Friday, December 10, 2010

Re: [Yasmin_discussions] Science, Technology, Art, POETRY


Many thanks for sending us your poem triggered by the recent
discovery of "light bubbles" at the center of our galaxy
In return i send you an excerpt of a poem from Jared Smith
from :

"The wind outside my desert porch balcony
beneath the Big Dipper and Cassiopaeia gusts
atoms into the vast space of time and swirls
nothing against my flesh that I will remember
and I revel that in this instant of impossibility
the scent of your flesh fills my nostrils and
your eyes are what my mind remembers at night,
my darling when accountants fall asleep and all
is a final smoothing into ecstasy with no tomorrow."

His line " Nothing against my flesh that I will remember"
brings to mind one of paradoxes of modern science,
that so much of what we learn now ( like the light
bubbles you pointed us to) is not accesible to human
senses ( or flesh) but only mediated by instruments=

Perhaps one of the reasons that scientists stopped writing
poetry, or that science texts stopped being written in
poetic form= is that since Maxwell and the 1860s = and the second
scientific revolution= the world that scientists explore
is no longer sensual= science has become accountancy ?


---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Jared Smith <>
Date: Fri, Dec 3, 2010 at 5:49 PM
Subject: A couple short sort-of-science recent poems
To: roger malina <>


Here are a couple short recent poems that show perhaps better what I
have been doing with
science and my incorporation of it into art in my last year. These
just appeared online.


On Fri, Dec 10, 2010 at 5:20 AM, Clarissa Ribeiro Pereira de Almeida
<> wrote:
> *on bubbles, paths and pleats*
> Light bubbles passing through a dust cloud.
> >From one dimension to the other; in order.
> Am I going slow enough to fulfill the past?
> Am I missing memories of the future?
> The instant-now is full of paths.
> Pleats, please, to evolve an infinitesimal time into the future-or-past.
> No way to record the images I imagine.
> Light bubbles lasting, at least.
> *on bubbles*
> Clarissa Ribeiro

>> ¿Puedes venderme el aire que pasa entre tus dedos
>> y te golpea la cara y te despeina?
>> ¿Tal vez podrías venderme cinco pesos de viento,
>> o más, quizás venderme una tormenta?
>> ¿Acaso el aire fino
>> me venderías, el aire
>> (no todo) que recorre
>> en tu jardín corolas y corolas,
>> en tu jardín para los pájaros,
>> diez pesos de aire fino?
>> El aire gira y pasa
>> en una mariposa.
>> Nadie lo tiene, nadie.
>> ¿Puedes venderme cielo,
>> el cielo azul a veces,
>> o gris también a veces,
>> una parcela de tu cielo,
>> el que compraste, piensas tú, con los árboles
>> de tu huerto, como quien compra el techo con la casa?
>> ¿Puedes venderme un dólar
>> de cielo, dos kilómetros
>> de cielo, un trozo, el que tú puedas,
>> de tu cielo?
>> El cielo está en las nubes.
>> Altas las nubes pasan.
>> Nadie las tiene, nadie.
>> ¿Puedes venderme lluvia, el agua
>> que te ha dado tus lágrimas y te moja la lengua?
>> ¿Puedes venderme un dólar de agua
>> de manantial, una nube preñada,
>> crespa y suave como una cordera,
>> o bien agua llovida en la montaña,
>> o el agua de los charcos
>> abandonados a los perros,
>> o una legua de mar, tal vez un lago,
>> cien dólares de lago?
>> El agua cae, rueda.
>> El agua rueda, pasa.
>> Nadie la tiene, nadie.
>> ¿Puedes venderme tierra, la profunda
>> noche de las raíces; dientes
>> de dinosaurios y la cal
>> dispersa de lejanos esqueletos?
>> ¿Puedes venderme selvas ya sepultadas, aves muertas,
>> peces de piedra, azufre
>> de los volcanes, mil millones de años
>> en espiral subiendo? ¿Puedes
>> venderme tierra, puedes
>> venderme tierra, puedes?
>> La tierra tuya es mía.
>> Todos los pies la pisan.
>> Nadie la tiene, nadie.
>> Nicolás Guillén, 1960
>> __

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