The Sanctum of Sanity

Ascent

 

1

We have no names,

no epic tales cross checked,

disputed, or distorted

by an antecedent Homer.

So, know not for whom, or when

the first flint arced

to scribe the space

between our savagery

and search for explanation

of the stars.

Yet, it was an act

as small as human hand

on fashioned stone, which

later was to lay red ochre

on the flanks of beasts

depicted, named and known,

as though creation

waited for this dawn

to show how tools

could grow our wonder

into symbols.

How sureness

in our mastery of stone

would one day

break the sky with spires,

and vault the Earth

with shelter

from the face of god.

As hands taught minds

the certainty which

touch bestowed,

we asked first questions

in an extinct tongue.

As muteness waned,

internal spaces grew,

to begin a revelation

which raised Rheims from sand

and sent the sound

of symphonies

to universal ears.

Who first had thoughts to share?

for from this trust

came confidence to tell,

and in the telling

something of the cosmos

was revealed,

shared and made real

by mention of a thought.

As if duration at time zero

deemed it must be thus,

that matter moved, just so

and just so long

as would ensure

that megaliths must be,

and we should mark the passage

of the stars with stones grown

skyward from an instant

in the first event.

In just such seconds as

our physics find too short

for numerals to probe

foundation of our deepest

thought was forged,

as if neutrinos knew

that someday we

would search from them,

and praise creation’s scale

with words determined

in the fire which formed

the stars.

Yet, they required us!

it was our amazement

which made praise a

possible event,

and sent sweet music

far beyond the temples

we had built to house our awe.

Without thought no nucleus

would be.

No angel could expect

the supplication of a

bended knee.

Until the double helix

grew, to such complexity,

that we raised questing eyes,

and voiced the long awaited

Whys,

which gave the universe a home.

11

Why the waste?

Why so few minds to

give humanity small windows?

Is there not some reason for our doubt?

When faces promise much, and yet

turn in upon themselves

to cancel history with a quip?

Slowing centuries for priests to rule,

or blinding reason with a tyrant’s tongue.

Where even Alexandrian sacked

and shattered shelves

could shrink infinity with length.

To leave the last librarian

in fear of Alexander’s cowled disciple

paid by us all, to oversee

the infamous destruction of the ending word,

upon the final page,

of the last,

and only book on Earth.

That it shall be,

will rest with the validity

of freedom’s claim, to move

beyond the rules which we devise

to please prediction’s need for growth.

Both first and final thought, perhaps,

determined by addition of one zero

in equations no one comprehends.

Who gave the Universe a name

before our early eyes turned skyward?

Who, shall see the death of suns

as but a small event

and after thought is dead

repopulate the heavens

with majestic beasts?

© James Rainsford 2011

Note to readers: I have posted this previously, but now submit in revised form
This was a long time in gestation. It is one of my longer poems and attempts to tackle some of the most profound questions regarding our evolution and relationship with the complexity of The Universe. I hope it shines at least a pale light upon our long journey from ignorance to awareness and helps in some small measure to clarify our place in the Cosmos.

Your views are most welcome. To record them, please click on the comments tab below.

Kind regards and thanks to all who visit here. James.