And opened up a closing door
She said: we were never feeling bored
cause we were never being boring
We had too much time to find for ourselves
And we were never being boring
We dressed up and fought, then thought: make amends
And we were never holding back or worried that
Time would come to an end
When I went I left from the station
With a haversack and some trepidation
Someone said: if youre not careful
Youll have nothing left and nothing to care for
In the nineteen-seventies
But I sat back and looking forward
My shoes were high and I had scored
Id bolted through a closing door
I would never find myself feeling bored
cause we were never being boring
We had too much time to find for ourselves
And we were never being boring
We dressed up and fought, then thought: make amends
And we were never holding back or worried that
Time would come to an end
We were always hoping that, looking back
You could always rely on a friend
Now I sit with different faces
In rented rooms and foreign places
All the people I was kissing
Some are here and some are missing
In the nineteen-nineties
I never dreamt that I would get to be
The creature that I always meant to be
But I thought in spite of dreams
Youd be sitting somewhere here with me
cause we were never being boring
We had too much time to find for ourselves
And we were never being boring
We dressed up and fought, then thought: make amends
And we were never holding back or worried that
Time would come to an end
We were always hoping that, looking back

[...] Read more

song performed by Pet Shop Boys
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Boring Lonely Day

What to do
On a boring lonely day?
How to have something to do
To keep the blues away?

I have got my papers sorted
And I am faced with a lonely boring day.
I cleaned my home yesterday.
From having a good and fun day,
I am thwarted.

The songs only make me sadder
I am having a boring lonely day.
All my games bore me now
Even when I win, it is a lonely boring day.

Having nothing to do
Makes for a boring lonely day.
And no one to do nothing with
That's the cause of the lonely boring day.

Now that I know the cause
Of my lonely boring days,
I can do something without pause
To cure my boring lonely days.

poem by Lonely People Champion
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My father's Plato

And that’s not a claim to paternity –
it’s the possessive case; though to what degree
my father possessed Plato, or Plato, him,
remains one of those unsolved mysteries
stored in that little room of sadness in the hearts
of children of that more formal, distanced age…

Like so many self-made men, he’d never read
a novel before he retired; and then
set out to educate himself
as would befit the father of a son
he planned – God unwilling, at first – to have,
whom he would provide with all the advantages
he’d never had… alas; alas for both of us…

He’d read of course, Smiles’ ‘Self-Help’ – they all had;
moved on to Carlyle, Ruskin (briefly) , Emerson; wrote
in warm approval to George Bernard Shaw,
who responded with one of his printed pre-texted postcards…
then worked through those nicely-bound
sets of Hardy, Galsworthy, Dickens, Scott, and H.G.Wells,
offered cheaply by the Daily Mail or by Wills’ Cigarettes…

then – Plato; or at least, his Republic;
a yellow bound, standard Everyman; but this one
- I discovered far too late in life -
fiercely underlined in summary pencil lines…

and that was really, all he needed; busy
with his hens and chicks, his toddler son (at last…) :
later, novels of another sort crept up on him; he lived
a – no, don’t call it fantasy – a parallel life
in volume after volume of those yellow-covered
Wild West Club. (That’s where he would have flourished,
aggressive boss of bosses, if he had not been stone-deaf…)

So what was he to Plato, or Plato said to him?
Are the underlinings an extension of that angry, abrupt man
meaning, that’s my experience; so he’s right…;
or was there stunned admiration; or
was there a humility I never saw
until efficiency turned to eccentricity,
eccentricity to dementia…
a humility, perhaps, that took him to another world
of ancient Greece, and glories, virtues, and ideals,
where Spartans from the wild wild East
rode roughshod over democracy, and
where a good man must be sought,
to run them out of town…?

[...] Read more

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Taming The Tiger

I stepped outside to breathe the air
And stare up at the stars
Big dipper hanging there
Over the rented car
Over the rented car
Im a runaway from the record biz
From the hoods in the hood and the whiny white kids
Boring!
The old man is snoring
And Im taming the tiger
(you cant tame the tiger)
Tiger, tiger burning bright
Nice, kitty kitty
Tiger, tiger burning bright
Sophia says its hard to catch
And harder still to ride
The time to watch the beast the best
Is when its purring at your side
Purring at your side
Accolades and honors
One false move and youre a goner
Boring!
The old man is snoring
And Im taming the tiger
(you cant tame the tiger)
Tiger, tiger burning bright
Nice, kitty kitty
Tiger, tiger burning bright
In the forest of the night
The moon shed light
On my hopeless plight
As the radio blared so bland
Every disc, a poker chip
Every song just a one night stand
Formula music, girly guile
Genuine junkfood for juveniles
Up and down the dial
Mercenary style
I watched the stars chuck down their spears
And a plane went blinking by
And I thought of anna
Wild and dear
Like fireworks in the sky
Fireworks in the sky
Im so sick of this game
Its hip, its hot
Lifes too short, the whole things gotten
Boring!
The old man is snoring
And Im taming the tiger

