Don't Blame the Rain

When you’re forced to abandon
that long anticipated game,
don’t blame the rain for
stealing away that terrain just
because this way is the only foe you see:
I saw the clouds progress to
the control of the invisible wind
bringing those drops towards the play
Yet the wind is not the culprit,
say, since without clouds would the
rain soak up the plain? The sun—
that helioradio ball of gas unable
to contain all that energy, endlessly
spewing since 8.3 minutes before
you even began to punt.
But ho! you forgot about gravity,
that attraction of the nearby dusts
collapsing these in a giant sphere
fusing to produce these “byproducts”
radiating the convection drafts.
What causes gravity then, you pray,
let me put a rifle to his head.
Perhaps the Big Bang or the Planck Time—
who inflated our universe? 

This was the first poem in the anthology “A Quark for Mister Mark" that caught my attention. Not only is it written beautifully, the way Neil Rollinson uses the idea of entropy scientifically to show something emotionally is perhaps the epitome of what a scipoem should look like.

Entropy by Neil Rollinson


Your coffee grows cold on the kitchen table, 
which means the universe is dying. 
Your dress on the carpet is just a dress, 
it has lost all sense of you now. 
I open the window, the sky is dark 
and the house is also cooling, the garden, 
the summer lawn, all of it finding an equilibrium. 
I watch an ice cube melt in my wine, 
the heat of the Chardonnay passing into the ice. 
It means the universe is going to die: 
the second law of thermodynamics. 
Entropy rising. Only the fridge struggles 
to turn things round but even here there’s a 
hidden loss. It hums in the corner, the only sound 
on a quiet night. Outside, everywhere in the vast 
sky stars are cooling, I think of the sun 
consuming its fuel, the afternoon that is past, 
and your dress that only this morning 
was warm to my touch. 

Sometimes I truly wonder if,
with limbs to wonder about
and a centralized network,
have we already outgrown the mighty tree?
I mean—we are barely half its height
and no matter how motile
we are still rooted to our soil,
needing time and familiarity to adapt
to new environments.
We both imbue essential fluids
that flow through veins of veins of veins,
and spill them unnecessarily through
our face and other exterior plains.
We fall to disasters and leave our mess
waiting for decomposers to recycle
so that we can re-conquer and reconvert—
aren’t we here through the same invention?

The Integral of Nature

Must I let nature fight against itself
when all that will avail is lost heat and time?
I mean, the derivative of nature is still nature, right?
Or is it humanity, and the derivative of that technology?
If that’s the case what is there to fight since they occupy different dimensions and depend upon each other for survival?
I gasp, gasp—no, technology’s the integral of humanity, and that the integral of nature, for through all those efforts we know and can create.
Still there should be no war, no need to be so harsh, on the one less that worked to create you.
Whose side are you on?
Nature has given up on a cohesive agreement to maintain society for they realize the synergized effort will only lead an integration of nothing.
I shall keep suppressing, hushing the beasts to return me my sanity
I am no longer fond of broken habits.

Weather

We love the weather, that—I don’t
know exactly what this is even
though with what I have—naked
observations, raw smell, distant
experts, etched experience and
soaring satellites… I can declare
what should happen the next after
the next before that after that I
can’t even whimper with confidence
—us poets! Even in the pouring
rain we wonder whether the trees
will survive this torrent, whether
the sun shall evermore arise…
when all along we know it’s a cycle,
and are so conscious of it that we
feel the need to create an imbalance
so strong that we endorse the rain,
points it as the tears of human
disaster, only to forget this continuum
continuum from which it matters
little whether or not we feel. 

Snow is white—but why?

A few days ago I learned
what makes snow white, soft and crunchy
instead of clear, tough and slippery,
despite being just as water as ice.

 

It’s actually the crystals, invisible to our eyes
forgotten in random orientation.
They are microscopic ice cubes intertwined
into columns, needles and plates,
reflecting, by the same law in physics,
their unique waves from above,
returning all, completely, the colors
of the world, which combined,
in our eyes, mark the purity and sense of space.

3.1.2013

We can’t always resonate.
We can’t always stay at that frequency so perfect—up to certain place after the decimal—
that we simply just oscillate with an amplitude that great.
I will be tired, you know?
I will have days when I cannot ride the train
even though I have overcome my motion sickness for them
because old symptoms relapse
because my biological memory will suddenly remember that I physically did not want to stay at that frequency, that I was my own soul, 0.000001 below, but nonetheless unique.
And if I were to lose to that place just to stay with you forever, I would never have the chance again to realize what it means to ride the waves together.
I would only be riding you.

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