I’m concerned about the black hole recently photographed – I’ve just planted my first early potatoes. I’m always anxious about singularities and such. Some years ago I was moved to compose this:
FIFTEEN POINTS FOR THE END OF THE UNIVERSE
How would it be if all this collapsed into a singularity?
Will W.B. Yeats’ tombstone be ripped from the Sligo earth to whirl through time into unspeakably compressed blackness, calling out as it goes:
“Cast a cold Eye
On Life, on Death.
Horseman pass by.”
The lines of migrating geese, where would they go in Autumn?
And Carlos Williams’ white chickens finally bereft of the red wheelbarrow……
Will there be puffs of smoke from the Vatican? And what colour will they be?
When God rings up, who will answer the phone?
Will it ring in the Vatican or on the Rabbi’s desk in Jerusalem?
Or will some mullah break off in mid rant to grab his mobile?
Will that funny black thing in Mecca begin to speak and will it say:
“I’ve been out to lunch, is something happening?”
What would happen to the Queen’s underclothes, hung out to dry, on lines, in secret places?
Should we put the jam in the fridge and give a final check to the humane mouse traps?
Should we have a bell five minutes beforehand, and after we have eaten all the chocolate?
Would Tony Blair speak unto us one last sound-bite, telling us “it will all turn out for the best“?
Would the Americans switch off the lights?
Will we be interested when the missing weapons of mass destruction start going off, deep in caves in the Hindu Kush?
What will be the last poem? Will it be any good?
And how will the ewe, down by the loch, find her lamb?
Harry Nicholson June 2004 Loch Voil
Pen, actually. But a pan may work, as well.
Thank you, Jeff. Both are welcome.
You have the poet’s magic, Harry. A wave of your pan and wonderful things appear.