Here are a couple more poems that I’ve generated. They’re both a bit sad. The first reflects on something very important to me, that is the issue of truth, and its paramount importance above all other things. The second looks at the nature of identity, finding it vanishing in both the macrocosm and the microcosm.
Can we know truth?
Some lay claim to be its guardians, but,
Regardless of whether their truth is born
Of divine revelation, philosophy or of
Reason, they ban dissent. But at least
They value truth.
Some decry it, deny it, say it doesn’t
Matter, that there are much fitter gods to serve.
They fear the truth.
I know that I can have no other mistress.
I know that if forced to choose between truth and
Anything else, truth always will be my choice.
But my truth is that of an ill mind
And finds no takers.
I am so large, my body is made out of
Hundreds of millions of millions of tiny cells,
Each one a living thing all on its own.
And each of them is made of just as many
Atoms, which further subdivide into
Electrons, protons, neutrons, quarks, gluons,
And, at the heart, a string, maybe a piece
Of pure quintessence. I am not in these,
Or in the atoms, or even the cells
That make the body that I call myself.
I am nowhere. When I look for me, I vanish.
I am so small, one of sixty million
On an island, in a continent, on a planet we call Earth,
The home of six thousand million people.
And Earth is only one of eight, nine, eight
Planets spinning round a star, the Sun,
Just one of hundreds of thousand millions of stars
Within the Milky Way, and it
Is one galaxy in a universe in which
Galaxies outnumber all the grains of sand
On all the beaches I played on as a child.
I am not there, the universe would still
Continue much unchanged if I, if all I know,
If Earth, if Sun, if Milky Way were ended.
And yet my mind encompasses all these things:
I can see myself as a colossus or a speck,
And even dimly comprehend the infinite.
And so I rehearse to myself each day,
This list of reasons for my non-existence.