Socrates and the Pythian Oracle









Socrates, so humble, wise and kind,

And  eminent acclaimed philosopher,

Sparred with  officials a with narrow mind,

While teaching in an open  market square.

And was condemned as frivolous atheist,

For his extravagant forbidden  views

whose bold  conjectures were to be dismissed

As dangerous, perverting Athen’s youth.



He taught some weird religious novelties,

At odds with  the prevalent deities,-

The verdict came from high authorities:

“Away with him - a dangerous man he is.”

“Away with him! - if not  he will seduce

The students  and the people   listening

And with his propositions will confuse

The young, lo! -  Athen’s youth, - an awful thing!”



“Condemn him then to drink the fatal brew,

The Comium from  poison  hemlock stalks,

The tenets are corrupted  through and through,

Who does confuse the mind with dangerous  talks.

Beware of him, hear good Athenians!  

Let not your gods and deities befoul!

He does declare, "mongst other things that man

Has an immortal everlasting soul”



He’d met with poets and with bards to gain

In wisdom and in insight an  increase,

But Oh! they gave him in the neck a pain,

And not new wisdom, nor the golden fleece.

He spoke :”the bards give airy nothingness

A place to dwell  in, and  give it a name, -

Elucidate they can’t and can’t  express,

What’s all about - the poets  can’t explain.



He’d asked the politicians and the bards,

The tragic, dithyrambic of all sorts,

But vague and so evasive were their words,

Their answers did not meet the norms of art.

Explain! explain! why! how! -  this they can not,

No matter how you  push them hard and press,

Their explanation is unclear and odd, -

Ah! bards and poets are ambiguous!



With wisdom poets never can effect

Their  real subject, but they just sing out,

Their utterances fail to be exact,

And what  their song is really all  about.

One can not learn from poets anything-

Unstable, fickle like the butterflies,

That  flutter restlessly on frenzied wings,

While striving for the ethereal skies.”



But an exception are the fully mad,

The maniacal mad, - are truly wise,

The Delphic Oracle for instance, clad







In veils and  in her rapture prophesies.

But lo! this kind  madness has to come

As gift, - inspired by Divinity,

If not, - the maniacs drift and rove and roam,

In lowest spirit realms mentally.



The poets that are sane must toil for truth,

And sweat and grind and labor  long and hard,

Dragged like an infant by a kindly muse,-

The maniac is the veritable bard.

The maniac,- inspired,  only he, -

Alone can probe the depth and lift the  veil,-

Gratuitous  gift of the divinity,-

While  sane and normal  poets  flunk and fail.







Transfixed the Oracle sits by the caves,

Enunciating hoarsely prophesies,

The supplicants look trembling as she raves,

Or wails,  seized by a cryptic  entity.

Out of her mind, all reason and her wit,

As she declares or wails  what god decreed,

Wild is the speech, she utters on her  seat,

The Tripod, - and  some priests interpret it.



“Hear! Socrates is Hellas wisest man!”-

She uttered in a god-inspired trance:-

“But I know naught the sage spoke, but I am

A fan that pays the goddess Wisdom reverence!".



The poets are bereft of reason when

They utter words and in enchantment sing,

They are possessed, possessed,- one never can

Begom wotj bards and poets reasoning.

Out of their mind, as any great rhapsode,-

Inflamed, inspired an interpreter,

Who acts his part,- obedient to some god,

And with the latter’s wishes must concur.



T’ has naught to do with art and knowledge then,-

A docile tool,- an instrument is he,

The bard or prophet, or inspired man,

When seized and roused by the divinity.

No art here and no knowledge - bards  are prey-

Without a debate nor an argument

Inspired are the bards, they sing and say

What they themselves don’t even  understand.



Of mind a certain  trace of unsoundness,-

At least,- unstableness -  to some degree,

Enchantment and an urge  impetuous,

Are called for when creating poetry;

These and more solemn  words spoke Socrates,

Before he lifted up the fatal  bowl,

Such as: “Disciples hear!- do not fear death;

Divine a spark, - eternal is man‘s soul!.







Philosopher was Socrates, thus he

Could never boast of poetry nor  muse,

But in his inquiries relentlessly

He probed and searched  for one thing only  - TRUTH.

The drink of death then took  this wondrous man,

Whom  Pythia’s Oracle had recognized,

As  Grecian Phoenix, Eagle, Pelican,-

Greek forerunner and deputy of Christ.



© Elizabeth Dandy












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Ruth Lovejoy's picture

Very profound piece. The bottom line is every one has perception and intention.It's individual and unique to the singly mind and not right or wrong but individual.What is norm is deemed by those running society at the time but then time is abstract,so therein answers the question of society and its perception- my take on this piece