Requiem for Genius Lost
Let me join my voice to
that which forgot the cult of genius,
that was not so disturbed
by mystery of genius known and
worshipped by the world,
but genius lost and never heard,
forgotten before it could
be remembered by its ignorant kind.
Forsooth, the books of
history filled by ought by half million
of men and women who
rewrote the world, who answered
questions on different
terms asked, who beyond the cotton-
field they tread saw the
depths of earth and heights of sky.
And they knew what the
angels are privy to: what orbit
doth the sun-star make
round the singularity of space, what
force doth well replace
the yoke of beast and men. They
knew how to planet’s tug
escape, and sing a new song of praise.
But instead, a
hundred-fraction is remembered today, their
ideas found by many long
before, but whose voice was
silenced by the maurader
and master who looked no more
than lifespan ahead – and
denied them speech of written work.
What was writ was burned,
what was spake unheard went.
Yet if it were instead,
consider what leaps we would have made:
not our fathers, but ten
generations ago a man would have stepped
on moon’s face, and our
fathers would have seen far-lit suns already.
But instead we ask again,
and search for answers found, imagined.
Even today, the call to bring
humanity into age falls on deaf ears,
far away from the slave in
sweatshop that dreams of flight amidst
the stars, and consoles
self with song known only to herself.
Silent sybils, muted
truthspeakers: with thine light so hidden
hides the nature of our
dark universe, of our dark and forgotten
future. But I lift the
bowl a bit, make thine multitude known
and present, before thy
brilliance by smoke suffused, dies.
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