SLABS OF EXISTENCE"
Margaret Ann Waddicor 25th March 2012.
Slabs of existence,
we move them, caress them,
climb them,
they are with us
wherever we go,
inescapable boulders of awareness,
'so beautiful, (should I take out these two lines of value judgement?)
so ugly,'
so all embracing,
so much, our senses
gathered in a bundle
of being;
we see out of eyes,
mirrored,
like the facets of a stone,
its gems,
some hidden inside the rock,
yet those eyes
think they also see,
when a perception is done, (or made?)
what isn't there,
with the great machine-like brain mass,
its boulders centre
formed and reformed, like clay
its spinning mass of particles
lying this way and that way,
oscillating in the time of a life;
changing and re-changing
in an unending momentum,
perpetuum
these moving elements
meet others
and amoeba-like reproduce,
giving new entities;
still made of the same
basic stuff,
of matter,
only the variety
we call human being
that one particular gathering
of that matter;
sounding their paths as they go,
with thoughts and theories,
wisdom's and insanities
in equal measure,
flung into the melting pot
of our conscious persons,
to be processed and reprocessed
but only the same ingredients
shuffled in their mathematically magnetic paths,
fitting and refitting together,
in the spaces
which are not spaces
just differently experienced matter,
flowing incessantly,
in the most bizzar 'decorative,' ( another value judgement?)
flower and water-like
beautiful swathes
of iridescent rainbow colours
only a very few
of which can be discerned,
uncovered and covered up,
in dark and light
of the ever mobile movements
of all that is;
and what or where do the we's,
that are individuals,
be, or do;
we are still only parts
that collide and recolide,
in what we call a lifetime,
to our understanding,
yet we are always here,
all is always here;
only changing shape and appearance,
therefore moving forever,
mutating,
metamorphosing,
changing
yet all the while
the same thing;
all the while, we write words,
we speak words
words change their meaning,
ever in flux,
never able to express
what the universe is
only coming close when we use
what we call mathematics,
which gives
an infinite number
of possibilities.
Comments
Ann
Phew that's one long poem and a lot of deep thinking going on.
No in my opinion I would leave all that you have questioned , you're well within you your rights to do so
also I found stanza seven(7) and nine(9) to be almost alike just worded differently
philosophising on existence is always fascinating
Thank you so much for your input Chrys, that's me, I like to think in these " baner"( N. for the paths the planets make in space-couldn't find a better word in English?) philosophising on existence is always a fascinating subject I think; I don't have it all written down as those who believe in things like gods do, they have it all signed sealed and finished, off pat, so have my own thoughts about it instead.
And this was in the middle of the night, I HAD to turn on my side and grope for my iPhone and note it all down!!! Bleary eyed and all.
Ann
Ann
most of my words come to me just before I fall asleep thinking I will remember them I am to tired to get up and write them down but aals by morning they are gone
I give you credit for having the stamina to get it down no matter what
I wrote a letter and two
I wrote a letter and two poems on the bus to and from my Qi Gong today, again on the phone while the bus trundled along. I first had a conversation with someone, this started me off on the poem when they left the bus.
And i n the woods I have to stop to note down my thoughts, sometimes so interesting, to me, that I am furious if I don't remember them.
Ann.
Ann,
the truth of this poem lies for me in this stanza:
"all the while, we write words,
we speak words
words change their meaning,
ever in flux,
never able to express
what the universe is
only coming close when we use
what we call mathematics,
which gives
an infinite number
of possibilities."
we are and equation create by a universe that uses math as its bases, but it is not base on ten as ours is the number is much more infinite then waht we will ever know. To me that thought only made this poem incredibly interesting. I truly enjoyed reading a poem so rich in deep thought. this to me is poetry.
steps over the edge
What an interesting and lovely comment Eduardo,
yes it is all so fascinating isn't it, when one steps over the edge
of the numbers into quantum, and then into even more complex
black holes, and beyond, to where only maths can explain,
we suddenly feel so small and insignificant in the whole 'equation'
as you said. There is no QED.
Thank you Ann.