John Donaldson
Occasionally, I get the urge to write frivolous verse. My skills as a poet are limited, but I don't let that stop me.
O Qualia! My Qualia! (with apologies to Walt Whitman)
O Qualia! my Qualia! the philosophising is done,
Debate has tested every premise, wisdom we sought is won,
The ergo is near, the summa is clear, reason is exulting,
While follows thought the likely truth, the argument strong and daring;
But O pain! pain! pain!
O the vivid hues of red,
For on the page my Qualia lie,
Not even cold and dead.
O Qualia! my Qualia! rise up and hear the truth;
Rise up–for you debates are fought–for you we die forsooth,
For you the verse and gilded tomes–for you the trials of learning,
For you they live, the teeming brains, their eager minds a-yearning;
Here Qualia! élan vital!
The reality of the red!
Is it some dream that in mind’s eye,
Mere illusion in your stead?
My Qualia do not answer, they are less than still,
My vital force feels not my grip, nor imprint of my will,
It is no dream, I can deduce, the point is clearly proven,
To choose to sup from inquiry’s cup cannot be unchosen.
Exult O reason, for truth ring bells!
But to know is to regret,
For my Qualia I can but cry:
Das Nichts, Das Nichts, nichtet!
McTaggart the mysterious chap (with apologies to T. S. Eliot)
McTaggart is a mysterious chap undergraduates hold in awe–
For he's the master philosopher who defies temporal law.
He's the bafflement of Harvard Yard, every realist's despair:
For when they assert the reality of time-McTaggart does not care!
McTaggart’s way, McTaggart’s way, there's none quite like McTaggart’s way,
He's broken every copula, but he breaks them so grammatically.
His powers of bamboozlement would make a dialetheist stare,
And all without moving an inch from his own armchair!
You may seek answers with perception, or a morning prayer,
But I tell you once and once again, McTaggart does not care!
McTaggart is an English chap, his hair is short and thin;
You would know him if you saw him for his chin is sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;
His suit fits tight 'bout his waist, his 'tache is neatly combed.
He reasons you until regress, 'til more you cannot take;
And when you think time might be real, he'll tell you it is fake.
McTaggart’s way, McTaggart’s way, there's none quite like McTaggart’s way,
For he asserts "there is no time", a thesis of depravity.
You may meet him in a textbook, or haunting your nightmare–
Where not even relativity can make McTaggart care!
He's outwardly respectable. (They say he's Russell's pal.)
And his temporal anti-realism is not without rationale.
But when the students look confused, or towards the clock,
Or ask "so this, eh, McTaggart dude, wasn't he a jock?"
Or write their magnum opus on how time is oh-so doctrinaire,
Ay, there's the wonder of the thing: McTaggart's aginner!
And when the dialectic shows understanding's gone astray,
Or evidence for Father Time's been abandoned by the way,
There may be no more Hegelians that you can bloody bear,
Yet tenseless verbs are here to stay, thanks to McTaggart’s dare!
But it’s no use blaming J.M.E., for it’s too late in the day:
McTaggart, now, he is not here – he is a century away.
Where you'll be sure to find him musing, or a-hanging out with Moore,
Or influencing Bloomsbury types, the bright young things du jour.
McTaggart’s way, McTaggart’s way, there's none quite like McTaggart’s way,
There never was a chap of such metaphysical audacity.
He always has an argument, and one or two to spare,
Yet at whatever time the debate took place-McTaggart wasn't there!
So beware McTaggart's verbs whose funky tenses are well known
(I might mention "pastly future", though there are many to bemoan)
For they are nowt but agents for a philosophical crime:
To deny what is quite obvious, the reality of time!
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Inspired by the first professor of hipology, Lord Buckley, as a graduate student I once tried translating some famous passages from the history of philosophy into Jive. Results below.
