Uncertainty Poem by Robert Ronnow

Uncertainty



There cannot be two identical things in the world. Two
hydrogen atoms
offer infinite locations within their shells for electrons.
Thus, nothing can be definitely eventually known.
All to the good
because golf and chess and basketball, as well as
mathematics, language and genetic recombination
are systems
for discovering the possible (which is more attractive
      than
the probable)
in what we thought we thought about the sun and clouds.

In Borges' The Parable of the Palace, the poet's attempt
to replicate
the world in a word results in what, surprisingly, is
his termination
personal obliteration a piece of anti-matter that
occupies no known shell in this or any other instantiation.
Got the plot?
We are 'moving through some allegory between a City
      of Hope,
where history
has been abolished, and a City of History, where hope
      can be slipped in only
as contraband.'

Actually, the recombinations
which make prediction and intuition fortunately hopeless
      and each individual
an experiment
gone well or wrong, are represented by equations of
      such complexity
they differ
not at all from the very stars and neurons whose
      interactions we wish
to count.
The world keeps up or ahead of the collective attention
      span by offering
inexorable expansion
or otherwise rapidly contracting universes, big bang by
      big crunch.

I like that, I like that I can't know what I'm doing (until
      it's done) . Therefore,
faith and understanding
(hope and history) become one absolutely fluid quantum
      motion, a lovely early
Spring morning
a thunderstorm, a terrifying and (for someone) final
      tornado or volcano.
Oh well.
From his earliest published work, Ronnow displays a
      fascination with death,
the world without the self, a ridiculous consideration
      considering time's
geological pace
6.5 x 10 to the 10 sunsets and sunrises over mountains
      and deserts (for every
merchant, traveler)
themselves rising and setting via magmas, oceans,
      tectonics, meteors, forever.

Do your homework I said to Zach. Why bother was his
      attitude.
I explained
time is an illusion, an invention man made, there is only
      change. Birds
know this.
But the calendar and colors, genus and species, bacteria
      and galaxies,
are the innumerable wonders about which Sophocles
      said man's
most wonderful
why because we identify or classify birds by the
      complexity or beauty
of their songs.



- with a line by Pico Iyer

Thursday, January 1, 2015
Topic(s) of this poem: birds,death,desert,homework,hope,illusion,mountains,songs,spring,wonder
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