A Journal for Western Man-- Issue XIV-- June 2, 2003
G. Stolyarov II
I wonder, for ‘tis said
That it is art’s quintessence,
Than nothing in its stead
Can rival its grand stature
Nor match its structure fine.
Some even would expound that
Already ‘tis divine.
Does say it the strained athlete
In time of urgent need,
When orders to persistence
His muscles do not heed,
And, snapping under pressure,
They throw him on hard rock,
In bloodied, anguished writhing,
Toward a state of shock?
Does say it, ever aging,
The man of brittle bone,
Whose grip each day must loosen
On senses once his own?
His flesh turned shriveled leather,
His eyesight in decline,
His loss of former prowess
Would he ideal define?
Does say it cancer’s victim,
A tumor on whom gnaws
And replicates sans breaching
The body’s ingrained laws?
The organism that’s perfect
Will not but try arrest,
Unaided, that, which promptly
All life from it shall wrest.
Man’s organism is perfect.
To say so will it please
The man whose genome’s riddled
With Parkinson’s Disease,
Who, born no malice harboring,
Nor ailed by own design,
To loathsome retardation
Ambition must resign?
Ask if man’s body’s perfect
The mother in childbirth
From whom a stinging labor
Does drain all rightful mirth,
To love a living offspring
Who must bear horrid pain.
This process is quite perfect.
By proof of sight that’s plain.
Of bodily perfection
Inquire, why do not you,
The man whose instincts urge him
To eat beyond his due,
Whom days of tribal hunting
By passions obsolete
Compel to morph by habit
Into a mound of meat.
Man, as he’s born, is perfect.
The model will agree.
Then you will not her nose
Is off by one degree.
Upon her face a blemish
Her texture does deface.
But she shan’t mend perfection
Nor “Nature’s will” disgrace.
Man’s body is not perfect,
But hope is not all lost.
We still can wield its wonders
And not incur the cost.
Technologies are rising,
In grandeur soar ahead,
To forge in a God’s image,
By fruits of divine head,
A titan free from peril,
Whose limits shall extend
As far as, in his yearning,
His fantasies portend.