[...] Read more

song performed by Joni Mitchell
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The Tower

SAILING TO BYZANTIUM
I

THAT is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
-- Those dying generations -- at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out Of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

WHAT shall I do with this absurdity --
O heart, O troubled heart -- this caricature,
Decrepit age that has been tied to me
As to a dog's tail?
Never had I more
Excited, passionate, fantastical
Imagination, nor an ear and eye
That more expected the impossible --
No, not in boyhood when with rod and fly,
Or the humbler worm, I climbed Ben Bulben's back
And had the livelong summer day to spend.
It seems that I must bid the Muse go pack,
Choose Plato and Plotinus for a friend
Until imagination, ear and eye,

[...] Read more

poem by William Butler Yeats
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Making Sense Of Sound

SENSE OF SOUND

In Plato’s time fools used to say
there are no rules for music that you play.
Being law-abiding when you write
a piece of music often won’t excite
the fools who will demand of you to break
its laws, while claiming that the word mistake
doe not apply to music. It is pleasure
that’s their bottom line, every measure
composed in any manner the composer
may wish. I do not want to be imposer
of any law that may inhibit your
ability to write, but I feel sure
that ultimately it is only fools
who break in music, as in life, all rules.

In music as in life there’s right and wrong,
and both of them, in order to last long,
must follow norms, as Plato once declared.
a view that by this poet now is shared,
while hoping antinomians are not friendless,
like Wagner making melody that’s endless.
Music is a stock that never should be shorted.
Like any lover that you may have courted,
it follows rules on which you should go long,
avoiding dissonances that sound wrong,
except for all the ones that are resolved
like problems that in life that have been solved.
Only by preventing disappearance
of rules can life-like music reach coherence.

Inspired by Plato, cited in “Making Sense of Sound, ” by James F. Penrose in the WSJ, January 27,2010, reviewing Ruth Katz’s “A Language of Its Own, ” describing a grammar of music that evolved over the centuries without any overt instruction, giving an internal coherence to music and allowing it to adapt to cultural and social change, with a shared understanding between musicians and audiences. Penrose writes;

“Through foolishness they deceived themselves into thinking that there was no right or wrong way in music, that it was to be judged good or bad by the pleasure that it gave.” With these words Plato complained about the “promiscuous cleverness and a spirit of law-breaking” that characterized the music of the time—the fourth century B.C. Even then, it seems, music had a form and structure that guided its composition and performance, for “law-abiding” musicians anyway…. Beethoven, in Mr. Katz’s view, never damaged the system of harmonic tonality and “integrated” form, for all his iconoclasm. But a succession of composers––including Schumann, Liszt and, above all, Wagner––chipped away at coherence by preparing unprepared and unresolved chords, chromatic alterations, and above all modulations into remote keys. With his “unendlische Melodie (infinite melody) and other devices, Wagner savaged traditional musical structures even as he created astonishingly beautiful music. The gulf between past and present widened as the 20th century progressed––but there were pockets of resistance, Ms. Katz observes. Debussy joined the moderns in rebelling against the constraints of harmonic tonality but found coherence in modal forms and in melodic tonality. Composers like Bartok, Ravel and Janacek, though also pushing the boundaries of traditional harmony, appealed to the ear by retaining crucial elements of traditional tonality… [Ms Katz] is hopeful that musical tradition can regain its footing, perhaps by recreating the “abstracting” process that allowed Wesstern music, despite its inability to describe what it does, to beguile and fascinate us for so long.

