Old Plato’s caught in a celestial snooze,
Perusing the stars for the truths he can use.
He’s chasing a “Bedness” that’s ghost-like and thin,
While I’m checking the wood for the grain that it’s in!
You see, an idea is a skeletal thing,
Until it takes flight on a physical wing.
You can’t have the “Round” without having the clay,
To keep the Platonic phantoms at bay.
It’s the Hyle, the matter, the grit in the gears,
The Morphe provides all the eyes and the ears!
Oh, the soul isn’t hiding in some distant land,
It’s the shape of the marble that’s here in your hand!
You can toss it in fire or spin it on wheels,
But substance is only the union it heals.
The wax is the silence, the stamp is the peal,
And you cannot separate the wax from the seal.
No, you cannot separate the wax from the seal!
A forest is merely a Dunamis dream,
A “could-be” or “might-be” in nature’s own scheme.
A pile of lumber is lacking in style,
Just potentiality sitting a while.
But then Energeia walks through the door,
And actualizes the planks for the floor!
Now look at your eye, is it jelly or glass?
Without the sight, it’s just a mass in the grass.
The soul is the “doing,” the function, the light,
The form of the body that’s working just right!
If a hand is cut off, is it still called a hand?
It’s a homonym, darling, you must understand.
If it can’t lift a cup, if it can’t hold a pen,
It’s just meat and some bone, not a part of a man.
The “Form” is the work! The “Matter” is stuff!
Having just one is never enough.
Oh, the soul isn’t hiding in some distant land,
It’s the shape of the marble that’s here in your hand!
You can toss it in fire or spin it on wheels,
But substance is only the union it heals.
The wax is the silence, the stamp is the peal,
And you cannot separate the wax from the seal.
No, you cannot separate the wax from the seal!
Bring it back to the dirt.
Bring it back to the stone.
Where the Ousia lives…
In the marrow and bone.
The wax and the seal…
The wax and the seal…