Poem: PAEAN OF THE GODDESS

sampled ekphrastic tragi-comedic songs of growing pains meandering from ‘only human’ to ‘only humane’

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Psi-ed, the Goddess

CANTO FIRST:OF  HER MONOGRAM, SOWN

Eunuch hand conceives the ‘Why’

Manifest made, this maiden Eye

From pulsing Grecian tongue-ed Psi there comes a thrilling humane sigh;

 

Plucking sown protein quartet’s strings

Subatomically Her uni-versal DNA now sings.

 

Awakening to endless morrow’s task

 

(While Crick-ed necks, with Mars-born heads

dream ‘W(h)at’sOn–and missed–

in laboratory bench

or chalky blackened board,

thought they: ”IT’ shan’t be found by so pale and sheepish a wench.’

 

Rosa lends* illumined Venusian eye,

For atomic decay’s reveal it asks.

 

Intuiting  Her-aclean feat–

ignored by that ignoble Nobel ‘Greek to me’chorus–

 

Crystal clear to Her the helix shape’d task’s

Reward, as serpentine lines entwine, Caduceus,

Thus goddess-borne;

A concerted hallmark, Her Protean quartet plays

Her heart conducts and syncopates the beat.

 

Frissons shimmering voicing whispered ‘Strive, I’ll…’

Amplifying trembling quavers of rejoicing in Her ways.

 

Kissing frail fingertips

of serene stone no more, but now Pygmalion’s rival

 

Rosalind’s* spear-like mind did shake loose Life’s form long-sought

fished with luing pluck from clouds of streaming thought.

 

(*Rosalind Franklin, Co-Discoverer of DNA/Unrecognized by Nobel Committee)

 

CANTO TWO:OF HER BODIES ELECTRIC

Elsewhere in a  chalk-boarded classroom quirky quarky

Diagrams seeming to writhe and Grow in glinting light

 

Their white-flaked chips forming tiny brightly fluked whales

amid a sea of dust motes that float like tiny krill, refracting, now half-shadowed;

 

Tricked beclouded minds shaping shapeless dreams ,

Professor’s chalk-covered scientific hands still, at rarest rest,

Arms fin-like, akimbo,

face Sun-tanned, a silhouette of African aspect–

 

Dr. FeignMan’s double being

receives through fingers splayed as though antennae

Her ablative songs of Humpback whales

 

Calving, teaching calves Off Cape Horn.

 

Through  Cage-like open window rusty sounds of traffic compose

And Demonstrate amid miming neon placards

 

While another gas drives vehicles that in chaos honk and veer

Assaulting annoyed human ear

white noise, ambassador of organic mettle’s modern wailing.

 

Student Daydreams of languid ease

Wed to childhood carillons and carousels

 

Professor professing what began in and with Basement chemistry,

collected shiny-speckled crystal-laden rocks,

 

Piezo’s electric effects bringing tears

of joy in and to Doc’s and Doe’s child-hoods means, modes

And warty toads,

to Her, maternal fears.

 

Upstairs, abed, young dreams of jumpy electrons dancing with

a phonograph’s vibrating sound

(S)he conjures someone named Tahan–

a person the teacher seemed to know,

and Tahan’s ‘phonitron’, hooking up these two;

peurile brain’s neurons gossip,

calling it the cooler Mexican jumping beam.

 

Now grown mind hitchhiking through galaxies of possibility

Wizard Ph.D. potters science as Nature’s art

from  Mr. Adams’ Deep Thought begetting Her future

past, Big Dada;

“It’s supersonically downloading Russian nesting doll progressions from the

murmuring data-rich meta-conversation Life has been having…

with its vibing self!”  

A female symposium member’s hand shoots up:

“More like Big Mama’s vibrator…”, earning her an A.

 

CANTO THREE:  OF HER REVENANT AGENCY

 

Simon casts a pall,

silently echoed,

written on each higher rising babble’s wall

pallbearer She-lley, no longer merry…that Spring it strangely snowed.

 

Her teenage (though doctoral) frank recreation,

paddled toward reawakening

Stirs Her neuro-peptide waves near a Lake in foreign nation,

Lapping at Her last psychic resort, a shaken thing–

Its primoridial beach head’s tsunamic waves

Thrumming Her deepest ‘see’

with Apocalyse awareness from which nothing, no one saves.

 

Plunged deeply inward, backward within amniotic pools

She swims reptilian, flails

tails, Pisces scales,

then dolphin-ish

(no, not fish)

mammalian, knowing fins for fingers,

Her universe-sized sonic mind, it lingers,

echoing tele-pathic;

Bubbling chirps, clicks, whistles,

rebound vibratory onto  unseen stringy membranes, seaweed for thistles,

as Adams’ por-poises purpose thanks to Her for the many fish

silently speaking Pauline prophecies of the coming of Undone, and by frothing deadly wish.

 

CANTO FOUR:  OF HER DECONSTRUCTION

 

Curves curve along time’s warping arrow

Space’s strumming chords oscillate,

 

Now  Lincoln-logged mystic cords lay broken,

held by unseen ‘only human’ hands at throats,

smoke, choking, rubble strewn, treachery’s own substrate.

