Simulacrum

Dec 20 2012

Easy to believe

nothing lies

between us, and reality.

But the world

is not what it seems.

Take this slab

of honeyed wood,

close-grained, finely finished.

Its molecules, like distant planets

repulsing, and attracting

in a vibrating lattice

that’s mostly empty space.

Orders of magnitude

we cannot fathom,

trapped 
in our infinitesimal layer.

The line of winter trees

through the glass,

captured

on my retinal map,

compressed

through my optic tract,

and in the inner blackness

in which I dwell
assembled into guesswork, 

synapses crackling

their tiny voltages.

A rough simulacrum, at best

of just what I expected.

How reassuring

the world persists

as it’s always been.

But how is this 

proof of anything?

Words, too, are inexact,
no better than metaphor. 

So the simplest declarative statement

makes us all unintentional poets,

who can only come close

never say what we mean.

I am here, you proclaim,

but which version of yourself,

how deep

beneath the polished surface?

And exactly where

on your journey through time

have you let your mind wander,
the erratic passage
of future and past?

You awoke abruptly

blood pounding

cold with sweat.

She was so real, you swear,

and we nod, indulgent

at your fever dreams

delirious grief,
drugged-up 
hallucinations.

Scoffed at the prophet

who gazed upon the face of God,

in awe, dropped to his knees.

Lost all fear

and proclaimed it miraculous.

Here, in the fallen world

where we just as much believe.

Rely

on the blunt instrument

of the 5 basic senses,

cautiously reaching out

like looking through gauze

swaddled, and water-logged.

So we fill in

the empty space

ignore inconsistency,

confirm

our cherished beliefs.

And oh so rarely achieve

perfect clarity.
Let go
of certainty,
transcend ourselves.

What I'm  mostly trying to say here could be put quite simply:  that the solid hands-on real world we regard as fixed and immutable -- a kind of anchor of stability -- is actually mediated, subjective, and not nearly as reliable as it seems.

This is probably best conveyed in the line " ...the inner blackness/in which I dwell ..."; as well as " ...the blunt instrument/of our basic 5 senses ...".

I also quite like " ...Orders of magnitude/we cannot fathom,/trapped /in our infinitesimal layer."

Philosophical poems like this are a challenge, better suited to essay than poetry. Because an argument of ideas is better served by being more detached and intellectual than visceral and experiential; more precise than ambiguous; more expansive than distilled.  In a poem, I'd rather show it, not say it; feel it, not think it.

This is not only an existential exploration, but also a bit of an homage to Oliver Sachs' latest book, Hallucinations, in which he talks not just about the unreliability of our brains and our senses, but also about the universal human longing for transcendence -- whether through drugs, religion, or love.