1/27/10

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Bordom

Sitting
Nothing
No sound
Not even the dog in the back
Then a song comes up
Same ol song
Never ending
I just keep pushing play
Thinking
What will tomarrow be like
Nothing
Same ol life
Same ol thing
Nothing changing
Not even the song
Not the dog barking
Not the creaks and cracks of the haunted floor
Not the feel of someone watching
Not the wish of something else
Nothing changeing ever
I guess nothing silent
Just every same thing
Boring
Im lost in bordom
Ready lets push play

dododo

Same ol song
Nothing changeing
Everything the same
Boring life
No Change
Rarely ever
Boring life
click clack
same ol anoying keyboard
Sound coming barely over that boring song
Does anything change
Or is life ment to be Boring
Dull
Nothing life
Was that a sound?
Phone ring?
Some one home?
Or is the nothing boring life getting to me?
Am I going insane?
Still no change
Nothing at all
Push play again

[...] Read more

poem by Jessie Li here
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Roots Of Creation

One two three four!
Pull up here honey, if ya got a pussy and
Shake your ass like your ready to sing
Well, something muy high
Something muy low
When me ready limo then they follow me home like a
Roots of creation
I am living in a boring nation
I pull up my hands and I look at my feet
The reggae music make me sound so sweet
Cause we play it morning evening and all of the day
It's the sweet kinda music makes me feel O.K.
The roots of creation
Said I am living in a plastic nation
I pull up my hat
My coat is so wide
Sometimes, sometimes I feel so high
But all the time I feel airie
I feel airie when I'm down with the scene called
Roots of creation
I am living in a plastic nation
One more time!
Well, pull up here honey like you got limbo
Well pull up your fingers like you're ready to go
Give me
Give me something high
Give me something slow
Give me something I can use
Give me something I can know
Your the body and the mind one
Part of soul or two
I feel a different person to be a different place
I'm living in a different place
Sometime I feel although its fin
Pull up your style make it sound so fine
With ah
Pull up hands with me
Roots of creation
I am living in a boring nation
A pull up sound with Mike Happoldt at my left
I got Eric at my right
We rock the reggae music every day and night
We rock the reggae music say it's right on time
Cause you're down with the music that they call Sublime
I'm living in a different nation
Reggae style again!
Gonna win me back gonna feel so fine
Bring me down to the place so right
We rock the music so late at night
With a guitar pick in my hand

[...] Read more

song performed by Sublime
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What Then?

His chosen comrades thought at school
He must grow a famous man;
He thought the same and lived by rule,
All his twenties crammed with toil;
'What then?' sang Plato's ghost. 'What then?'

Everything he wrote was read,
After certain years he won
Sufficient money for his need,
Friends that have been friends indeed;
'What then?' sang Plato's ghost. 'What then?'

All his happier dreams came true –
A small old house, wife, daughter, son,
Grounds where plum and cabbage grew,
Poets and Wits about him drew;
'What then?' sang Plato's ghost. 'What then?'

'The work is done,' grown old he thought,
'According to my boyish plan;
Let the fools rage, I swerved in naught,
Something to perfection brought;'
But louder sang that ghost, 'What then?'

poem by William Butler Yeats
Added by Dan Costinaş
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Words For Music Perhaps

I - CRAZY JANE AND THE BISHOP

BRING me to the blasted oak
That I, midnight upon the stroke,
(All find safety in the tomb.)
May call down curses on his head
Because of my dear Jack that's dead.
Coxcomb was the least he said:
The solid man and the coxcomb.
Nor was he Bishop when his ban
Banished Jack the Journeyman,
(All find safety in the tomb.)
Nor so much as parish priest,
Yet he, an old book in his fist,
Cried that we lived like beast and beast:
The solid man and the coxcomb.
The Bishop has a skin, God knows,
Wrinkled like the foot of a goose,
(All find safety in the tomb.)
Nor can he hide in holy black
The heron's hunch upon his back,
But a birch-tree stood my Jack:
The solid man and the coxcomb.
Jack had my virginity,
And bids me to the oak, for he
(all find safety in the tomb.)
Wanders out into the night
And there is shelter under it,
But should that other come, I spit:
The solid man and the coxcomb.

II - CRAZY JANE REPROVED

I CARE not what the sailors say:
All those dreadful thunder-stones,
All that storm that blots the day
Can but show that Heaven yawns;
Great Europa played the fool
That changed a lover for a bull.
Fol de rol, fol de rol.
To round that shell's elaborate whorl,
Adorning every secret track
With the delicate mother-of-pearl,
Made the joints of Heaven crack:
So never hang your heart upon
A roaring, ranting journeyman.
Fol de rol, fol de rol.

III - CRAZY JANE ON THE DAY OF JUDGMENT

[...] Read more

poem by William Butler Yeats
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Transcending Platonic Platitudes

Coxcomb, charlatan and bore,
Plato paved immoral ways for Byron. He
transcended platitudes that bore,
transforming them with his immortal irony.