 

Her cosmogenic voice now strains with rasp–

Unheards by eyes, unseen by ears

That voice, thin, a whispered gasp:

‘Only human’, but for elusive suf-fix-ive, ‘e’

You–then, You and You again–may cease to be…’

 

Ageless pointed well-traffic-ked koan,

Though grasped by but one hand–yet not by mind–

 

faintly clapping, came dawn, escape velocity

high above a funereal horizoned City

of other hands played-out darkened shafts of inhumane, so mined;

discoveries, striking and grave

white-clad dirges emerge from gravity’s shadow

Pale white pall casts upon under-armed ‘only human’-kind(?)

 

Dungeon-deep dulcet chanting from monkish cowls

echo through once-engines’ cowling,

a cello-induced dream state’s populace howls

dwelling within once solitary boxes

set free by melting of elastic bars

refashioned of enlightening gossamer cord, oddly woven by guile of hungry foxes.

 

Comes, then, a pointillist sea of crimson dots,

signifying fallen rescuer, victim, responder;

as if plotted upon the resounding geometry of music’s paper,

now thrust into Libes-kind-ian Isaac Stern-praised hands, to ponder

Their illustrated scores of re-composed zeroed-out ground fragments

randomly strewn dissonant cords cut from rabid ratio–

9:11‘s syncopated beat’s cacaphony repents.

 

Came Her whole–some holy–parts Lennon-ed together,

 

Once timorous, escape artists,

 

Leary-like, former tribes now ashened, space-going,

leery of bad vibes;

Her mantra, now, harangues all corporeals for  rearming, resetting

to channel, freshly attuned forks converge, restart

row in streaming consciousness together, summed greater than apart

Dropping out budded ear’s empty bloom–

Yourselves they do entomb,

Turning off electron-drivel,

Tuning in

Whitman’s guitar-shaped sung body electric charms

with newly fashioned shimmying rejoined reverberating tremelo arms.

 

CANTO FIVE: OF HER HOMO HUMAN(E)

 

Did not the maker of that miniature Globe shake theatrical

Awake the sonnet-eyes  

dark lady and young lad’s minds

the spearing of Her truths for eye and ear it finds?

 

With pent-up ambering I-am-bing,

Playing forth sound-scapes which joined

Aural, to and with oral may enlightened voices sing.

 

‘To sea-change look with thine ears!’, (S)he playfully said, ‘You striderss of this globe’,

such rhythms as do guide our spheres—

 

of influence and confluence—

 

the same as silicate players that do play

their role of grit unto the oyster-like ‘only human’ ear, within its cartilege shell,

Yielding up the cultured p(ear)l, adorner of its lobe.

 

So mightily eyed and eared

We may dwell so,

better armed in each’s compact frame,

now crowning You and Earth, re-formed, in gilded heart the same.

 

Fuller equipped to more fully see Her dome’s Buckminster geodesy—

mouths mouthing Her universe-mother’s exclamatory praise:

‘More verb, than noun make, this, Your odyssey!’

Plucking lyric sinews dynamic, shaming static superstition,

Mocking rightly its blind and feckless sight Your mission.

 

Closely, then, we enconter Other,

of any kind, and kindly

With Zoltan’s Koda-ly-zing gesture of our hands,

inspired by Her bodies gestures brother,

Reti of music theory, and

Curwen and the tongueless signing of the hand—

not upon mere surface, but upon muted silent beings double-working eyes:

All skyward we,

no matter how, look,

see

and welcome Her, and hers, who from the Heavens

they did come then

and ever tireless, come again, renewers of our humanely given prize.

CANTO SIX: OF HER SECRET SERVICE, FOR EYE/EAR/HEART, IN E SHARP

 

Her wholly dAndied aesthete

taking on life

as his/her short filmic time and space,

With soundtrack set to quarter-hour time,

the infamously famed Warhol

warned with the stanza-like refrain of a scratched

skipping broken recording

of echoes:

‘…all lives will have soundtracks……………’

 

Her eyes through yours

stepping aboard the subway car,  into collective isolation,

All those faceless apparitions, on a kinetic track, go;

Dangled wires, flowering electronic tropism,

spindly finger-like digits of the digitALL, feeding  limbic waves to their neural Narcissus,

addictively adoring some other-authored self-imagining:

feedback, a track-ed thing, it will be,

the new personified prosody.

 

But, then,

Again

Off-track,

Support groups abounding, so great Your perceived heartfelt maladies—

Imagine Her unsurprised by one called ‘Loners Anonymous’;

or another, Big Bangers, sad parody of Her uni-verse, affrighting,

 

Clubbed with endless internecine fighting,

 

this rapidly expanding social gathering, Twittering incessantly with noise,

with hashed-up divisive name taggings: ‘#EveryonesNameHyphen-ated’, planting their flagging patients patience in more virgin soil of unitary Cosmos, and thereby erasing

 

their claim to have deciphered an infant universe’s googlings and gurglings

driven by mug-shotted doggerel-eared Book of Self-effacing.

Alas, forgotten, equipoise.

