merely to mention mendeleev's dream
would seem to evoke old poetry itself
and wrapped in mythic clouds imperiously
tormenting as a sea can be
with little warning jarring the soul
a self contained poem a chromatic fantasy
a place in which to hide the gold of
improbable discovery rendered suddenly luminous
not a paint by numbers set
not something flawlessly retrieved from the files
and point by point graphed to dry smiles, or applause
gentlemen oh now we know of course, we should have seen it
as an easy certainty, a puzzle fixed in place
showcased under glass in the dusty museum
the fact that it came to him in a dream
imagery and the whole intact
frustrating forever those who want
the numbers to line up the facts
and let that be an end to it astounds
just as the moon emerging from clouds
dreaming enters in
and spoils the impersonal logic expected
conclusively
Enters in: the beauty of another realm defended
beauty irself tresspasses here and mystery tiptoes in
that should have been banned but had the last interpretive
role
in the play astonishes me so that I praise
the God of all mysteries of beauty improvident
and excessive breaching the barrier
between art and science, waking and sleeping
although these days from the hearse of the data driven
many curse that it happened that way and will not
acknowledge it
at all.
because their god is just too small.
mary angela douglas 8 february 2023
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