After weeks of work I have finally completed… another poem.
Well, it’s something at least. Anyway, this was my attempt at an homage to a traditional Romantic ‘nature poem’, which is why I shoved in so many references to all the really famous ones.
Except the one about the nightingale. Suck it, Keats; I put in a Bowie reference instead.
If you don’t know what the subject of the poem is, then I am pleased to make this little babble the starting point of your education into micro-animals.
Composed by: A Bum
Neither a blithe spirit, nor fearful in his symmetry;
No golden host would soothe a lonely cloud.
But if I must make foolish poems–here’s the one for me:
The creature lurking in her hide.
A coward who could not abide,
To put such heart in such fragility.
For durable things do exist.
They only cause your eye to twist.
Where the loveliness of trees like falling Icarus is downed,
In the alternate reality between them
And the feasting worms; are microscopic diamonds to be found.
As sticking as the deepest scar,
A fragment of a neutron star:Hardness’ spirit made flesh on mossy ground.
Don’t know what I’m referring to?
I’m sure I’ll screw this one up too.
Such beauty, elegance–inspiring grace…
Go out the window. Ha, let’s not mince words;
What else would come to mind when you think ‘can survive in space‘?
An angel decked with moonlit wings?
An astral whale that sweetly sings?
Spend more time down on Earth if that’s the case.
And either way, prepare your mind,
For wonder of another kind.
So granted, I’ve already gone and blown the big surprise,
I should have been building up to. Well,
Why use convention singing of a beast that seldom dies?
Whom no extreme of temperature,
Nor even lack of atmosphere,
Could bring unto the reaper he defies.
The vacuum just puts him to sleep;
Rehydrate him and trust he’ll keep–
Until the next time Laika’s grave sends him to hibernation;
Unless by then his chariot returns him.
For unlike him his crew must flee from cosmic radiation;
No problem for our Major Tom,
Whom not even an atom bomb–
Could poison thus. And as for mere starvation–
It won’t vex him before ten years
Have passed; while my life disappears…
And each day brings new peril as those trees God made–
Diminish, taking all the tigers with them.
There’s more now in Texas basements than are burning in the glade:
Is that as mind-blowing as him?
To buy a tiger on a whim?
Our thoughts, his body: what seems the higher ‘grade’?
(Oh–while skylarks fight to thrive,
For now the daffodils survive.)
But not forever–nor will he; that fiction couldn’t sell.
Yet I wonder if he’d fear it if he could.
That when our starburst bursts, and all life on this planet quells,
A stranger from another place,
Would not dig up the Human Race,
But find an ‘Ozymandias’ of his, yell:
“ALL ELSE IN NATURE’S DOOMED TO FADE,
BUT QUAIL: BEFORE THE TARDIGRADE!”