The Wise are Filled with Doubt
I sat with my professors
philosophise as they teach
“be careful,” they said “clanging bells may drown out,
the conclusions that you reach.”
“There are reporters who stretch conspiracies,
to their fingers and their toes,
be careful what you say to them
and the idiot wind that blows.”
“Be mindful of the profiteers,” they said
“and the things they’re trying to tout,
there are fools who know everything
while the wise are filled with doubt.”
I listened to an old man in the street,
with his ancient polished prose
sing songs from his years of loneliness
where all things gold arose
“The rules have changed,” he whispered,
“there’s no revolution left to fight.”
“There is nothing left to say or do
except to walk quietly through the night.
You must question as your wise Uncle might
the truth and all about,
when fools know almost everything
while the wise are filled with doubt.”
Sophocles waits on the corner
talking to the King of Thebes,
he rummages through his pockets
to find them empty, the work of thieves.
“Perhaps we should ask Plato,
for he will have his purse.
He’s observing the masters of television
create their universe.”
The King reclines and mumbles
“Just let them twist and shout,
it’s the fool who knows most everything
while the wise are filled with doubt.”
To The Moor of Venice, Iago proclaims
“I wear my heart upon my sleeve.”
Othello cries, responding
“I cannot grant your leave.”
Desdemona sits by patiently
her reputation by her side
while the men accuse each other
as if they both have things to hide.
Desdemona then, appealing,
“Dear gentlemen, please sort this out.
Need I remind you, fools know everything,
it’s the wise who are filled with doubt.”
The Bell Ringer rings his Justice bells
while the Unicorn makes some notes
as money-men and tram conductors
count the takings, hand out quotes.
The Unicorn steps up to the podium
as the Colonel strikes up the band
to introduce his words of war and peace
just to be sure we understand.
“It helps me get elected,” said the Unicorn
“and when you carry this much clout,
you can fool the fools, they know everything
while the wise are filled with doubt.”
The Nazarene walks into town
to be confronted by the Mob
who try and trick him with their cleverness
and to remove him from his job.
“Your enquiry is a good one,” he said
“it’s important that we know”
he scratched the dirt, picked up a stone
and said “take good aim with your throw.”
They dragged him away from trouble,
they proved him quite the lout.
He cries out, as he’s crucified, “it’s the fool who knows everything,
it’s the wise who are filled with doubt.”
Dostoevsky closes the pages
on his darkly Russian books
searches his darkly Russian solitude
from behind his curtain looks,
for a righteous man or woman,
with a conscience to explain
how everything has come to this
and have it not explode inside his brain.
“I’d trudge through snow to find them,” he said
“if it wasn’t for this gout,
it’s the fool who knows everything,
it’s the wise who are filled with doubt.”
Orwell sits, in his prescience
mind bent over to our times
he warns the unsuspecting
in his mystic dystopian rhymes.
“Please don’t let it happen,” he cries,
as his pen falls to the floor.
“It depends on you, to redeem us,
from this writing on the wall.”
His eyes went dim, his words flung down
to the language that they flout
to the fools who know everything,
and to the wise who are filled with doubt.
And then the artists and the painters
publish musings from their labs
while the authorities quell division
knowing courage is up for grabs.
The little man who doth protest too much
arrested and dragged away
screams lungs dry in reflection
“We will soon get to have our say.”
“It’s alright to ask the question,” he howls,
“you don’t have to preen or pout,
why do fools know almost everything,
while the wise are filled with doubt?”
© copyright – Stephen Newman 2020