On the Soul
by Jennifer Chang
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 after Plato's Phaedo
Older now, I open the book
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 without fear. My father,
in the other room, restarts
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 the electric kettle. And what
is there to fear? Sudden temper,
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 a kind of brute exhale
that could belong to anything,
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 anyone, until the water boils.
It boils as the self can, overheating
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 in talk. In the prison, an old man
awaits the poison that will end his life
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 by reminding the listening crowd
that to practice philosophy
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 is to practice death, reasoning
that he has always been
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 already dying,
the soul鈥檚 incipient flight聽 聽 聽 聽 aloft in syntax.
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 No tea for me, thanks,
I call out to a voice I still struggle
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 to describe鈥�
quixotic, rash, different
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 every time. In anger, my mother鈥檚 name
becomes two huffs of air;
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 beseeching, his voice whines,
deflating like a piteous balloon.
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 Today I look for mention of the wife,
鈥淴anthippe鈥攜ou know her鈥斺��
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 the sole mention in all of Plato,
and then she鈥檚 鈥渓ed away
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 lamenting and beating her breast.鈥�
Little is known beyond her name鈥�
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 鈥測ellow horses,鈥� at root鈥�
and her reputation. Centuries later,
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 she鈥檚 still beating her chest, a figure
of comparison for Shakespeare鈥檚 Katherine
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 who鈥檚 鈥渃ursed and shrewd
as Socrates鈥檚 Xanthippe,鈥� or spelled
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 erroneously with a Z by Poe.
Perhaps the wife of any notorious man is
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 always merely a rumor,聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 and here she is, counterpoint
to reason. Arguing with her,
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 Socrates claimed, sharpened
his mind, made him more tolerant
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 of the most ill-tempered among us. Good
for philosophy.聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 Does he mean
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 a bad wife prepares one for a good death?
What about a bad husband?
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 Alive, my father is drinking steam
out of a blue mug. Alive, he asks me
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 what I鈥檓 reading. An old book from school.
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 He laughs and with his free hand聽 聽 聽 slaps away
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 the air between us.
It鈥檚 the week before spring.
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 What do you call those purple things? he asks.
Crocuses,聽 聽 聽 I say.聽 聽An early sign the year鈥檚 turning
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 again.聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 How to spell?聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽Crocuses
don鈥檛 grow where I live now,
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 far from my father and my mother,
who no longer live together. Alive,
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 he is a chain of questions, a deluge
of questions, a flotilla, a flock,
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 aflutter with聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽questions.聽 聽 聽 Outside,
it begins to snow. Our days
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 are abundant with nonsense,
the winter that keeps pretending
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 to end. Miles away, my mother holds
her own hot cup and considers
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 this afternoon. She has never been cold
and has much to say about
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 the current state of the world;
like the snow, she chooses to stay quiet
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 after a lifetime of noise. To live
in constant quarrel is one way
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 to write poems,聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽or it鈥檚 one way
marriage becomes hearth
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 to rhetoric.聽 聽 聽 But what words,
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽what factious discourse,
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 unabated, made his mind
a kind of pane to odd and cloudless
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 light? I鈥檓 not interested in union,
exactly, but why we think
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽we know what we know,
why we make law
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 of what we deem reason鈥�
Whose reason? My father has lost
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 his phone again, and I can hear him
opening and closing doors
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 around his small house,
where he lives alone,
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 where the snow grows so quiet
my mother is no longer even possible.
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 In the story she tells,
he was the last young man left in Taipei.
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 In the story he tells, she laughed at whatever he鈥檇 say.
For now, he cannot call her,
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 though he wants her back.
Somewhere I remember reading that
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 in David鈥檚 great painting of that scene
he began a sketch of her,
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 weeping at the top of the stairs,
leaving her husband behind
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 with his cup of hemlock,
and then with a few pale strokes
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 blotted her out again.
When I look at reproductions of The Death
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 of Socrates, I look at that empty spot
and think I see a trace
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 of her, a history kept at home鈥�
flightless, obdurate, not the soul, and yet not
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 not the soul,聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 聽she is there
聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 perhaps, if what I read was true,聽 聽 聽 聽 聽 if, indeed, I read it at all.
