All I can do is apologize for subjecting you to any of my poetry. It is almost uniformly angst-ridden tripe that doesn't even entertain ME (and that's saying something, as I'm very easily amused for the most part). I'm generally frustrated every time I look at any verse I've written because it's literally painful to me.
This one is frustrating in a different way. I wrote it on the first day of a vacation I just got back from and the idea just jumped out at me the moment I woke up. The images are still following me, but I can't seem to find the words to do them justice. This is the best I've been able to do so far.
Scientists, Philosophers and Artists
Once I sat in a lecture room
And heard the renowned teachings
Of butterfly wings
And their effect on reality
The world ends not with a bang,
Assured the learned physicist
Nor with a whimper
Or any sound at all
For each time a butterfly's wing goes back instead of forth,
Every drop of rain that gets caught in the crack of my window
Or slips down the pane,
The universe splits
Rows of each possibility into the stars
Into ordered infinity
The image of all our dreams being granted moved us
The scientist left the podium to great cheers
(For who can deny that he wants to have all doors open?)
After a long moment the philosopher rose
Smoothing his thin and rumpled hair
Pulled a slender briar pipe from his coat
And made his way to the front
A new and dangerous truth he described
Where my successes were not my own
Every choice of mine
And every drop of rain
Or butterfly's wing
Would change everything
And what, he asked
Is the point of a world
Where every choice is made both ways?
Where no fault is mine, it is true
But also no virtue?
A restless silence descended
The stooped thinker shuffled back
To grudging admiration
But little love
(For who wants a world where our victories are inevitable,
and do not reflect our merit?)
The artist sat in silence
As the restlessness in the room grew
He noticed the attention at last
And took a sip of water
Or perhaps it was wine
And stepped to the podium
He stood for a long moment, then reached to the floor
Brought out two canvases to display for us
Each showed an image of a forest,
The vibrant colors nearly painful in their intensity
And covering nearly half of each
The black and orange of a huge monarch butterfly
Caught in mid-flight
In the first, a driving storm
Sent rivulets down the bole of each oak
The second painting, colors muted
With the inky darkness of night
No moisture left to shroud the leaves
With the barest of smiles,
The artist shrugged and spoke but these words
"The butterfly is still beautiful."
--jhf