Inspired by Byron’s lines in Don Juan, CXVI, cited by Roger Scruton in Sexual Desire: A Phiosophic Investigation, p.237:

Oh, Plato! Plato! You have paved the way,
With your confounded fantasies, to more
Immoral conduct by the fancied way
Your system feigns o’er the controlless core
Of human hearts, than all the long array
Of poets and romancers: –– You’re a bore,
A charlatan, a coxcomb –– and have been,
At best, no better than a go-between.

8/29/09

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Poetry

Why is poetry so boring?
Everytime I read it,
It leaves me snoring,
Why is poetry so boring?

Some thing it's the art,
But it's an art how?
Poetry comes from the heart,
No wonder boys frown.

Some this it's the words,
With their displeasure,
They are like sour milk curds,
Which are too big to measure.

Poetry is boring,
Everytime I read it,
It leaves me snoring,
That's why poetry is boring.

poem by Mystykka Mysterious
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So Beautiful

I was listening to this conversation
Noticing my daydream stimulated me more
I was crumbling with anticipation
You better send me home before I tumble down to the floor
Youre so beautiful but oh so boring
Im wondering what am I doing here
So beautiful but oh so boring Im wondering
If anyone out there really cares
About the curlers in your hair
My little golden baby where have all your birds flown now
Somethings glistening in my imagination
Motivating something close to breaking the law
Wait a mo before you take me down to the station
Ive never known a one whod make me suicidal before
She was so beautiful but oh so boring
Im wondering what was I doing there
So beautiful but oh so boring Im wondering
If anyone out there really cares
About the colour of your hair
My little golden baby where have all your birds flown now

song performed by Simply Red
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So Beautifui

I was listening to this conversation
Noticing my daydream stimulated me more
I was crumbling with anticipation
You better send me home before I tumble down to the
Floor
Youre so beautiful but oh so boring
Im wondering what am I doing here
So beautiful but oh so boring, Im wondering
If anyone out there really cares
About the curlers in your hair
My little golden baby, where have all your birds flown
Now?
Somethings glistening in my imagination
Motivating something close to breaking the law
Wait a mo before you take me down to the station
Ive never known a one whod make me suicidal before
She was so beautiful but oh so boring
Im wondering what was I doing there
So beautiful but oh so boring, Im wondering
If anyone out there really cares
About the colour of your hair
My little golden baby, where have all your birds flown
Now?
Text und musik: mick hucknall
Aus dem album life

song performed by Simply Red
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Platonic Love

do not mistake
the kind of
love that
plato offers
during
his times

you say
platonic
one that
is pure
and free
from lust
one
that merely
gazes
at the other
without
hormonal
considerations
nothing
chemical
but pure
feelings
of being
intimate
and
sweet

i hear
it once
that plato
also loves
boys

and he
must
have called
it
platonic

baloney

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Canto the First

I
I want a hero: an uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth a new one,
Till, after cloying the gazettes with cant,
The age discovers he is not the true one;
Of such as these I should not care to vaunt,
I'll therefore take our ancient friend Don Juan—
We all have seen him, in the pantomime,
Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time.

II
Vernon, the butcher Cumberland, Wolfe, Hawke,
Prince Ferdinand, Granby, Burgoyne, Keppel, Howe,
Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk,
And fill'd their sign posts then, like Wellesley now;
Each in their turn like Banquo's monarchs stalk,
Followers of fame, "nine farrow" of that sow:
France, too, had Buonaparté and Dumourier
Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier.

III
Barnave, Brissot, Condorcet, Mirabeau,
Petion, Clootz, Danton, Marat, La Fayette,
Were French, and famous people, as we know:
And there were others, scarce forgotten yet,
Joubert, Hoche, Marceau, Lannes, Desaix, Moreau,
With many of the military set,
Exceedingly remarkable at times,
But not at all adapted to my rhymes.

IV
Nelson was once Britannia's god of war,
And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd;
There's no more to be said of Trafalgar,
'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd;
Because the army's grown more popular,
At which the naval people are concern'd;
Besides, the prince is all for the land-service,
Forgetting Duncan, Nelson, Howe, and Jervis.

V
Brave men were living before Agamemnon
And since, exceeding valorous and sage,
A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;
But then they shone not on the poet's page,
And so have been forgotten:—I condemn none,
But can't find any in the present age
Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);
So, as I said, I'll take my friend Don Juan.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
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The Pleasures of Hope

Part I.