Reading Plato in college yielded not an intelligent response in me but a sense that whoever spoke the most claimed our attention. In Plato鈥檚 dialogues, that position of authority is held by Socrates, of course, and while I could not then fully grasp his definitions of justice or love, I recognized the power of his charisma. He spoke the most by way of persistent inquiry; always another question would emerge, always a sly refutation that made plain the flaws in another man鈥檚 thought process. I was reminded of my father, who, throughout my childhood, spoke the most, asking me questions unceasingly, until worn down, I had to walk away.
For some reason, in the early days of lockdown, I turned to Plato, as if in somehow better understanding the dialogues I could comprehend and thus disarm my daily despair. Instead, I found myself thinking about power and patriarchy. This was, to my surprise, a reflection of our historical moment. That I felt powerless was not only the consequence of living through a pandemic: it was the intrinsic condition of my life as a woman of color. And so, reading Plato, following Socrates鈥檚 cascading arguments, I found myself writing about my father. His presence overwhelmed our family, as if he were the sole narrator. As if he were the sole character. I don鈥檛 mean to sound cruel, but it鈥檚 his voice that I hear in every room of my memory. He isn鈥檛 a philosopher, though he is a philosopher鈥檚 son, and he isn鈥檛 wise, exactly, though he has a history unto himself, a Rise-and-Fall-of-the-Roman-Empire kind of thing. I began writing poems that playfully鈥攐r recklessly鈥攃onflate my father and Socrates. One is a father who frustrates his audience, the other a purported father of reason. What was the difference?
I wrote these poems almost by accident. At my desk, what emerged line by line was a composite dialogue鈥� a dialogue with my father, a dialogue with my younger student self, and a dialogue with the amorphous force that is power. None of these were dialogues I could have in real life. Finishing a draft felt like snapping out of a trance; it felt nothing like writing a poem. The writing process for 鈥淥n the Soul鈥� was similarly accidental, except I had been pursuing the subject matter for years with little to show for it. Socrates had a wife named Xanthippe. In all of Plato鈥檚 Socratic dialogues she is mentioned once. In Phaedo, she is described as weeping so excessively that she must be removed from the prison before her husband submits to his death sentence, a cup of hemlock. The other mention of Xanthippe is more obscure. In Xenophon鈥檚 Symposium, Socrates attributes his gift for reasoning to having a quarrelsome, cantankerous wife. He compares it to horsemanship: a docile horse does not make a good horseman, he argues. Here, too, she exists secondhand in the voices of men, and in the form of a beast. Nowhere does she materialize as a person with a voice of her own.
How does one write a poem out of so little? I have many drafts that make much of this little, but none were what I hoped for, which was maybe a resurrection. Certainly, a reclamation. Xanthippe鈥檚 is a story of absence, erasure, loss, and it is incidental to the story that history remembers and keeps retelling. In this, hers is a familiar story, one that I see again and again in the long history of women. Perhaps, then, it was no accident that in writing about Xanthippe I found myself writing about my mother, whose own story of marriage to a garrulous man resembles Xanthippe鈥檚 just enough to spark my imagination.
In the poem, my speaker self is afire in thought, trying to read Phaedo as my father prattles on, and my mother, too, dwells pensively in her own corner, where she 鈥渃onsiders the afternoon.鈥� Of course, I don鈥檛 know what my mother is thinking, as none of us ever knew what Xanthippe was thinking about her marriage to Socrates or anything else. What I discovered was that there鈥檚 comfort in existing in the unspoken, the vast silence at the edges of my father鈥檚 unceasing chatter鈥攁 dialogue that none of us chose to participate in, and yet it became our life as a family. More so than comfort, there鈥檚 freedom in that vast silence, which contains both the unimaginable and the not yet imagined, which is also the boundless domain of many a woman鈥檚 life.
Jennifer Chang is the author of The History of Anonymity and Some Say the Lark, which received the William Carlos Williams Award from the Poetry Society of America. She co-chairs the advisory board of Kundiman, serves as poetry editor of New England Review, and teaches at the University of Texas in Austin. Her third book of poems, An Authentic Life, is forthcoming in 2024.