July 29: "The Centrifuge," Wonder, Wow Poems

Billy Collins writes a poem for physicists . . .

The Centrifuge

by: Billy Collins

It is difficult to describe what we felt

after we paid the admission,

entered the aluminum dome,

and stood there with out mouths open

before the machine itself,

what we had only read about in the papers.

Huge and glistening it was

but bolted down and giving nothing away.

What did it mean?

we all openly wondered,

and did another machine exist somewhere else--

an even mightier one--

that was designed to be its exact opposite?

These were not new questions,

but we asked them earnestly and repeatedly.

Later, when we were home again--

a family of six having tea--

we raised these questions once more,

knowing that this made us part

of a great historical discussion

that included science

as well as literature and the weather

not to mention the lodger downstairs,

who, someone said,

had been seen earlier leaving the house

with a suitcase and a tightly furled umbrella.

Wonder comes in many shapes and sizes.  Collins' poem is about visiting a humanmade wonder--a centrifuge housed in a huge aluminum dome.  Of course, anything created by humankind can be distorted and abused in the name of progress.  Splitting the atom was an amazing feat, unlocking all kinds of scientific possibilities.  Unfortunately, it also led to the Cold War and nuclear arms race.  See what I mean?

Today, I went for a hike with some artists and writers.  My good friend, poet Cindy Hunter Morgan, is in town to do a poetry reading and lead writing workshop at the library.  So, we decided to head out to Dead River Falls for a little exercise and sightseeing.  Basically, we were on the hunt for some natural wonders.

It was in the low 90s for temperatures, and the forest was so green it almost hurt to look at it.  The Dead River was running strong, and insects were chewing the air with buzzing.  The path we followed was a little challenging at times, but nobody in our hiking party fell or got injured, including an 85-year-old poet friend who put us all to shame, climbing the rocks and roots like Edmund Hillary on the slopes of Everest.  

And we encountered wonders--beautiful vistas of churning waters and lush evergreens, huge knuckles of tree roots, striated stones slick with mist and foam.  It took my breath away and made me want to sit down and write some poetry.  I could imagine Bob Ross setting up his easel on the banks of the Dead River and painting some happy little accidents.

That is the reason I'm a poet.  I'm addicted to wonder.  Yes, I know the science behind ecosystems, how tannins turn water brown and hematite mottles rocks and boulders.  But, first and foremost, it's all about looking at things wide-eyed, not searching for explanations all the time.  Poems express a lot of emotions and ideas, but the poems I love the most are "wow" poems--ones that capture amazement, awe, and wonder.

Saint Marty had a lot of "wow" moments today.