Based on a true story from Robert Burton's "The Anatomy of Melancholy" which is not true
By Ed Rous
I.
Our city of uncountable distresses,
Abdera quakes: we Greeks impress the dust
With trepid boots; in turn, that dust impresses
Us with its magnitude, its wanderlust.
No reason halts its quest, so we adjust
Whilst unseen particles transform and meld
Into an unpredictable swell unjust.
We stare but multitudes cannot be beheld:
In Abdera, our madness in everything has dwelled.
II.
But O, the specks lie longest in thy garden,
Democritus, for they, like anguished tides,
Recalled by pallid moonshine’s muttered pardon,
Are drawn to settle where melancholy resides.
As we go, arranged in hunting lion prides,
We hear thy laughter rise o’er Abdera, rise
Until thy hyena scorn mars Earth’s sides:
Thou art mad! Thy chuckling ignores our cries
Hence why we sent for the best physician to advise.
III.
Lo, the esteemed Hippocrates has come!
Less man, more asclepieion. His Giant’s shoulders
Can bear such weight. Though the vilest Kronos’ drum
Shall beat the choleric blood to wet the smoulders
Of minds turmoiled – like Sisyphean boulders
In motion, heaved in toil – this doctor here
With words can salve those morose conscience holders
And so, thou must follow quick: his own laugh, we fear,
Shall force the thoughts of Democritus to disappear.
IV.
Hark, hark Hippocrates! This cackle that climbs,
Like wretched vines which stretch up a falling wall
Into some neighbouring sect, is his; it primes
The mind to witness there the kingly fool:
Here, look! Democritus is slouched by a pool
Of blood – dissection’s grand disgusting paint;
Though we guess anatomised beasts enthral
Great figures, grisly cutting makes us faint;
Let this lettered expert’s words war with that mind’s complaint.
V.
“Democritus, this sight fills me with gladness.
‘Tis healthy to engage in leisured pleasure.
Dig up that fabled root of tetric madness:
Discovered causes breed such valued treasure.
Thou knowest me?”—"…No.”—“Solved with this measure:
I am Kos’ industrious Asclepiad!
My necessities necessitate no leisure.”
How has him the time to cut these beasts?—we add;
The madman guffaws: gold from a thought’s Olympiad.
VI.
Democritus then shakes – a sorry state,
So giddy. “Why laughest thou?”—It must smart his heart.
“I’ve gotta say,” he replies, “you’re foolish, mate:
look at the fopperies our times impart,
our children adore these Mr Beasts (their art);
needs and desires have been replaced for us all,
like, my friend sent me a TikTok of a repeating fart
and now Subway Surfer clips do my neurons install.
These things are watched with no want of good nor fun, so… lol”
VII.
“Thou art mistaken: sloth is odious.
A dissonant silence bores a chasmic mind.
The people grasp what feels melodious
E’en if unseen effects of it are designed
To keep one stuck in an endless, fatuous grind.
Besides, no-one can see what will betide.
No soothsayer to warn how time is twined.
Therefore, one does not know how to divide
One’s dwindling moments here ere boarding Charon’s ride.”
VIII.
He screams with glee. “Their misery festers though:
their brain’s a Gordian Knot that fears the sword,
round and around they wrap – a restrictive bow –
tightening whilst half a Family Guy’s ignored –
when getting sliced would gift a rich reward.
I laugh because though they know this to be true,
interpassive sludge remains their Lord.
What’s funny is true; truth, humour anew –
that’s all I seem to know, and all I hope I need to!”
IX.
O Hippocrates! Alleviate your thoughts:
Tell us the vile and vicious wrath divined
By thee. What bane destructs whilst he cavorts!
“No, Chorus. Just as your dust is not a mind,
No madness in Democritus will ye find.
So wise! An audience to the flaws ye have shown.
Like Herakles, his Augean stable shined.
And to think that he has reached this wisdom alone!
Still though, as soon as I go home, I shall go on my phone."
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