Be
in Awe
Be
in awe: language was given to us
What a marvelous neural mechanism
What a way to send ideas through the air
What magnificent undulations, these that bind
deep roots without our touching
What invisible magic in the frontal lobe
What a way to illuminate the intricate tapestry
of the exocerebrum
Marvel
at yourself
We
were granted this body
(nature knew what it was doing)
Each organ
each piece perfectly
arranged like a city:
an extended novel
A
system that regulates the blood:
the water in the blood, the oxygen in the blood
the most profound and organic technology
Behold
these wonders:
the viscera, contraptions of living matter
the lungs, the kidney, the womb of a mother:
mechanisms of flesh and substance
Be
astonished
We
make decisions every day
We improvise routes across thousands of streets
(familiar or foreign)
We are bifurcations
Infinite multiplication
unfolding into new permutations
Deep
neurons
Connection with others’ connections
A network we call History
21
luminous grams (what we understand as the soul)
linked to 21 grams of so many others alive
and many, many dead
Apprentices
of synapse who have already departed
Radiocommunications we set down on paper
In books: that great placenta of the world
Of our world
Be
in awe
We
were given a name
We were given water
We delight in the perception of light
We know that we are here, now
We sense life
(in a clumsy, primitive way
but we know)
Resign
yourself
Artificial
Intelligence will undoubtedly transcend us
The earth will go on without us
Green grass will sprout from our skin
We will become the pasture of new millennia
The
seas and rivers will return
—in their infinite wisdom—
to reclaim what has always been theirs
We
will sink into time
Far below
It is true
But
for now, marvel at yourself
We are small exceptions
profane
Be
in awe
Language
was given to us
time, music
numbers, love
We were granted knowledge.
The
Other City
to
Constantinos P. Kaváfis
You
say, Kaváfis, you will go to another land, another sea—
and I long to know your land and your sea.
You
say, Kaváfis, you will surely find a better city,
and I dream of Athens every night.
You
swear that wherever you turn your eyes
you see only
the dark ruins of your life,
the many years you spent there—
or destroyed.
I
seek my own desolation
in the ports and bars
you once haunted.
It
is true, Kaváfis:
you will find no other land, no other sea.
Nor will I.
The
names of my streets, of your streets,
will remain in us—
like a tattoo bleeding in half-light.
You
will return to the Mexico City you never knew.
I will return to Ithaca, which I should never have left.
They
will be the same windows.
Your old age will come in the same suburbs
(for me, perhaps the years will not be enough).
You
will grow old in the same house, Kaváfis.
I will try to escape myself—
and alone, reading books,
shut inside a closet,
I will travel to a dark archipelago,
pasture of inner minotaurs.
This
city is the same.
It will remain the same.
Our places will become homes of waiting.
My
city is yours, Kaváfis.
Do not seek another—there is none—
no road, no ship for you.
The
life you lost here,
in this Mexican Athens, you have destroyed.
I did the same
in that Greek Tenochtitlan.
I
tell you I will go to another land, another sea—
and I know that even in death
you will long to know my land and my sea.
There
is no other way, Kaváfis:
we will not find a better city
than the one we never left.
The
Poem Is the Tiger
The
poem is the tiger,
that tiger that darkens the ice
beyond blood-soaked lungs
swollen with metaphor.
The
poem is the tiger
that crushes the images of air,
that fierce delight of jaws
among luminous—or blunt—lines.
The
poem is claws upon moss,
the leap through thorns,
the roar that echoes
its own imagined echo.
It
is the liver of what it desires
yet cannot reach,
the gaze that touches night
and stretches toward its core,
the impossible
within its restless being.
The
threshold—
the murky present.
Intuition—
that which goes unspoken
in the whiteness.
The
poem is the white tiger
entering the entrails of snow.
What a marvelous neural mechanism
What a way to send ideas through the air
What magnificent undulations, these that bind
deep roots without our touching
What invisible magic in the frontal lobe
What a way to illuminate the intricate tapestry
of the exocerebrum
(nature knew what it was doing)
Each organ
each piece perfectly
arranged like a city:
an extended novel
the water in the blood, the oxygen in the blood
the most profound and organic technology
the viscera, contraptions of living matter
the lungs, the kidney, the womb of a mother:
mechanisms of flesh and substance
We improvise routes across thousands of streets
(familiar or foreign)
We are bifurcations
Infinite multiplication
unfolding into new permutations
Connection with others’ connections
A network we call History
linked to 21 grams of so many others alive
and many, many dead
Radiocommunications we set down on paper
In books: that great placenta of the world
Of our world
We were given water
We delight in the perception of light
We know that we are here, now
We sense life
(in a clumsy, primitive way
but we know)
The earth will go on without us
Green grass will sprout from our skin
We will become the pasture of new millennia
—in their infinite wisdom—
to reclaim what has always been theirs
Far below
It is true
We are small exceptions
profane
time, music
numbers, love
We were granted knowledge.
and I long to know your land and your sea.
and I dream of Athens every night.
you see only
the dark ruins of your life,
the many years you spent there—
or destroyed.
in the ports and bars
you once haunted.
you will find no other land, no other sea.
Nor will I.
will remain in us—
like a tattoo bleeding in half-light.
I will return to Ithaca, which I should never have left.
Your old age will come in the same suburbs
(for me, perhaps the years will not be enough).
I will try to escape myself—
and alone, reading books,
shut inside a closet,
I will travel to a dark archipelago,
pasture of inner minotaurs.
It will remain the same.
Our places will become homes of waiting.
Do not seek another—there is none—
no road, no ship for you.
in this Mexican Athens, you have destroyed.
I did the same
in that Greek Tenochtitlan.
and I know that even in death
you will long to know my land and my sea.
we will not find a better city
than the one we never left.
that tiger that darkens the ice
beyond blood-soaked lungs
swollen with metaphor.
that crushes the images of air,
that fierce delight of jaws
among luminous—or blunt—lines.
the leap through thorns,
the roar that echoes
its own imagined echo.
yet cannot reach,
the gaze that touches night
and stretches toward its core,
the impossible
within its restless being.
the murky present.
Intuition—
that which goes unspoken
in the whiteness.
entering the entrails of snow.