The Adventures of Diogenes the Cynic
1 — In which Diogenes petitions for a change
 
You know, I think, Diogenes?
A man whose horror was to please,
And where he went, disturbed all peace
Back when he dwelt in ancient Greece? 
In Raphael’s painting he’s the one
Lolling in unobstructed sun.



But that is past, and now is now;
My story, if you will allow,
Begins when he had spent much time
In the not bad, not perfect clime
Called Limbo, where the pagans go
Who saving doctrine did not know.
The place he lately had found slow.
Oh, to be sure, he liked death fine;
Some first-rate souls joined him to dine,
As Horace, Lucian, and the like,
Who never did omit to spike
The drinks while Socrates explained…
Plus he was hugely entertained
To watch the souls proceed to Hell
Forever with themselves to dwell,
Or the distinctly odder ducks
Who rose above sublunar flux.
But still. Two thousand years of this
Without the benefits of bliss
Had left him hungry for a change,
A trip to find things new and strange. 
Over and up he loped, therefore,
To rattle Heaven’s pearl-clad door.
 
“O Peter Pastor Proto Pope
Answer me not by saying nope! 
I make petition to elope!
A time of travel augurs birth
To greater stores of tales of mirth
And fresh-sprung springs of fools on Earth!
I learned it in my catechism 
That laugher is an altruism,
And boast my own participation
In Evangel Preparation.
Please to look kindly on my plea
Who seek new sights on Earth to see.”


 St Peter by Mengs

Saint Peter sighed a private sigh
And wondered not the first time why
The Gospel Preparation card
Could still be played so much and hard.
But his was no tough government,
And even if Diogenes rent
The fabric of the universe
It wasn’t like he’d make things worse.
 
Diogenes fetched his pouch and cloak
And clasped his walking stick of oak;
The lamp, he judged, would weigh too much.
Around him there appeared a clutch
Of Limbo satirists to hear
And offer speeches of good cheer.
Menippus so in words austere:
“Much as we love a place that’s rife
With relicts of a misspent life
Athwart the Purgatorial knife,
It’s true we miss the living fool
Who living spit has still to drool!
O for a fool in full career,
And how from dumb to worse they veer!
Bring us new specimens of mirth
That will relieve this deathly dearth.”
Encouraged thus, he made to go
Back to the scenes of Earth below.

To be continued...

Andrew Horne

 
If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Andrew Horne  would be pleased to hear them