The Local Group (Hubble)

#85

Andromeda and the Milky Way collide
In the next few billion years, or so:
Not why Frost said, "provide, provide,"
Though it's not a bad way to go.
With some two trillion stars at risk
In the melding of galactic discs,
Odds of stars clashing are rather low.
Consider, the star nearest the sun:
Proxima Centauri; a distant son,
Unlikely to visit anytime soon.
Perhaps a stray Andromedan moon
Might sail our way. With some delay,
The Local Group will join the fray
And bring an end to night and day.

The Sacrifice of Isaac (Rembrandt)

#84

Abraham's great hand covers the mouth and eyes
Of his son; the thrust of the knife so imminent
The angel's grip must knock it from his hand.
"Burnt offering," he was told, so meant to slice
The throat as he would a ram's. God is silent.
The angel, we assume at his Master's command,
Points to Heaven and explains away the slaughter.
Abraham has proven his fear of God, which is all
That's required. In reward, his sons and daughters
Will multiply like stars; his enemies' gates will fall,
And his seed will bless all the nations of the earth.
To the old man it must feel like his own rebirth.
Though his face shows neither terror nor relief,
There is bafflement at the grim power of his belief.

Disintegration of the Persistence of Memory (Dali)

#83

There is no time. There's only memory,
Rows of sodden boxes beneath a sea
So pure that even the sardines have dreams
Of swimming through the sun's occluded beams.
A bullet from the brain becomes a memory box,
Transfigured by the melting of the clocks.
Floating mountains and rootless trees in pieces
Will linger, so, until duration ceases.
These aren't headstones of recollection.
Impervious to breath and desiccation,
They can become too numerous to count.
I, for one, would like to know the amount.
Each box retains its substance, color, and shape,
But when it's opened nothing can escape.

Natural Sculpture

#82

The sphere predominates the Milky Way,
As gravity shapes the interstellar clay.
But on the earth it's relatively rare:
Birds' eye, the water droplet in mid air,
Eggs, scat, and pebbles on the beach,
All oblate; less so the orange and the peach.
But what to make of these sculpted stones?
Sentiently, Noguchi could have carved each one.
I found them, years apart, on the Michigan shore.
In summer I waste hours looking for more.
What two hands with a few tools could create,
Took wind, fire, earth, and water to generate.

Fish Magic (Klee)

#81

Is the sky to fish what the celestial is to men?
Do their eyes, being lidless, see more clearly
The dimming when moon eclipses the sun?
Do they wish as they die to swim above the sea?
Bonefish, flounder, barracuda, and drum,
Chaunt spells and curses from within a cauldron,
To tauten the cord and raise the draped muslin
Unveiling the face of the ancient clock tower,
While a three-eyed girl grabs at potted flowers,
And in a corner a boy in a dunce cap cowers.
The gods send down chum and baited hooks,
Dangling constellations and spiral galaxies,
Daring us to hope, to aspire, daring us to look
Past transparent and unfathomable seas.

Tasso's Oak (Peter Blume)

#80

We watched transformers spewing sparks
As a freak derecho blew through our town
And cut twenty thousand trees down,
All soon stacked and chipped in our parks.
Centuries old, Tasso's oak still stands,
Buttressed with steel cable and iron bands.
Encased in red brick and mortar, its roots
Send forth a sucker, a lone, seeking shoot,
While beneath no one looks at tree or Rome,
But stick to knitting, play, pray, or make love.
Did the old poet, writing, let his eyes roam
From words to the leaf-tattered skies above?
Trees will outlive us, or not. Let them die.
Only, choose one that we will know you by.

Knight, Death, and the Devil (Durer)

#79

The Knight and his Death ride horses bridled;
One with studded leather, the Other twisted hemp.
The Devil walks. Having nothing hasty to attempt,
He's happiest when men, actively morally idle,
March, run, ride, or fly toward anything Ideal.
Plodding along, He's never too far behind.
The Devil and Death have nothing to conceal
From a Knight known to be uncommonly kind;
To the men who've just been maimed by his sword,
He's always spared a righteous, comforting word.
They show themselves: anthropomorphic Fates
The Knight, smiling to himself, politely ignores.
A running dog briefly disrupts the stalemate
Only one of the three has the power to restore.