{"id":9611,"date":"2012-01-20T12:17:56","date_gmt":"2012-01-20T17:17:56","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=9611"},"modified":"2012-01-20T17:02:07","modified_gmt":"2012-01-20T22:02:07","slug":"unquiet-large-quiet-small","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2012\/01\/unquiet-large-quiet-small\/","title":{"rendered":"Unquiet Large, Quiet Small"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

From whiskey river<\/a><\/em>:<\/p>\n

In the point of rest at the center of our being, we encounter a world where all things are at rest in the same way. Then a tree becomes a mystery, a cloud a revelation, each man a cosmos of whose riches we can only catch glimpses. The life of simplicity is simple, but it opens to us a book in which we never get beyond the first syllable.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Dag Hammarskj\u00f6ld, from Markings<\/em> [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

The world — whatever we might think when terrified by its vastness and our own impotence, or embittered by its indifference to individual suffering, of people, animals, and perhaps even plants, for why are we so sure that plants feel no pain; whatever we might think of its expanses pierced by the rays of stars surrounded by planets we’ve just begun to discover, planets already dead? still dead? we just don’t know; whatever we might think of this measureless theater to which we’ve got reserved tickets, but tickets whose lifespan is laughably short, bounded as it is by two arbitrary dates; whatever else we might think of this world — it is astonishing.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Wislawa Szymborska, from her Nobel lecture The Poet and the World<\/em>\u00a0[source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

The Sciences Sing a Lullabye<\/strong><\/p>\n

Physics says:<\/em> go to sleep. Of course
\nyou’re tired. Every atom in you
\nhas been dancing the shimmy in silver shoes
\nnonstop from mitosis to now.
\nQuit tapping your feet. They’ll dance
\ninside themselves without you. Go to sleep.<\/p>\n

Geology says:<\/em> it will be all right. Slow inch
\nby inch America is giving itself
\nto the ocean. Go to sleep. Let darkness
\nlap at your sides. Give darkness an inch.
\nYou aren’t alone. All of the continents used to be
\none body. You aren’t alone. Go to sleep.<\/p>\n

Astronomy says:<\/em> the sun will rise tomorrow,
\nZoology says:<\/em> on rainbow-fish and lithe gazelle,
\nPsychology says:<\/em> but first it has to be night, so
\nBiology says:<\/em> the body-clocks are stopped all over town
\nand
\nHistory says:<\/em> here are the blankets, layer on layer, down and down.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Albert Goldbarth [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

People look down on stuff like geography and meteorology, and not only because they’re standing on one and being soaked by the other.\u00a0They don’t look quite like real science.\u2020 But geography is only physics slowed down and with a few trees stuck on it, and meteorology is full of excitingly fashionable chaos and complexity. And summer isn’t a time. It’s a place as well. Summer is a moving creature and likes to go south for the winter.<\/p>\n

________________<\/p>\n

\u2020 That is to say, the sort you can use to give something three extra legs and then blow it up.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Terry Pratchett [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

…and:
\n<\/a><\/p>\n

Last Night We Saw\u00a0South Pacific<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

I wake to see a cardinal in our white
\ncrape myrtle. My eye aches. Bees celebrate<\/span>
\nmorning come with their dynamo-hum
\naround a froth of bloom. <\/span><\/p>\n

Though presently it’s paradise for the bees,
\nnoon will reach ninety-nine degrees.<\/span>
\nLe vierge, le vivace et le bel aujourd’ hui<\/span><\/em> [*<\/a>]\nwill stultify hope in ennui.<\/span><\/p>\n

I watched Raging Planet<\/em> on TV.
\nEarth’s orbit around the sun appears<\/span>
\nto alter every hundred thousand years.
\nEach thirty million years,<\/span><\/p>\n

mass extinctions attend Earth’s
\ntraverse of the galactic plane.<\/span>
\nThe asteroid rain that cratered the moon
\nreturns, brings species’ deaths.<\/span><\/p>\n

In the Hudson Bay region of Quebec,
\nthe Laurentide ice sheet<\/span>
\nonly a geological eye-blink
\nago lay two miles thick.<\/span><\/p>\n

Disasters preceded us, like violent parents.
\nPangaea’s fragmenting land mass<\/span>
\ndrowned origins like lost Atlantis:
\nan enigma for consciousness.<\/span><\/p>\n

