A Poem by RobertRonnow
November 14, 2015 at 06:02 am
Poem, G (All)
Free Verse | Writing | General/Other
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There cannot be two identical things in the world. Two
offer infinite locations within their shells for electrons.
Thus, nothing can be definitely eventually known.
All to the good
because golf and chess and basketball, as well as
mathematics, language and genetic recombination
for discovering the possible (which is more attractive than
in what we thought we thought about the sun and clouds.
In Borges' The Parable of the Palace, the poet's attempt
the world in a word results in what, surprisingly, is
personal obliteration a piece of anti-matter that
occupies no known shell in this or any other instantiation.
Got the plot?
We are "moving through some allegory between a City of Hope,
has been abolished, and a City of History, where hope can be slipped in only
Actually, the recombinations
which make prediction and intuition fortunately hopeless and each individual
gone well or wrong, are represented by equations of such complexity
not at all from the very stars and neurons whose interactions we wish
The world keeps up or ahead of the collective attention span by offering
or otherwise rapidly contracting universes, big bang by big crunch.
I like that, I like that I can't know what I'm doing (until it's done). Therefore,
faith and understanding
(hope and history) become one absolutely fluid quantum motion, a lovely early
a thunderstorm, a terrifying and (for someone) final tornado or volcano.
From his earliest published work, Ronnow displays a fascination with death,
the world without the self, a ridiculous consideration considering time's
6.5 x 1010 sunsets and sunrises over mountains and deserts (for every
themselves rising and setting via magmas, oceans, tectonics, meteors, forever.
Do your homework I said to Zach. Why bother was his attitude.
time is an illusion, an invention man made, there is only change. Birds
But the calendar and colors, genus and species, bacteria and galaxies,
are the innumerable wonders about which Sophocles said man's
why because we identify or classify birds by the complexity or beauty
of their songs.
Last Modified: November 14, 2015 at 06:22 am
© RobertRonnow - all rights reserved
--Iyer, Pico, The Man Within My Head, Vintage Books, 2013
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