Unearthing the Human Genome

‘The International Human Genome Sequencing Consortium has published its scientific description of the finished human genome sequence, the product of the 13-year effort to read the information encoded in the human chromosomes that reached its culmination in 2003. The paper, which appears in the 21 October issue of the journal Nature, examines the current genome sequence, which contains 2.85 billion nucleotides, encompasses around 99 per cent of the euchromatic (or gene-containing) portion of the human genome and is 99.999 per cent accurate - 10 times more accurate than the original goal. Notably, the predicted total number of genes has fallen to just 22 287: 19 599 known protein-coding genes and a further 2188 sections of DNA predicted to be protein-coding genes. Original estimates of gene number when the draft genome sequence was released were between 30 and 40 000, a figure that was considered surprisingly small. "Only a decade ago, most scientists thought humans had about 100 000 genes. When we analysed the working draft of the human genome sequence three years ago, we estimated there were about 30 000 to 35 000 genes, which surprised many. “This new analysis reduces that number even further and provides us with the clearest picture yet of our genome," said NHGRI Director Francis Collins. "The availability of the highly accurate human genome sequence in free public databases enables researchers around the world to conduct even more precise studies of our genetic instruction book and how it influences health and disease." ‘Finished' doesn't mean that the human genome sequence is perfect. There still remain 341 gaps in the finished human genome sequence, in contrast to the 150 000 gaps in the working draft…’ Wellcome Trust Sanger Institute, 2004

Unearthing the Human Genome

Invading the sacredness of someone else’s bedroom top drawer -
women’s skin-powder dust, perfume ghosts; jewellery casualties
in gorgeous little velvet coffins, intestinal beads spilled, the blind

rings with lost eyes; brooches still pinning granny’s face - crippled,
bloody lipsticks, ancient silk limpening at the heart of lace - button
amputees clinging hopefully to threads, so desperate to feel needles

again in those aching holes, be re-united with dead mother garments.
The keys that haunt everybody – (if only we could find all the things
they open, close; the world - our lives, would be easier to understand).

Maybe tickets for a show – a boat, castle, years ago. Love words
and poems bleeding black and blue through skinny yellow paper;
cheesy souvenir thimble, horrible ribbon bows from forced necks

of momentous flowers - loud scarves slithering, slowly coming back
into fashion; pills for a forgotten illness with illegible doctor’s script,
safety-pins a-waiting sartorial danger; all these odd things washed up

from a life into the drawer, as sand passively takes all-comers – not
asking why, what for, just lays them out like starfish hands, accepts;
gradually becoming person-spelled, printed, like church icons slowly

growing holy. Imagine invading the sacredness of an egg, without
smashing, sawing, slicing. Think of the shape, perfect inviolability,
except for butting sperm inveigling mammal egg, promising cargo,

half-written letter by special delivery; the letterbox opening, healing,
as new life writes on the seemingly empty page - but magic happens,
lemon-juice writing, cocktail-shaking, spinning – an automaton body

making itself as mystery and grace hover like the breath of a lake;
halo, light anchored in a shining object - knowing skin boundaries
but not of them. The rooted, composted, whirring of letters shifting,

reforming - machine-knitting original patterns but incorporating still
Cable, Fair Isle, Turtle Neck. Patiently designing tiger fur, Einstein’s
brain, kingfisher wing, apple-belly; how to print love in a living eye.

*

Even beneath Plasticine’s pliable body -
before coming into warm moulding hands,

nimble fingers, multiple elastic fate;
mutability, passive form - material

at the heart of soft molecule,
to the inner nature of supple.

Even under thin star bones,
stuff of bone, white fibre -

to softness, cloud bone,
scaffold idea of bone -

white bone dream;
it is dark there -

everything unrealised, present -
like the absent breath of a ghost

inhabiting a prickling, cold room -
innocence of a black light switch

wired at the start of time -
where air is still dark space.

Now torches, spotlights shining
on the Genome’s many hearts -

all knowing in their history
each other’s beats and wars;

each one mother, son, sister, brother,
daughter to the other; genetic family,

the communal products of adaptation,
even collation of wrong information -

molecular meltdown, struggle and disease;
but always correcting or die in the attempt.

Always printing and editing - creating fantastic
patterns, chains; labour and success, developing

engineering, embroidering beauty; more
and more dazzling chemistry, creativity –

the tools of love, heart mechanics;
operation of eyes, hands blooming.

Like the tinkering watchmaker removing
the back, seeing unmistakeable artistry -

the mark, signature; instantly
knowing the maker’s name.