Spring 2013

Edited by ANDREA SPOFFORD | BARRY KITTERMAN | AMY WRIGHT



Poetry

I. Chaos Theory

Christopher Buckley


“The systems that the theory describes are apparently

disordered, but Chaos Theory is really  about finding
the underlying order in apparently random data.”
                                                                          —on-line definition

"there is no such thing
as no such thing"
                   —Dennis Saleh

3.3 billion years ago we caught a break . . .
      bacteria on a meteor falling
from the far side of nowhere splashed down
      (one place much like the next)
and this cosmic ham-bone converted
     our atmosphere to one with
oxygen from one without—all it would be
     our good fortune to breathe
as we eventually crawled out from under
     the rocks and sat around
beneath banana palms and birds of paradise
     formulating philosophies
about the origins of beauty, why there is
     something instead of nothing,
if there is any meaning in meaning, and
     how unlikely it is
that anyone will ever bat over .400 again . . . .
     Even post-Eden, the trees
seemed organized and cooperative as we
     gathered things, looked up, and,
in a range of voices over un-swept savannahs,
     praised and gave thanks beneath
the unstained light of the Corona Borealis
     for Beaujolais and stock
derivatives, stars falling every which way
     across the old hanger dome
of Pangaea—industrial revolution, gold,
     and dust beyond our dreams.

 

Thrown in as a bonus, the invisible glitter-bits
     in the electromagnetic spectrum
unabsorbed and concentrated in the ionosphere,
     reflecting radiation back into space—
and, we only recently realized,  an ozone layer
     on a limited-time offer,
absorbing ultra violet—Thank You very much—
     without which we’d fry like fish
cakes in a skillet, and not one lima bean, lentil,
     or loquat would grow, so hot,
unbeknownst to us, that the planet would lose all
     its water the way Mars did early on,
before we had a snowball’s proverbial chance.
     What luck. As far as it goes,
as long as it lasts. That first astrolabe carved
     from shoulder blades, gauging
our tangential interest in, and long distance relevance to
     the stars, did not divulge
the scaffoldings and strategies, the dimensions at work
     all about and beneath us. 
We were happy, filled in the blanks with good intentions,
     our observations fashioned
largely in the dark, our lungs, working from the bottom up
     as we decided we had something
to prove.  We selected a god, some gods—answers
     weren’t as hard to come by
as iron and fire.  But it seemed a reasonable place to start
     before the continents began
to split apart and we surfed out on the back of time’s
     white and unseen scroll, before
the fellows in Athens began to formulate atomic hypothesis
     and the various reified situations
of the air that would lead us eventually to the unknotted
     tangles of string theory and eleven
dimensions, parallel universes and the probable impossible
      grab bag and jumble of everything.




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