Phaedrus
hark
to hear the tonic of their nightly play
as love is changing eyes in light of day
and who the lover, who beloved, held
as shade made young again, the poet shade
sweet length possessed translucency of leaves
and valley shelters longing’s grave delight
how sheer the veil betwixt the true is made
and barefoot is their tender-stepping sight
inscript resounding hollow as a tomb
body beholding spring again and bright
green heart grows whole again, the tree un-felled
for midnight girls around a golden wound
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🌔
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stable horses
night rising
wave
//
Socrates: well if i distrusted, as do the wise (hoi sophoi), then i wouldn’t be placeless (atopos). then i would wisely (sophein) declare that it was the wind itself of Boreas that thrust her down from the nearby rocks as she was playing with Pharmakeia, and in this way it ended up (teleutein) said that she came to be (gignomai) carried away by Boreas — or else from the hill of Ares; for this story (logos) is also told, that she was carried away from that place and not from here.
as for me, O Phaedrus, while otherwise i suppose such as these to be graceful, yet they belong to an exceedingly terrible (deinos) and laborious (epiponos) and not altogether (panu) fortunate (eutuches) man. for no other reason than that for him it’s necessary after this to re-stand up (epanorthousthai) the form (eidos) of the Hippocentaurs, and then again that of the Chimaera, and then out flows a throng of things such as Gorgons and Pegasuses and multitudes of additional impossibilities (a-mechanos) and of such things putting forth (phuein) placeless (a-topia) storytellings of monsters (teratologos) . . .
if someone, distrusting these, will make each come nearer to a likening (eikos), as if consulting (chraein) some kind of rude (agroikos) wisdom, he will lack much leisure (schole) for himself; but for me, there is no leisure at all (schole) for these things; and the cause, O beloved, of this, is this —
i am not yet able, according to the Delphic inscription (gramma), to know myself. it appears to me really laughable, not yet knowing this, to examine (skopein) alien things (allotria). from which, saying farewell and letting these be, and being persuaded by the customary belief, which i was just now saying, i examine not these but myself; whether my fortune is to be some beast even more many-twisted (polu + plekein) and inflamed (epituphomai) than Typhon, or to be a gentler (hemeros) and simpler (aploos) animal, by nature sharing in some part of what is divine and not feverish (a-tuphos).
but, O sistere (etaire), in the midst of words — wasn’t this the tree to which you were leading us?
Phaedrus: this indeed is really itself.
τοῦτο μὲν οὖν αὐτό
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Socrates: (cont.) by nature partaking in some part of what is divine and not feverish (a-tuphos)
// 230α
θείας τινὸς καὶ ἀτύφου μοίρας φύσει μετέχον
//
Wordplay in recent clauses turns (twists?) around τύφω (tuphein — to smoke, fill with smoke), the related τῦφος (tuphos — smoke, vapor, delusion, vanity, nonsense, fever), and the monster Typhon; as well as a slanted alternative between polu-plekein and a-ploos, to be either a many-twisted (e.g. complex) or an un-folded (i.e. simple) thing.
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Socrates: (cont.) whether my fortune is to be some beast (therion) even more many-twisted (polu + plekein) and inflamed (epituphomai) than Typhon
// 230α
εἴτε τι θηρίον ὂν τυγχάνω Τυφῶνος πολυπλοκώτερον καὶ μᾶλλον ἐπιτεθυμμένον
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Socrates: (cont.) it appears to me really laughable, not yet knowing this, to examine (skopein) alien things (allotria)
// 229ε
γελοῖον δή μοι φαίνεται τοῦτο ἔτι ἀγνοοῦντα τὰ ἀλλότρια σκοπεῖν
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Socrates: (cont.) as if consulting (chraein) some kind of rude (agroikos) wisdom
// 229ε
ἅτε ἀγροίκῳ τινὶ σοφίᾳ χρώμενος
//
diptych oceanic amechanica
hysteriac at home
woe! i am a not altogether fortunate woman
my pocket seams with potsherds polishing
a bag of skin trailing portentous signs
and i am broken news, my sand is yellow
to find my edge, i walk into the sea
her seaweed briarpatch of gorgons birth
surrendered sky by pegasi recovery
as mermaids sing flat edges for my shanty
woe! her thanatos uncanny, even for me
the horizon roars for blessing every line
shore smashing every bauble blending shades
soft seashells made tangible the breast of ocean
and time is a tangent tracing its beloved snail
and the cradle failing of her continental tail
and she is drawing, drawing, under seasons wax
pink salty glowing in her seamless milk cocoon
woe, woe! my every mask a bending earth
reflowing throng of placeless impossibility
and desires every glance she didn’t chase yet
my marbles rolling in her depthless pocket
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uteri
get em hot
skim cooling
like sumber bor
in 12 hrs or more
chocolate lava cake
stone melting
tropic shiver
truly your
earth dwelling
tacky decor
tasteless tasty
ova in—
ice tailor—
screaming
wicked
//
. . .
oh no!
dessert
amazing
1, 2, 3, ho!
smashing
to order
. . .
//
Socrates: (cont.) and then out flows a throng of things such as Gorgons and Pegasuses and multitudes of additional impossibilities (a-mechanos) and of such things giving birth (phuein) to placeless (a-topia) storytellings of monsters (teratologos) . . .
//
καὶ ἐπιρρεῖ δὲ ὄχλος τοιούτων Γοργόνων καὶ Πηγάσων καὶ ἄλλων ἀμηχάνων πλήθη τε καὶ ἀτοπίαι τερατολόγων τινῶν φύσεων
//
Plato coins “teratologos” from teras and logos; teras means a sign, marvel, wonder, divine sign, omen, portent, or monster. So teratologoi are words, accounts, stories, arguments, or reckonings about signs, marvels, wonders, divine signs, oments, portents, or monsters.
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