Tag Archives: Philosophy

Intelligence and Wisdom

Intelligence makes atom bombs.
Wisdom says, “you better not use it.”

Intelligence says, “I can win.”
Wisdom says, “It doesn’t matter.”

Intelligence answers. Wisdom questions.
Intelligence competes. Wisdom holds hands.

Intelligence yearns to take credit.
Wisdom hankers to share it.

Intelligence needs to prove a point.
Wisdom has nothing to prove.

Sheer intelligence rankles. Wisdom soothes.
Intelligence dissects. Wisdom synthesizes.

Intelligence speaks out.
Wisdom is silent until spoken to.

Intelligence mocks at the foolish.
Wisdom respects the unwise.

Intelligence is a roaring stream.
Wisdom is a calm lake.

Intelligence without wisdom is wild fire.
Intelligence with wisdom is a trained horse.


Faith is the exhilaration of a kid thrown playfully in the air knowing he is safe.
Faith is the song of a lark that knows that the rising sun will dispel the dark.
Faith is the swagger in the dance of a peacock welcoming the rain.
Faith is believing what your eyes cannot see.
Faith is a knowing of a certainty that it is given to you even before you ask.
Faith is a gratitude in advance for its deliverance.
Faith is beyond hope.
Faith is not having to worry.
Faith is not believing in an alternate possibility.
Faith is pure love.
Faith is surrender but not cowardice.
Faith is a knowing beyond doubt that you will succeed.

Notes on the Dreams of Dust

We gaze upon ourselves

as we die each day

the slow death of days,

the long days

of circumspection

unspoken remorse;

cryptic clues

to understanding

the vastness of

the futility of all

endeavour committed

so naively to an

enterprise of certain failure;

for some of us at least

the day is now over,

the dust settled.

The Last Cicada

The sadness scattered
over the walls resonating
with what was
in the heart
of the mountain.
No sound could be heard.
A myriad of eyes belonging to cicadas
were shrouded in mist.

A somewhat long-winded
like a speech
surrounded the sky.
Maybe it was an echo,
a sesquipedalian one.
It wasn’t breathless at all.

Nothing could have saved
nature around.
Neither of the forests,
neither of the birds,
and neither of the bears
could survive…..
Nothing more
could have been done.

All the moving peaks became
small stones, as solitary
as the moon,
at the fugitive horizon.
The last cicada

Everything became motionless.
There were only the shadows
of the trees
to follow the sunbeams.
The nature game
turned detrimentally
into a disaster.

In an illuminated city,
a man bought
a lovely bouquet of red roses
wanting to bestow
what it is considered to be
a symbol of romance.
This man needed
to express his love
and to let his woman know
how he feels about her.
This man disappeared.
He was the last one.
Nothing could have saved him.
Nothing more
could have been done.

Poem by Marieta Maglas

The name of the painter is Adam Sturch.


What the State says is lies
which those in office seek to disguise,

with myth,fiction,opinion or fable
so as to render commonsense unable,

to tell apart what is virtuous and fair
from their vision of awful despair;

What the State says is lies
watching for your reaction with its feral eyes,

keeping the night safe for its mischief and deeds
gorging itself with your servility on which it feeds,

and with that attitude it struts thro’ your days
observing your conformity with a baleful gaze,

without hesitation or a pause
taking from you with its claws,

whether it favours those of its right or left
what the State has is theft.

Portrait of General After Battle

Smoke wreathed distant battlements,
skies flecked with irridescent amber,
fluttering banners and icons held aloft;
in the foreground
clad in burnished breastplate,
circumferenced by a scarlet sash
a warrior’s imposing stature unfeigned,
lacking the air of braggadocio
conveyed in earlier portraits,
pensive eyes glower from
the bearded visage
its contours grown greyer;
his right hand grasps the
ostentatiously plumed helmet,
in his gauntless left hand a
crumpled map torn at one corner,
overhead crows circle,
to his right riderless horses
are being led away,
his own steed lost amidst
the onslaught that some would
of necessity deem glorious,
lest they unlike the artist
cause posterity to question.


Why do we need to lose innocence
to realize its value?
Why do we have to value relations
only after we bid adieu?

Why do we hate everything
that we don’t like?
Why is the opposite of like
is not respect but dislike?

Why do we make a virtue
out of our habits?
Why should heretics always be
looked upon as culprits?

Why do we seek comfort
in familiarity?
Why do we always loathe
any dissimilarity?

Why do we return an insult
twice as strong?
Why do we sometimes not even
return favours to where they belong?

Why should nine people lose
for one to win?
Why should the inner voice drown
in the outer din?

Why are breakups needed
to unfold a person’s real character?
Why should adversities separate
the real person from the actor?

Why is a king’s crown dearer
than a child’s doll?
Why should the worth of a person
be bound by a monetary wall?

Parallel Lines

Shall I write a poem today?

the tall wire fence is gone,

if I did, what would you say?

the railway tracks are rusted,

the watchtowers have fallen;

what if my inspiration should fail

and words escape me?

the names of their Captains

lie in unmarked graves,

the records of their triumphs have been erased;

how then should I complete my task?

demand History exonerates me

or merely to ask?