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.
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?
In a classroom with chairs that roll, aligned as perfect rows, the organizer can’t but mutter, at the end of the speech from the guest lecturer: “they can’t help but in circles fall, they can’t help let entropy grow.”
Catabolic catharsis is when the poem crumbles. All that’s left are letters drifting line by line waiting for the idle soul to initiate pareidolia, an anabolic ablution reforming words in another structured pattern, translated and transcribed.
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.
Found this online. Not sure who made it, but I think this is the general perspective scientists of different fields have towards each other…. and I guess #scipoets would be way way way left of those sociologists? Of which field are we an application?
In an exaggerated image (where I show the fastest moving molecule), I attempt to link the phenomenon of diffusion with claustrophobic tendencies to show that it is in fact not a fear, but a normal reaction. This is a worthy scipoem to write, but as I said before… I am of images rather than words these days.
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.
I’m way beyond my boiling point but I don’t see any sign of bubbles– have I too much salt or oil? If too much salt then I must shower myself with some fresh morning rain hoping to be fresh again; if too oily what can I say but that without action those muscles will atrophy.
He may as well have been a banana left in the freezer: weathered, calloused and frostbitten–given his tropical nature– but when peeled and revealed his within is much firmer, vibrant and delectable than those who were given the perfect condition and slowly left to rot.
Sometimes all it takes is a push, a slightly above zero net force without a constant gravity or friction and it will start. Even if the opposition does increase as you gain momentum remember all the weight you’d gain, those followers, supporters, family members that will maintain this energy within, without and any where in between. And all it took was that effortless push.
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.
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.