Latin Monikers

Aug 5 2011

The man from the city

reminded me of Richard Milhous Nixon

walking on the beach.

Photographed in a business suit

and wing-tip shoes,

imagining his stiff mannerisms

shifty speech,

no one could miss

the gawky politician,

so uncomfortable in his own skin.

So this man from the city

in leather loafers, pleated pants,

viciously swatting mosquitoes

as if there was rampant Dengue Fever,

was clearly out of place

in the woods.

All he saw

were shade trees, or evergreen.

And all he heard

were birds.

While I smugly picked out

black spruce, balsam fir.

And mimicked bird calls,

gravely intoning

their proper Latin monikers.

But unexpectedly

it was the fish out of water

who saw the forest

for what it was.

At odds with my conceit

that attaching a name

adds any real meaning.

The same God

who gave man dominion

also gave him the power to name

every living thing.

And led us to believe

that conferring a name

somehow conferred knowledge.

Not the sinful kind, perhaps;

but the illusion of power

can be just as bad.

If only I could unlearn it all,

experience the world whole

instead of taking it apart.

I want to walk barefoot

on the beach,

feeling hot sand between my toes,

its silky give

sinking in.

But instead

I am a disgraced President,

cringingly unaware

of the bigger picture.

I’m referring to a notorious photo of Richard Nixon, which – just as I describe – says it all.

This poem is essentially about reductive science; about illusions of control.

I’m very pleased with my use of cliché – forest for the trees, fish out of water. I love the simplicity and familiarity of cliché. And I think it becomes that much more powerful when something so trite is used to carry a serious and complicated meaning.

Of course I don’t believe in God.  The biblical reference is intended to emphasize – and indirectly question – the conceit of human exceptionalism.