The world divides into
those who, like the old philosopher,
spend hours wondering
is there a Synthetic Apriori?
and the rest, my goddess,
who do not care . . .
. . . who ask me to whisper
the history of philosophy
in their ear, late at night,
because it helps them get to sleep.
Who are always snoring
by the time of David Hume.
Arrival of the Cuckoo Flower
One at ten o’clock, Lady’s Smock.
The only purple in the garden grass
and speaking out against the marshy green.
Then Milkmaids cross the meadow, spread.
By afternoon, a score perhaps.
Maybe by evening hundreds more. Be May.
Seth Crook taught philosophy at various universities before moving to the Hebrides. He does not like cod philosophy in poetry, but he does like cod, philosophy and poetry. He was inspired to write after a long illness and hasn’t stopped since. His work has recently appeared or is about to appear in Other Poetry, Ink Sweat and Tears, Snakeskin, The Journal, Antiphon, The Centrifugal Eye, Message in a Bottle and Northwords Now.