Thursday 1 May 2008

Who Breathed Chemicals into Life

‘But his daily amusement is Chemistry. He has a small furnace, which he employs in distillation and which has long been the solace of his life. He draws oils and waters, and essences and spirits, which he knows to be of no use; sits and counts the drops as they come from his retorot, and forgets that, whilst a drop is falling, a moment flies away.” Idler, Samuel Johnson, 1758

"I shall attack Chemistry, like a Shark”. Samuel Taylor Coleridge

‘In January 2001, scientists… produced complex organic molecules under conditions resembling those which exist in interstellar clouds of gas and dust…which, when immersed in water spontaneously created membraneous structures resembling soap bubbles. All life on earth is based on cells, bags of biological material encased in just this kind of membrane. The implication of this work is that space is filled with chemical compounds which can easily give a kick-start to life if they land in a suitable environment, such as on the surface of the Earth.’ John Gribbin, Stardust: the cosmic recycling of stars, planets and people, Penguin, 2001

Who Breathed Chemicals into Life

Who breathed chemicals into life,
made that art of heart and rose -

process greening leaf,
sugaring siren flower.

Who put owl eyes on butterflies,
what for, or how, came eagles -

flying golden from crumbled dust,
hung burning, crucified with light,

dazzling in dusk’s first purple breath -
why came the twitching red-eyed hare,

his russet fur on fire - rocking madly
into nervous twilight, scattering slow

fat rabbits munching grass at sunset,
rusting in the final scene of evening.

Who caused honeysuckle to exhale,
romancing early moths stumbling

into light and perfume, summer evening’s
warm blue mouth - blur-blue - dim-blue -

gold-blue, rose-blue, navy, black; stoning
the still-blue hours - holding its sugared,

signalled breath, until now - time of bat-
flicker, hoots; of stuttering mice moving

grass blades aside with human fingers -
how can all this be, here, accomplished,

asks the man wearing his chemical suit
of miracles, fabulous embroidery of life;

his own experimental design, gorgeous
body and hair, inhabiting these fingers,

this brain; able to pick, read grain
of wheat or sand - feed, calculate -

admire, plant, dream, philosophise.
Why does the kissing of X and Y -

egg and sperm, do anything at all?
What catalyst comes among us -

to that interior dark, savage sex
of lichen, spore, amoebae, dirt -

bumping into moths, moons, bats,
and honeysuckle; night’s speckled

banners hung shining with ignorant planets,
gossiping clusters milky with fogged light -

humming, searching with storm-lamp mind,
these blind fingertips telling dandelion clock

from child’s hair; but just, for a spark
one is able to imagine looks something

like a bright star -
the touch of light.

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