Plato: Ion

Okay, not poetry. But Plato had such bitchy opinions about poets, that I thought I might as well spend a few minutes resuming his short dialogue about them.

In this particular piece, Socrates encounters the rhapsode (a professional reciter of poetry) named Ion. Ion boasts about his recitation skills, as well as his ability to interepret and explain Homer - Homer, Homer, Homer, and only Homer. This lack of expertise in anyone but Homer pricks Socrates' ears; what exactly has Ion mastered that enables him to speak about that poet - can't this mysterious body of knowledge extend to anyone else? Doesn't he seem like, oh... a phony and a jerk for thinking his poetry makes him so damned special?

In the end, Socrates argues the poet into accepting that Ion's knowledge is not his own:

"That's not a subject you've mastered... it's a divine power that moves you, as a "Magnetic" stone moves iron rings," he informs Ion (para. 534). Even Homer himself was one of these magnets, with a god or muse on one side - transmitting / inspiring / dictating poetry -- and the audience on the other - receiving / clapping / blithely praising the poet's skill. The poet is merely playing telephone.

Oh, and even more amusing: the gods take away a poet's intellect, "so that we who hear should know that they are not the ones who speak those verses that are of such high value... the god himself is the one who speaks, and he gives voice through them to us" (para. 534). This would explain why even a crappy poet can, on occasion, squeak out something lovely - they happened upon some good divine favor that day.

Obviously, being blessed with a divine gift for poetry is a rather backhanded compliment. Ion's ability to speak only about Homer is evidential of his "gift," and explains why he is evidently incapable of mastering any other subject. I presume that Socrates means that he could master multiple subjects, were he truly able to on his own. The dialogue concludes with a bizarre sequence in which the philosopher begins to read like a smug little bitch, trapping a hapless and deflated poet into a verbal corner of what he is and isn't. And Ion cheerfully accepts the wisdom of Platonic thought.

Sheesh!

All I can say is that it certainly makes me appreciate my humanistic disposition. I'd be terribly annoyed if God got credit for my GPA.