The Storm - Philosophical Vignettes
By David Gosselin
Among the snowy cornices
And cold plateaus of foggy peaks,
A master and his pupil made
Their way towards the dragon’s grot.
As both the sage and pupil fought
To climb the ancient mountain tops,
A storm descended on the twain
With howling gales and scowling rains.
In fear, and desperate for rest
—Sweet solace from the storm—the boy
Sought shelter in the dark defiles;
He quickly found a narrow space.
“Let us hide in those recesses;
The elements are stern tonight.
“Let us make fire and gather round
The warmth, until the storm subsides.”
Although still eager to ascend,
The master did agree to rest.
They made their way towards a cave,
Which offered them a place to hide.
Alone, and sheltered from the storm,
They lit a fire to warm their limbs.
The humble flames crackled away;
The elements raged on outside.
The master peered across the fire;
Watching the student pondering.
And not a sound was heard, save for
The crackling of the humble flames.
Amid the calm, the student raised
His head and met the master’s eyes.
The old sage sat there silently;
His eyes shimmered across the flames.
“What most men fear more than the storm
Is the quiet,” declared the sage.
He stood up, then both the sage
And pupil walked into the storm.
David Gosselin is a poet, writer, and translator based in Montreal, Canada. He is the founding editor of The Chained Muse and New Lyre Magazine. His epic in blank verse, Athena, appears in the latest issue of New Lyre Magazine.
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Discover more philosophical vignettes.The Mountain Wood
A sage and pupil made their way Into a deep and darkened wood. They searched and wandered places Where, for years, no traveler would. The underbrush, the damp-cool swamps And thorny vines delayed their climb; And countless unknown fruits hung from
The Phoenix
It was upon a quiet night As graying clouds raced past the moon. A sage and pupil made their way Into a deep and darkened wood. Among a sea of silent pines, They traveled the uncertain trail. But after wandering the night, They finally settled for rest.
The Gorge
The travelers had reached a gorge Whose darkness they would have to breach. The mountaintops lay far ahead— “Such darkness has a lot to teach,” The master said while looking down The river gorge’s darkened depths— The frightened boy sighed deep, and looked
Black Mountain Clouds
A horde of gaunt gossamer clouds Came drifting through the gloomy sky— Thick mists poured down over the peaks, Wafting about the frigid air —Like vapors from a witch’s spell— Bubbling, foaming, frothing, until The sable brim was overflowed, And curses on cursed pinions flew.
Chinese Mountain Man: Dreams
Now after many, many years, And after many, many tears, Alas, they’d reached the mountain top— The summit which so many sought. Under the heavens’ starry shrouds, The sage and boy walked through the clouds Where scarlet moonlight gently bathed Each glistening slope and snowy cave.
Chinese Mountain Man: The Climb
Who goes there, wandering About the mists and the rains? Among the alpine crests And mountains’ crystal streams? A Chinese mountain man Treks up the steep defiles. And with him follows close His pupil short of breath. They walk among the pines, Which rise from every crag.
The Night Sky
Trekking among the steep defiles, Trailed by the sage, a young boy tried To use the dim-lit stars in hopes Of finding some path or some guide To help him climb the rocky slopes. They made their way among the fog Which stalked them now for many nights,
The Dragon Slayers
The sage and pupil made their way Along a snowy promontory. With jagged ridges far below, Stern crests and cornices above, They trekked towards the dragon’s grot, Which lay among the snowy crags. But as they neared the creature’s den, The boy began voicing his doubts.
Little Things
Still far below the dreamed-of peaks, The trekkers scaled a mountainside. They climbed up damp and calcined walls, Scaled rocky ledges and steep cliffs. The young boy quickly grappled stones, Swiftly ascending up each crag. His grip was anxious and zealous,
It is a sign that a poem has succeeded, and is a good poem, when people discuss its meaning rather than the actual poem itself.
There are a lot of people who fear quiet and solitude. They are afraid to confront their own self.