35. Poetry

35.2. Poemotions

35.2.6. Text of book

Start of page 289 in the book

Part Thirteen

Up and Away in the Universe

Prologue Thirteen 290

On Burying a Nugget 291
Determinist's Cry 292
Nothing I Do Can Be Wrong 293
That Great Landlord in the Sky 294
A Sceptic in Westminster Cathedral 296
This is your God Speaking 298
Spring 302
Geneticals 303

Start of page 290 in the book

Prologue Thirteen

So here we are at last, soaring among the Intangibles. If we think about it, we all know they are what really matter. What else are the factors that rule our Universe, and therefore our own individual lives? What happens after at long last I gurgle, thrash about, and die? All of us would very much like to know about that, if you don't mind - since we have to live (and die) in your ruling planetary system.

But they do mind, these lofty Planetarians. And they won't tell us. So we have to grope. And groping is what I'm now doing.

When one is placed in some sort of Universe like this, one would obviously like to know, if you don't mind, what makes it tick. But of course they do mind, the organisers of this Universe we find ourselves in. Out of pique (or something) they won't tell us what naturally we want to know.

My small poems can contribute little to this cosmic argument. But for what they are worth, here they are.

The nugget is an idea some persons wish to bury, but to bury it is a denial. What of freewill? There is no blame, there is no praise, for each of us must live our days in pattern predetermined. Or is that too glib?

Enter the deluded one, crying Nothing I do can be wrong! Then consider that great Landlord in the Sky (and I don't mean Mr Rupert Murdoch).

Only last night, only last night,
I hadn't a care - it's the truth.
Spend the cash in your weekly packet:
the Landlord looks after the Roof.

When a sceptic enters Westminster Cathedral he feels in awe of MONEY. But he sees some youngsters progressing to the future they now seem to feel God offers them. Then we have God Himself speaking: it's two thousand years since I had a Word. Did God create Spring? Blades clean bright cut the mouldered tapes of Winter's chill embrace.

We end with the fact of being genetically designed. Humans I know must have Gods. It's heretical, but these Gods I now call Geneticals.

Start of page 291 in the book

On Burying a Nugget

The nugget is an idea
some persons wish to bury.

If this nugget be knowledge
it is.

Should the nugget be a fact
it exists.

Were the nugget merely an opinion
it is held.

Even if the nugget is a travesty
it matters to someone.

So to bury this nugget
is a denial.

Start of page 292 in the book

Determinist's Cry

There is no blame, there is no praise,
for each of us must live our days
in pattern predetermined.

You think you have, but you have not,
the freedom to be anything
but what you are.

That's cheerful news, for what you are
was never made by you.
The blame (and praise) lie somewhere else.

So you are free, and must feel free,
to be exactly what you're made
because convinced

of the vain folly
of trying to be, ever so slightly,
anything else:

instead of just loving, as you ought to do,
a someone else
- if you can find him.

But that's another quest.

Start of page 293 in the book

Nothing I do can be Wrong

Nothing I do can be wrong.
I am not strong,
not here for long.
I'll be off at the stroke of some gong,
liable no more than King Kong -
stuck on some theocrat's prong.

I cannot do any more wrong,
before being toasted at the deistic fire
perhaps by that failed prior
indulging a second-best desire
knowing I was never for sale, nor even
for hire.

I can still sing only one song,
ding for one dong:
not here for long,
made to sing only that song,
responsible no more than King Kong -
since nothing I do can be wrong.

Not really wrong said the prior,
lifting me up a bit higher:
you can go higher still, you're a trier,
whispered the prior.
But I'd had enough of that song:
that dismal ding for one dong.