Scientific Methodology: Poetic Method

"Science should be poetry, and poetry science."

Para-phrased:

"Science is the organized, systematic enterprise that gathers knowledge about the world and condenses the knowledge into testable laws and principles,"

“Likewise with independent investigations, the same phenomenon is sought.”

1.) Fundamentally, to be known, trusted, retold and in order to be 

added as ammunition to the cannon, revolving on the poetic or scientific roster,

we need more than one (time), we need repetition (in science), practice and reproduction (imagination and readymades), and so on, and so on…

2.) the economy, indeed, it is most necessary.

I wholeheartedly agree, employing a simultaneity

of elegance and condensery-ing less into more, more or less...

(i.e. the largest amount of information with the least amount of effort)

Yes, go on.

3.) Strength, the virility, most importantly,

must be consistent in some-such-way,

creating a co-mensuration between 

not bang and emergence,

fourth, and forth.

4.) The spewing of more than we knew we had.

The best of which inspires the search for more.

And finally-fifthly

5.) Consilience, he says, is the one way to be

profound with words.

Experimental,

science and art shared the words

methodology and madness,

we have seen 

the singularity as abstract art. 

The weight 

of the line

was the same.
A ton of feathers
still won't fly without direction.

(based on the book ‘Consilience, The Unity of Knowledge’ by E.O. Wilson pg. 58)

Drawing By Wilson, E.O. (1985). "Ants From the Cretaceous and Eocene Amber of North America". Psyche: A Journal of Entomology 92 (2–3): 205–216. DOI:10.1155/1985/57604. (Psyche: A Journal of Entomology) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Symbolography in Sakura

People think it says my name.
I forget that it is there,
not seeing it the way others do-
it says Unity,
anyway.

Signs you say...
it was the pine that drew me here.
The smell, the sap was worth all the needles,
it gave me something to do
as a conifer.

The creek out back, back at home was the gate,
outside.
There were no bears there
despite the name given.

Summer rains are sad it is said,
but how a monsoon is cleansing
and out of character,
it is welcoming.

And I agree, the cherry blossoms do resemble sunset clouds,
or blushing cheeks,

“searching the wind

the hawks cry

in the shape of its beak” said John Knight

follow my calligraphy

do you know the inference

“The sparrow hops,

Along the veranda

With wet feet.” (in Spring)

A fisherman, a nun,
the snow, years past,

the pattern of the iris

and blood stain of cherries
are simply symbologies
and not to fear.

When I was a little person
my grandfather used to make me climb his rickety old ladder

to pick the bulging bunches of bing cherries
from the neighbors' tree

which hung liberally

over the fence.

Good fences make good neighbors, he would smile casually.

He also read Frost to me.

My grandmother would watch me from the kitchen window
clutching her hot black cup of coffee

staining a fake bone china cup

showing her dentures in propped open way, 

her name was Pearl.

Lately, the murders have caught my eye,

and I noticed how they prefer the pines.

Reeds and ginger,

even a shiny new Gold Medallion

are futile flora for them,
they mock my gestures in watering.

All the while, the falcon still
stalks the tiny ficus dwellers,

the cats watch back intently.

Tenacious,

I have not given up either-

even when my thoughts remain stained
with disease like Worry.

Thankfully, the summer rain washes all the blood off the driveway,
he succeeds

tiny under feathers fly low as

cherry juice runs by in a river
where I stand.

The crows cry out

my name, blaming the mockingbirds
fortune on the falcon, my fault.

It all sounds the same,
sole(less)ness, a cumulus,
one cymbal marks the end. 

Painting by Frank Nuderscher, Cherry Blossoms (1914) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A Release from Sext

In the afternoon
I hate myself most
garishly, as all
nerves frayed
with split ends, all noise
nails rubbing slate
I'm tired (of myself).

By then-Between us
at least, there is space
room to know that
it is not the nadir
obstructed with sunny optimism
what Others see, outside of me.

In silence, I seek serenity
I try-I appropriate-I displace
I operate-surgically, extracting-
a locality no longer near.
I sense us coming together,
a second in passing.
I pretend not to recognize
myself anymore.

When the skylights dim
my movements are lighter;
feathered words, pillowed prepositions,
untether thoughts,
the contrast crispens.
Finally,tension snapped-symmetry shatters,
I am now freed from my toxic unity.


Image by Hans Andersen Brendekilde [Public domain], A wooded path in Autumn (1902) via Wikimedia Commons.

Eyeless in Gaza PII: The Peaces of the Pi per Aldous Huxley

The following is a passage cited from the novel "Eyeless in Gaza", by Aldous Huxley (p.471,72) which I have also (see PI) converted into a poem for its natural prosaic eloquence on immaterial matters such as attempting to describe "peace".

United in peace.
In peace,
he repeated,
in peace, in Peace.
In the depth of every mind,
Peace
The same space for all,
continuous between
mind and mind
At the surface,
the separate waves,
the whirlpools, the spray;
but below them
the continuous and undifferentiated expanse of the sea,
becoming calmer
as it
deepens,
till at last there is an absolute stillness...

Dark peace
in the depths.

A dark peace
that is the same for all who can
descend
to
it.

Peace, that by a strange paradox
is the substance and source of the storm at the surface.

Born of peace,
the waves yet destroy peace; destroy it,
but are necessary;
for without the storm
on the surface
there would be no existence,
no knowledge of goodness,
no effort to allay the leaping frenzy of evil,
no rediscovery of the underlying calm,
no realization that
the substance of the frenzy,
is the same as
the substance of Peace.
Frenzy of evil and separation.
In Peace there is Unity.
Unity with other lives.
Unity with all Being.

Freedom from Truth.
The truth of unity.

Peace in the profound subaqueous night,
Peace in this silence,
this still emptiness
where there is no more time,
where there are no more images,
no more words...


Image of painting by Marcus Larson (1825-1864) "Stormy Sea" (1857) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Eyeless in Gaza PI: The Theoretical Unity of Aldous Huxley

"8th Root of Unity"

Image By MarekSchmidt (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

The following is a passage cited from the novel "Eyeless in Gaza", by Aldous Huxley (p.467,68) which I have converted into a poem for its elegance in deciphering the properties, proportions, perspective(s) on the concept of Unity (as a whole/hole). 

The unity of life.

Unity demonstrated even in the destruction of one life by another.

Life and all being are one.

Otherwise

No living thing could derive sustenance

from another 

Or from the unliving substances 

around it.

One

(even in destruction),

One

(in spite of separation).

Each organism is unique.

Unique and yet

United

with all other organisms

in the sameness of its ultimate parts;

Unique above

a substratum of mental identity.

Identity and Interchangeableness

of Love, Trust, Courage.

Fearless affection 

restores the lunatic to sanity,

transforms the hostile savage into a friend,

tames the wild animal.

The mental pattern of Love 

can be transferred from one mind to another

and still

retain its virtue...

And not only Love,

but Hate as well:

not only Trust, but suspicion;

not only kindness, generosity and Courage,

but also

malevolence and greed and fear.

Reality of unity,

but equal reality of division-

greater reality, indeed,

of division.