These continents will re-collide
\nin their rock-bending tectonic dance,<\/span>
\nas once before Tyrannosaurus died.
\nSo change continues by chance,<\/span><\/p>\n

as if meaningless — granite to sand,
\nsand to sandstone, sandstone to sand.<\/span>
\nIn five billion years, the sun will expand,
\nto Venus and Mars, then end<\/span><\/p>\n

planet Earth. The hydrangea blooms
\nits dry blue, burns a brown lavender.<\/span>
\nEarth whirls in space and August comes —
\nthis slanted light my calendar.<\/span><\/p>\n

As I water the pink phlox, I wonder
\nwhat use there is for a world of matter —
\nwhy the universe exploding into being invents
\nnight and star-incandesence?<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

We are the part of it that feels it,
\nthinks it, seeing this time in its slant<\/span>
\non bloom with our physical brains that
\nchange it as they sense it.<\/span><\/p>\n

We become<\/em>. We hum a story as tune,
\nin sonata form that runes this sphinx-<\/span>
\nriddle sequence as notes that the pharynx
\nfluctuates, to mean<\/em>.<\/span><\/p>\n

So “This Nearly Was Mine<\/a>” assuages,
\nbraced against old loss and war.<\/span>
\nEmile de Becque<\/span> sounds rich with knowledge
\nof children and love, before.<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(James Applewhite [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Rest.<\/strong><\/p>\n

It’s so late I could cut my lights
\nand drive the next fifty miles
\nof empty interstate
\nby starlight,
\nflying along in a dream,
\ncountryside alive with shapes and shadows,
\nbut exit ramps lined
\nwith eighteen wheelers
\nand truckers sleeping in their cabs
\nmake me consider pulling into a rest stop
\nand closing my eyes. I’ve done it before,
\nparking next to a family sleeping in a Chevy,
\nmom and dad up front, three kids in the back,
\nthe windows slightly misted by the sleepers’ breath.
\nBut instead of resting, I’d smoke a cigarette,
\nplay the radio low, and keep watch over
\nthe wayfarers in the car next to me,
\na strange paternal concern
\nand compassion for their well being
\nrising up inside me.
\nThis was before
\nI had children of my own,
\nand had felt the sharp edge of love
\nand anxiety whenever I tiptoed
\ninto darkened rooms of sleep
\nto study the small, peaceful faces
\nof my beloved darlings. Now,
\nthe fatherly feelings are so strong
\nthe snoring truckers are lucky
\nI’m not standing on the running board,
\ntapping on the window,
\nasking, Is everything okay?<\/em>
\nBut it is. Everything’s fine.
\nThe trucks are all together, sleeping
\non the gravel shoulders of exit ramps,
\nand the crowded rest stop I’m driving by
\nis a perfect oasis in the moonlight.
\nThe way I see it, I’ve got a second wind
\nand on the radio an all-night country station.
\nNothing for me to do on this road
\nbut drive and give thanks:
\nI’ll be home by dawn.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Richard Jones [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n

______________________________________<\/p>\n

<\/a>* This line, penned by French Symbolist poet St\u00e9phane Mallarm\u00e9<\/a>, is widely quoted and variously translated<\/a>. The number of discussions<\/em> of the correct translation, however,\u00a0may actually exceed the number of translations — possibly even the number of quotations. Some translations apparently aren’t quite, well, Symbolist<\/em> enough for whoever’s doing the discussing. Some fail to capture the nuanced sonic properties of the French raw materials from which the translations are crafted. Some disappoint on both counts. (And Mallarm\u00e9 didn’t help matters, by declining to endorse one translation over the others. Ha.)<\/p>\n

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From whiskey river: In the point of rest at the center of our being, we encounter a world where all things are at rest in the same way. Then a tree becomes a mystery, a cloud a revelation, each man a cosmos of whose riches we can only catch glimpses. The life of simplicity is […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":"","activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[247,1393,95,251],"tags":[142,921,2763,2773,2774,2775,2776],"class_list":{"0":"post-9611","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-ruminations","7":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","8":"category-science-medicine","9":"category-poetry-writing_cat","10":"tag-terry-pratchett","11":"tag-wislawa-szymborska","12":"tag-albert-goldbarth","13":"tag-dag-hammarskjold","14":"tag-james-applewhite","15":"tag-richard-jones","16":"tag-stephane-mallarme","17":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-2v1","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9611","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=9611"}],"version-history":[{"count":33,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9611\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":9646,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/9611\/revisions\/9646"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=9611"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=9611"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=9611"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}