poems by Jim Murdoch

Found among Erwin Schrödinger’s papers after his death

I

Poetry can be

in black and white and yet not

be black and white.

*

There comes a point when

you can see there is no point,

at which point you stop.

*

The cat in the box

was thinking outside the box

of other boxes.

*

Why a cat? you ask.

Because spherical cows are

so hard to come by.

*

Why a box? Because

someone kept letting the cat

out of the damn bag.

*

The cat is a ghost.

There’s no other solution.

It’s so obvious.

II

I’m wondering how

Wittgenstein’s beetle’s doing.

Maybe I’ll phone him.

*

Always the show off

Dyson couldn’t use a box

like the rest of us.

*

Of course, it was just

a matter of time before

Einstein jumped on board.

*

And then came Newcomb.

Why didn’t I think of that?

A transparent box!

 

 

 

Immaterial Evidence

Proof is not the same as assertion – Neil deGrasse Tyson

 

So here are the facts in evidence.

Thinking, remembering and seeing

all depend on the imagination

to explain our world.

 

The same is true with sensations.

Feeling, intuiting and awarenessing:

all are driven by our emagination

and each enhances our lives.

 

Some ontologists even posit the

existence of a spimagination.

Mostly among the faithful few

and even then, mainly the zealots.

 

But the jury’s out on that last one.

 

 

 

Selfalities

Properly speaking, a man has as many social selves as there are individuals who recognize him and carry an image of him in their head

[William James]

 

There’s more than one me in here.

Me and Myself are sorta in charge.

All the others just come out to play

(let’s stick with play) as and when.

 

All fun and games in here. Identity

is an odd cuss. Pretty easy to lose

yourself if you’re not careful.

 

Actually, I’m not sure if Yourself is

one of mine.

 

 

 

Truthiness

… is what you want the facts to be as opposed to what the facts are. What feels like the right answer as opposed to what reality will support.

[Stephen Colbert]

 

Truth is, most of the time,

a compromise, a settling, the outcome of

a negotiation, conversation or squabble:

that’ll do, that’s truthy enough.

 

We think this is something new,

something those dang Americans dreamt up

and the rest of us are playing catch-up

but that is far from the case.

 

Truth™, as most of us now understand it,

has, frankly, always been a bit flaky but

it markets itself well and it doesn’t hurt

that God is on the board of directors.

 

Slap a banana label on an apple

and most people will concur,

it’s not a pear,

but that’s as far as they’ll go

 

and even then

a part of them will still swear blind

they can taste the banana.

 

 

 

Optional footnote

 

The ester isoamyl acetate is the major contributor to the characteristic “banana” flavour and aroma. It is also present in various other fruits, including apples. The Bisbee Red Delicious, has been reported to contain up to 0.043% of isoamyl acetate in its volatile compounds which is more than any banana cultivar (0.2 – 0.4%).

 

 

 

Taxophilia

It’s not the destination, it’s the journey

[Ralph Waldo Emerson]

 

Every day he begins again. With the things.

Always the things. Arranging the things.

Order, however, is not the goal.

The process is. Always was.

 

Same with writing.

 

I get Grand now, I do.

Some bloke writing variations

of the same sentence

over and over again.

 

Writing would be so much easier

(and satisfying) if we arranged words,

say, by alphabetical order, by length,

by part of speech or by syllable count.

 

But not meaning.

 

The problem with arranging words by meaning

is proximity; proximity changes meaning.

You see, words need their personal space.

They’re surrounded by a gravitational field—

 

or magnetic, or maybe it’s metaphysical—

either way, words attract other words

and the closer they get

the less like themselves they become.

 

Words take on a life of their own.

Things not so much.

That’s their beauty.

Their simplicity and complicity.

 

 

 

Optional footnote

 

Ataxophobia is an extreme, irrational and surprisingly common fear of disorder or untidiness. Logic, therefore, would dictate that taxophilia would be a love of order.

poems by Jim Murdoch

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