The title
of my poem, respectful Sirs, is The Moonlit Sun.
The Moonlit
Sun? Ha ha, goodness, you must be joking boy, What age do you live in, we are
men of science we are and we know better than that, do we not?
Oh, but you
are old, old men and poor
That have
not the gift of nonsense, beautiful nonsense
Oh, but do
try dear Sirs and you shall see him as I do
He stands
there, like a battle-ready warrior in his chariot
Eight
horses made of fire, of fire and stone and light
Looking up
into a star-studded night sky and his face is lit
Not by
fire, kind Sirs, nay, but the soft, caressing glow of the Moon.
Tosh, boy,
and stupidity! A diamond cannot be scratched as it is the hardest of them all and
the Sun cannot be lit, it is the brightest of them all – use your head and
get on with it!
My head,
polite Sirs, is where I seek, like all great scientists and poor fools of this
age
We have
found the particle, did you know, knowledgeable Sirs,
Higg’s
boson has been found,
After searches high and low and now the scientists, bless them,
Face questions twice as profound
The answers
to which, they shall delightedly tell you, they as yet do not know
For where
is the wonder of seeking when all that is sought has been found
And where
is the wonder of seeing when all that is to be seen is known!
Oh, open
your eyes, obliging Sirs and you shall see him as I do
Tall and dark, a smile upon the lips...
...A discus
in the right hand, a conch in the left and the Egyptians call me Ra
I stand here,
basking in her light, her beautiful, mellow light
“Mellow
coz’ its reflected light, reflected light!” they mutter
Ahhh,
reflected light, that may be
But what
a beauty, what a beauty is she!
Every
night in that exquisite hour
Before the
break of dawn (another story, that)
I stand
here, the dutiful sun
I would
rather bask in her glow (reflected, I know!)
For ever,
and ever and more
But she
has other places to see
And I
shall follow where she goes…
You may
think me a fool, wise Sirs
A charge I
shall plead guilty to
But use your head, you said, and this is what it sees!
For one magical hour when the stars are all but gone
For one magical hour before his daily run
He stands
in his chariot of fire,
A tall man of contented heart,
A smile on his lips and a glow on his face,
The
Moonlit Sun.
8 comments:
Hey sid... good stuff!! typically you! :) I hope ppl dont accuse you of being chauvanistic.. too many sirs.. ;) ;) (I had that before) :P
Thanks!! :D
haha, well, I'll argue that this can be interpreted to mean that women are not old and boring :P
Women are definitely not as old and boring as stuffy Victorian male scientists ;)
Good work Sid, I especially like the contrast of your titles, it's like a beautiful poem on the one hand, and... screwing with the notion of objectivity on the other ;)
The appearance of Lord Rama who is the epitome of beauty, has been compared to the moon. Lord Rama belongs to the Sun Dynasty (Suryavansh.)
As beautiful as the Moonlit Sun?
Yaa! And He chooses to let his brilliance be overcome by that of the moon!
you certainly have a way with words Sid. Your blog posts have a nice mix of beauty,poetry, humour and some aesthetics. Yet can't figure out this quirky title Captain!Aye!Aye! sir, can't figure it out despite watching all the Pirates of the C.....
puthiravey irrukku, engeyo iddikkuthu thalaiva!
HE(like me) is as hot as the Sun and as cool as the Moon. Flattery to Infinity:-)
Haha, isn't He just?! :)
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