At summer eve, when Heaven's ethereal bow
Spans with bright arch the glittering bills below,
Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye,
Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky ?
Why do those clifts of shadowy tint appear
More sweet than all the landscape smiling near ?—
'T is distance lends enchantment to the view,
And robes the mountain in its azure hue.
Thus, with delight, we linger to survey
The promised joys of life's unmeasured way;
Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene
More pleasing seems than all the past hath been,
And every form, that Fancy can repair
From dark oblivion, glows divinely there.
What potent spirit guides the raptured eye
To pierce the shades of dim futurity ?
Can Wisdom lend, with all her heavenly power,
The pledge of Joy's anticipated hour ?
Ah, no! she darkly sees the fate of man—
Her dim horizon bounded to a span;
Or, if she hold an image to the view,
'T is Nature pictured too severely true.
With thee, sweet Hope! resides the heavenly light,
That pours remotest rapture on the sight:
Thine is the charm of life's bewildered way,
That calls each slumbering passion into play.
Waked by thy touch, I see the sister band,
On tiptoe watching, staft at thy command
And fly where'er thy mandate bids them steer,
To Pleasure's path or Glory's bright career.
Primeval Hope, the Aonian Muses say,
When Man and Nature mourned their first decay;
When every form of death, and every woe,
Shot from malignant stars to earth below ;
When Murder bared her arm, and rampant War
Yoked the red dragons of her iron car ;
When Peace and Mercy, banished from the plain,
Sprung on the viewless winds to Heaven again ;
All, all forsook the friendless, guilty mind,
But Hope, the charmer, lingered still behind.
Thus, while Elijah's burning wheels prepare
From Carmel's heights to sweep the fields of air,
The prophet's mantle, ere his fight began,
Dropt on the world—a sacred gift to man.
Auspicious Hope ! in thy sweet garden grow
Wreaths for each toil, a charm for every woe ;
Won by their sweets, in Nature's languid hour,
The way-worn pilgrim seeks thy summer bower ;

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Campbell
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Xantippe

(A Fragment)>/i>

What, have I waked again? I never thought
To see the rosy dawn, or ev'n this grey,
Dull, solemn stillness, ere the dawn has come.
The lamp burns low; low burns the lamp of life:
The still morn stays expectant, and my soul,
All weighted with a passive wonderment,
Waiteth and watcheth, waiteth for the dawn.
Come hither, maids; too soundly have ye slept
That should have watched me; nay, I would not chide--
Oft have I chidden, yet I would not chide
In this last hour;--now all should be at peace.
I have been dreaming in a troubled sleep
Of weary days I thought not to recall;
Of stormy days, whose storms are hushed long since;
Of gladsome days, of sunny days; alas!
In dreaming, all their sunshine seem'd so sad,
As though the current of the dark To-Be
Had flow'd, prophetic, through the happy hours.
And yet, full well, I know it was not thus;
I mind me sweetly of the summer days,
When, leaning from the lattice, I have caught
The fair, far glimpses of a shining sea;
And, nearer, of tall ships which thronged the bay,
And stood out blackly from a tender sky
All flecked with sulphur, azure, and bright gold;
And in the still, clear air have heard the hum
Of distant voices; and methinks there rose
No darker fount to mar or stain the joy
Which sprang ecstatic in my maiden breast
Than just those vague desires, those hopes and fears,
Those eager longings, strong, though undefined,
Whose very sadness makes them seem so sweet.
What cared I for the merry mockeries
Of other maidens sitting at the loom?
Or for sharp voices, bidding me return
To maiden labour? Were we not apart,--
I and my high thoughts, and my golden dreams,
My soul which yearned for knowledge, for a tongue
That should proclaim the stately mysteries
Of this fair world, and of the holy gods?
Then followed days of sadness, as I grew
To learn my woman-mind had gone astray,
And I was sinning in those very thoughts--
For maidens, mark, such are not woman's thoughts--
(And yet, 'tis strange, the gods who fashion us
Have given us such promptings). . . .
Fled the years,

[...] Read more

poem by Amy Levy
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The Other half of me

Plato told a fabulous tale
of two souls so meant to be
that when they met together
she completed he.

For so it was with us, my Love,
from childhood's first shy glance.
For far longer than most married folk
we shared Love's sweet slow dance.

Now it seems you want a break
We no longer are a pair;
At parties where we'd both attend
there is one empty chair.

Our once shared bed is empty, too.
This place I toss and turn.
Faint fragrant traces of perfume
remind me why I yearn.

A brief lacuna in our life
I hope this proves to be.
If this parting is forever
were we never meant to be?

I've lost the best part of myself,
our friends so clearly see.
Like part of Plato's soul I seek
the other half of me.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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