My blog has had too little poetry recently. Here is a poem I wrote a few years ago which expresses anxiety about the future and nostalgia for the past, which quite falsely seems more comprehensible and therefore had been more manageable to live through.
Even the cat avoids me when I growl my human growl. Not that I'd hurt her, but she knows that by leaving me alone to my cave, I'll find my better self the sooner. So it is with the codification of living - we foreseee, animals too, the old patterns recurring. A boy will fight back tears after being teased and dog stop worrying the cook because he's sure his moment will come. Being patient isn't easy for pets and children - we smile at how they manage their behaviour so well. Our exploits reach further, may fracture or free us. Heat was essential in order to perform the reduction, charcoal glowed for days as the ore was smelted, gases drifted up and away, or so we thought then. Now, thanks to silicon, we've got 'Hamlet' in binary code, and post-apocalypse it could turn up on a machine or be picked up in space. What will those poor souls make of it? I suppose that's the point about language games - they're moulded by use, burnished by particular worlds. Worlds which are destined to vanish. Worlds we take for granted.