In the rough dangerous waters surrounding Charybdis and Scylla,
unlike the approaching sail-and-oars ship of Ulysses,
I do not need wind or muscle. I steer my Zodiac
powered by monstrous diesel motors that roar
haughtily and aggressively. The gods
themselves recoil from this din of modern men
then recover and melt the blades from my propellers.
Everyone whom I know well is part fictitious.
They are souls, the way I see them, living in
high rises that have, for now, beat back the vicious
tenant microbes to their cellars. In truth Lynne
Margulis got it right: the forms of life
that rule are not the macro but the small.
Bacteria are butter on the knife
we wield. We call the knife’s swishing sounds free will.
Seeing this poem today reminded me of Lynne Margulis, one of the great scientists.
Aprender poesía es un buen ejercicio para la memoria.
‘Faith, that constant enemy of knowledge
and comforter for when we’ve not enough…’
I pause in hope that the jackdaw will acknowledge
my profundity. He simply says, ‘That’s tough.’
He hops and waits. Eventually I say, ‘What?’
And he says, ‘Gotcha! When you rabbit on
like this it’s always certain that you’ve got
no fresh ideas. And the one you have is wrong.’
‘So, knowledge is not a thing that faith impedes?’
I ask. The jackdaw hops and shakes his head.
‘Your starting point is wrong. Your thinking needs
a reboot,’ he says, ‘inside a clearer head.’
Downwind from Winnebagos, big mistake,
we stake our claim for tent space, pounding pegs
into the rancid sand (a piece of cake)
and slap mosquitoes from our arms and legs
and ask ourselves how is it that the dregs
of as it were our high society
afford the biggest campers (they’re not free).
A sudden noise makes the gators rush,
the possums wince, the pink flamingos flee.
All nature quails when Winnebagos flush.
The universe, a web without a spider
spins endlessly to Einstein-Newton laws.
Or does it? Would a hunting god not hide her
own young, her own intentions, and her jaws
until the prey approach, relax and pause?
The death we witness never is our own.
Immortal qua experience, we hone
our skills as if we have unnumbered years;
while in the web, invisible, alone,
a something waits for which no prayer atones.
She counts to eight by twelves
by using cube roots.
The judges disallow that
so she invokes
twelve factorial
summing up its primes
and winning the prize
for non-universal physics.
I have nothing to say. I write that down assiduously.
I used to think I’d be a writer when I’d themes
and wisdom, from experience. But, invidiously,
I’ve learned nothing matters as much as it seems
it will before I chase it hard and jealously.
The ending of the chase keeps best in dreams,
and here, in winter sunlight, by the sea,
I am happy saying nothing, merrily.
He tried to step on the wind. When that worked he was off to the races.
He went for a walk on the edge of the known constellations.
He saw there was more everywhere. He headed home star-burned.
He forded the stream of forgetfulness more times than he noticed.
He drove down gaunt angels who said they were seeking a chauffeur.
He upended, defending their honour, dire mendicant beings.
He ended up writing down fables his words turned to fact.
Earth Tourist 