Where the Flowers Are
what if a much of a which of a wind
gives the truth to summer’s lie;
bloodies with dizzying leaves the sun
and yanks immortal stars awry?
–E. E. Cummings (One Times One)
Do you ever wish you were invited
To an educated cocktail party where
You could ask an entomologist
About insect instincts like
How a bee scout does a figure eight dance
In the air and bingo the bees all know
Where the flowers are or ask a zoologist
Why each tiger in the wild
Needs forty square miles of territory
And what would happen in the same space
If there were two tigers?
Is it that they are territorial and only
One would survive the wrestling mismatch
Or there just aren’t enough zebras
Per square mile to meet their zebra
Needs and so they’d starve?
Or maybe you want a party astronomer to ask
About job-killing black holes and that planet
That I hear is a giant uncut diamond
And of course a physicist who could say how
Things were before the big bang on the other
Side of that microscopic om point through which
The universe sprang like a genie from a bottle
(To grant us wishes)
And why it’s all radiating outwards
Like spokes in Ezekiel’s wheel or some real
Estate bubble that some dark day will burst
Like fireworks when the sky falls like Niagara?
“Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth.”
–John Milton (Lycidas)
I suspect there will be a lot of chat about science on this blog. I think science is great. It opens a lot of doors and if at the end of doors, we enter the realm of the mystical, well, if science leads us there, why lads, that can’t be bad, right? I mean the scientific method’s fraught with the linchpin of metaphysics. I refer of course to empirical observation. Because though your heart’s good with stars it’s also a veritable empirical observatory. So, look inwards, Angel, and keep track of the results. Write them up like a lab report. Only in the science of this, these notes are called poetry, music. The arts.
Yes, the heart must do a dance between science and art.
My personal opinion is that artists are more honest. I mean sure we artists have our views, our opinions. But we know all that is subjective. And if then you just can’t pin down the artist, well Mister Frustrated Butterfly Collector, your problem is you are using the wrong instrument. (Yes it’s a musical thing) Use your brain sure. But your brain is the scalpel. Your heart is the surgeon. Choices are instrumental too. And choosing well is an art. A holy well you might say. But you need a big dipper to access its water. And as for finding this famous well, how’s this for a start? Head towards your heart. (Dance toward your heart.)
God be with you,