Poet's Choice
TOOLBOX   Resize
 Save/Share +
COMMENT
 Discussion Policy
 CLOSE
Comments that include profanity or personal attacks or other inappropriate comments or material will be removed from the site. Additionally, entries that are unsigned or contain "signatures" by someone other than the actual author will be removed. Finally, we will take steps to block users who violate any of our posting standards, terms of use or privacy policies or any other policies governing this site. Please review the full rules governing commentaries and discussions. You are fully responsible for the content that you post.
|
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
