Bumblebee
Sept 23 2013

Yellow, bristling, plump
the bumblebee buzzes
improbably,
a gaudy ornament
in the sweet warm air.
Bumping up and down, shunting unsteadily,
as if drunk
on fermentation.

In the dry equation
flight is impossible.
But the theorists under-estimate
how the rules change
in microcosm.
Like the order of magnitude
inhabited by our gods,
whom we are told
are unknowable,
are proscribed from naming.
The mysteries
that layer by layer
constrain human pride.

Meanwhile, the bee hovers and flies
intent on nectar,
eventually coming to rest
on my outstretched hand.
I feel no weight,
and did I imagine
the electric tickle of its tiny legs,
the susurration of air
as it lifted off?

Busily, on its zig-zag path,
dusted with pollen
impossibly fat.
Magnificently unaware
of its landing spot.

I've written this poem before. I think then it had something to do with spiders. It's the idea of orders of magnitude, of which we occupy a tiny layer. Of how much we are unaware. Of what hides in plain site. Of the ineffable and impenetrable complexity of nature, large and small.

And, of course, a theological theme is hardly unusual with me. As an unrepentant atheist, I suppose I'm supposed to believe that all the mysteries of nature are susceptible to human inquiry and the rigour of rational minds. But that's not true. I find that the more I know about science, the greater the space for mystery and wonder -- you hardly need superstition and magical deities for this. And I also find that the more I learn, the more I learn to be humble about the limits of knowledge. Which is what I'm getting at with the lines "The mysteries/ that layer by layer/ constrain human pride."

("...proscribed from naming" may need explanation, as well. This is very much a tenet of Judaism (if not of other religions): that God is never to be looked upon, or named. So Biblical references are always indirect. The theological explanation, I suppose, is this idea of unknowability: a corrective to human hubris and presumption; and a reminder of our fatalistic submission to (excuse my paraphrase) "His wonders working in mysterious ways.")

The poem was written out of season, so the inspiration was not personal experience. It actually arose from something I read, and immediately felt the urge to riff upon. Here it is:

"A few weeks ago, I noticed a bee clinging to my bathroom window. It was dusted with yellow pollen, drunk on the stuff, and I brought my face in close to look. But I was busy, just taking a quick break so after a few seconds I blew gently on the screen; the bee buzzed away. Immediately, I wished I'd watched it for longer."

The author was J. R. McConvey, a documentary film producer. On the theme of nature, and under the title Paradise Lost?, he was writing a review of two books -- George Monbiot's Feral, and J.R. MacKinnon's The Once and Future World. This was the introduction. While not quite plagiarism, I'll certainly own up to a lack of originality (and reluctantly admit that the dusting and the drunkenness are not mine.)
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When I began, the poem was going to be short and whimsical: one of my so-called "word-play" poems, where it's all clever rhymes and quick cadences. (Really, have I ever managed to stop myself before a short sweet poem went on too eye-glazingly long?!!) But then what immediately came to mind was that old trope about bees being theoretically unable fly. And, in keeping with the paragraph quoted above, the idea that if you don't look, you won't see. So I wanted to describe something small, transient, and finely detailed. Which is, after all, the purview of poets: to stop; to observe closely; to make unexpected connections; and to cherish the simple pleasures. And which is exactly what McConvey and his two authors are preaching to a distracted and solipsistic world.

I wonder how it would change the poem to have gone with "he" instead of "it"?