 

Native-like, these former states of being  proclaimed pride

of prior place,

You, split, in two, a dual member, two, much too, too

redoubled You-ness forgetting to re-member, never to become YOU.

(counting that double in your mirror)

denser cosmic cooing, reborn, electrons for umbilicals.

 

So, with comics as new encyclicals,

You pinch a VIP badge from an inattentive registrar’s hemispherical desk

at the next big Comic-Con,

You figuring you’d have won

Number One

If you’d bothered to have entered, says Your

 

Passion, accompanied by the cooler Sangfroid slides beadily along the queue

stringing its way into the 30 foot egg-shaped All-O-Sphere,

a neuro-whisper inside Your selfie’s solo necktop version

pronouncing it ‘AliceSphere’,

a 360 degree data-scape, tunneling rabbit style

into a nano wonderland without diversion.

 

A bead of sweat glances off a harmonic steel railing strobing a throbbing sound before

Your eyes/ears,

shape-shifting into the form of a rabbit’s foot,

all than remains of Carroll’s truthful fictions, disguised as Your fears.

 

Bemused by this unforseen, unforseeable ‘coming together’,

 

unyoked from his intended unyoking of your minds from trivial matters tether,

 

only human, most humane

 

Sits Mr. Lennon enthroned alone, cat-like gut’s thrum

accompanied by Her ‘Fluxus’ ‘toilet piece’, in relative peace—

Wondering just(ly) why did he try—

 

Yoko’s John flush with Ono-nanistic excitement at the

rhythmic buzzing of his/her fly.

 

CANTO SEVEN: OF WHEN ROCKY STATUS QUO TABLES TURN SHE STILL SERVES

 

Why, She posits rhetorical, does the ‘status quo’ have a Latin name?  

 

(An answer’s in this space, just in case…)

 

Do you not know,

as did the POEt Poe,

the need for ‘unmasking which,

also,

tears away the face’?

 

Neither Latin nor Greek alone

can say it

Better than Sylvester Stallone:

 

What’s your status, She would very much like to know;

 

It tells us alot, do please understand, about the state of your….quo.

 

(By the way, Latin’s dead, or so they’ve said,

 

So why is it that for what it describes, to dozens of tribes,

 

that roamin old tongue’s death it just ain’t?)

 

Ya see, its enemy, ‘change’, like dogs with the mange, has such an odious taint,

 

That most people’s status is heard in reply: ‘thanks very much, we’ll just hang with the devil we know’—-

and what’s more they’ll shrug & then say: ‘it’s the way to go, the not-so-great

 

but always been that way, in this state’….

status quo.

 

Tell you what, let’s go with your gut, without if, and or but:

 

you, yes you, sit yourself down at any old  table,

 

no rush, no fuss, just whenever you’re able–

 

Now, aleatory matters aside, chances are the topic’s the ‘whirled’,

and about how, just in case, you’ve got some gold squirreled,

 

Away, somewhere safe—and not simply an ounce,

should your usual place of abode be in a mode

deserving the unstable label

of ‘anomie’, a Frenchified word you can hardly pronounce

and, nevertheless, should it, that abode, remain weirdly unstable;

 

She doesn’t know about you, but this talk of chaos’s making Her peckish,

time, then, it is to order some fittingly unpronounceable exotic dish.

 

So, now, then, in conclusion—-

just so there’s no chance of confusion,

 

Put down those remotes, and understand just what this instable anomie connotes:

 

You’ll pick up the phone, and place an order for training your tongue in Chinese,

and tell that nice non-Western lady,

if she’d please, presuming her name won’t be Sadie

—-but, without a hint of panderin—-

include with your Rosetta stone course a large platter

whose price just won’t matter

for that famous dish they call crispy duck,

just for luck,

to accompany that course for Chinese Mandarin.

————————————————————-

HER MORE THAN SUPERFICIALLY ANDROGYNOUS VERY HUMANE LOGICAL EPILOGUE

 

Ah, so, now perhaps you see

that (S)he, part of You and part of me

ordains–and does so freely–

that, just as East & West be

but points of the mechanical compass

so, too as concerns ANY ‘only human’ rumpus,

Including ALL spats from the bending of wills to, well, the bending of gender

(and all in-betweens)

Reason & Logic cannot help but to render–[once we’re all treated at least as well as our pets,

call it ‘only humane’, Let’s…]

 

one syllogistic (look it up) conclusion:

 

To end Her bodily contusion

from all the previously sung of confusion,

it’s past time to stress–

and for some to confess–

that the Greeks had it right,

be that Force but Platonic or just at first sight,

 

Her Nature it’s greater

Far than any oracular fater

(though the latter be Greek)…

But to find you must seek

the truth of the Uni-verse’s only 4% matter,

dispensing with chatter

and seeing what’s shown in Her science and Her arts:

S(he) gave that initial Atom (Adam?) that energetic little molecule, DNA—

You’d be telling the truth, even you, Ruth,

that we’ve ALL got the same ‘initials’, thus did Rosalind assay;

So, doing the math

just follow Her path

And recalculate that You’ve on Your side both science and arts

When you acknowledge that You’ve got something literally greater

Where/Whenever their sum surpasses all its material parts.

 

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