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.