The world is temporal, meaning time-bound and finite. It came from nothing and is now in the process of returning to nothing. To paraphrase the timeless Stephen Hawking, ‘Why bother?’ Spare a thought for cosmologists! Still looking for a cause. Still not finding one.
His name by itself is a poem. Ezra Pound. In a Station in the Metro: “The apparition of these faces in the crowd; Petals on a wet black bough.” He was anti-Semitic. He was weeds and wheat, the subject of Jesus’ most profound parable.
John Bryer played the role of rough-and-tumble union boss for almost 50 years. He died recently, age 82, departing the body while watching television with his fourth wife. Feels like poetry, doesn’t it?
The scientist says, “There are 37 trillion cells in the human body.” The poet says, “I am large. I contain multitudes.” Both of these statements knock hell out of our belief in littleness.
What gives existence to stars also makes words comprehensible: the space between them.