THE ASTRO-GEOLOGIC-RELIGIO HEGEMONY SLOWS PROGRESSS
 
In rock, EEGs of hurt sediment,
mosaic conglomerate, pyrites (pretending),
cite inexplicably, chapter without index;
meaning quakes, displaced.
Laurentian generations,
children of dead stars, too distant,
inconceivable as galaxies vanishing before seen;
hot carboniferous, fronded tangible
watched at night, soft, part of being,
still unreachable, unreal.
 
Magma greyhairs through rift,
re-atoms fact, cauterises record.
Ages tomb, flattened eons roof,
slow others, causewayed, source myth;
ice's walk is dragon spoor.
 
Sift time-shifts.
 
Hammers, microscopes,
confer, propose, Publish.
Shear reveals contradict,
undo given, make new is.
Cambrian pointillism couldn't be:
life too complex for one small world
panspermia
(born at zero? birthed in furnace?
birthed on small repeated worlds?)
                     searched haystack galaxies,
discovered rural star, gave gift:
high odds – calculate
 
     universen x starsn x nn planets
                  fragmentsn
 
 (time, distance – mere complications)
 
= arrogance unlimited
to claim one alone was found;
false modesty, to pretend
water worlds cannot conceive.
 
So much simpler:
      n stars x nn planets x n2 events
 
= teeming, exclusivity forgot:
ten billion to one, life,
means ten million living worlds
whether we meet or not.
 
Carbon says, all reconciles,
this the order;
furnace, fire, sea,
microbe, fish, sapient
each time rebuilt,
each to next.
 
but
 
transient rock – jewel, utile, sludge –
carved to need, crushed, melted, extruded,
slowly oxidising gifts crumbling or broken,
does not build worlds.
Those that do forget genesis,
choose; supernal, system,
try overruling luck with faith or fact – :
 
gods flaw to human,
science arrogates;
imagination must path
between myth and certainty
so rock's last task
is not to headstone thought:
beauty alone is not truth,
truth only beauty
when understood.

 

 

 

THE MARRIAGE OF LANDSCAPE AND UNDERSTANDING
 
Suddenly the track
 
Hold on! If this is the track from last week, last year,
smothered in common spoor, struggling with its Moebius knot,
shouldn't there be resolution, miles mused distilled?
There must be more this time than another hoofprint,
sheep strung, Christmas lights, down evening slopes,
grass cobbled with basking deer.
 
Behind locked gates, lost in uncertain's slurries,
some:- endlessly refresh their pain
through borrowed sorrow, do not ease their own;
            explain, unless others speak
none exist, however linked they try to be;
            find only movement excites,
obscuring memory, refusing flesh.
All lured in dream, running lost
where truth or falsehood trap,
not knowing which is function, which cure,
with no escape unless one moves
and if one moves no escape.
 
suddenly the track,
no more a path that goes
where it comes back from,
loses perspective,
broadens distantly out of trees,
to lift across cliffs towards Pluto,
flirt with suns, bypass starfields,
tunnel dark matter, overtake
fleeing galaxies, redshift invisible.
 
Move forward then, bored by stasis,
exult in ambiguity –
wave-jumping bare boys turn to girls;
lyric drought to silent flood;
new stars die first, the brightest are black.
Take indecision, prism, spin white;
when loved voices are mute
do not fret – you know
that where love takes us after such a start
can never be finite when it allows
all universes in which to challenge pain.
 
If this is last week's, year's, youth's, track,

walked steadily, it has yet to double back.

 

 

 

HYPOTHERMIA

 Dead is many-boned;
pain free cold a good approach –
unless: flesh slows, mind does not,
subjective seconds pain, understanding
that where we first shared water
I might lose your life,
unless the will to love
stopped the sliding, comfort of rest
that would become sleep
 
A long evening,
small brightening light against the loch
placing you too late, too far,
evening I have never liked, bringing dark,
where all avoided things crowd back,
leaning until it nights,
mind on its own journey
to those avoided things.
 
Not what was wanted,
the wrong comfort,
that flare of direction held beyond
where you always are,
the end of a narrowing
echoing the one drawn to,
prospecting as lepton,
beyond anything understood,
too small for further,
self-bounded infinitely
but quantum through universes,
here, there, running
from the particles of avoided things.
 
Will they be known, know?
Not always real, some too much,
events that stitched awareness
cut by edges of expanding nowhere.
All happenings scattered in galaxies,
dark matter of our fear,
forcing apart, coalescing,
rebirthed as suns, algae, consciousness.
Will the avoided live next door,
fuse to fire, twine through vacuum,
yearning to tell its search,
returning penance, insinuating guilt…
 
Or will the sweet solidity of one intangible,
alarmed light now tracking up, be enough,
disperse the void with no need of the ultimate,
pull back before the scatter whirlpools
into galactic centres, spears black holes
with anger enough to break horizons,
pale the clusters, shadow suns, cool nova,
at loss of warmth and brilliance
climbing from local dark,
galactic arms melding
atmosphere against neutrons,
the avoided's last effort to upset flesh,
drill channels to fill with punishment.
 
 
Too sure, this intangible:
it is you singing,
it is my hawk singing,
that will not let me be alone
until the song ends.
I will hold it against harm.
I will hold it against uncertain guilt.
I will hold it against superstition.
I will hold it to lift me
at music, mountains,
a child's smile.
 
Peace understood.
 

Your song. 


    © Grahaeme Barrasford Young 2006