Poet's Choice

Late Czech poet and immunologist Miroslav Holub mined greater treasure from the sciences than any other poet I know. In "The Sorcerer's Lament," he speaks as someone who thrives in duality (i.e., the art/science dichotomy): "[My] great magic is that I'm/still here. With a medium-sized/halo around both heads." Holub's scientific proclivity crosses the battle line so boldly drawn by the English Romantics, who fired flaming volleys at reason and its territories. In 1820, John Keats's "Lamia" dubbed science "cold philosophy" -- a destroyer of natural charms: "Philosophy will clip an Angel's wings/Conquer all mysteries by rule and line . . . , Unweave a rainbow." But Holub swings open the operating-theater door in "Heart Transplant" and reveals technology's new beauty:

It's like falling from an airplane

before the masked face of a creator

who's dressed in a scrub suit

and latex gloves.

Now they are bringing, bedded in melting ice,

the new heart,

like some trophy

from the Eightieth Olympiad of Calamities.

Atrium is sewn to atrium,

aorta to aorta,

three hours of eternity