It rains here and now.
It rains on the possible fat men in that doorway.
It rains in the desert.
It rains in the jungle.
It rains in the holes.
It rains in the shadows.
It rains vaguely here, with a fuzzy edge to the drops.
The colours of the rainbow shade into each other,
But on the whole we can tell one from another.
We universally hate the rain.
We mutter under our breath about rain.
It does not rain in every possible world.
Just in the actual one, here and now.
It rains on the concrete.
It rains on the objects.
It’s hard to determine why.
God help us zombies.
Home » Metaphysics, a poem
Buy an umbrella.
When did you move to Seattle?
It rained here as well, and now the cranes migrate southward. Shouldn’t that mean spring for your location and a happy shower rather than melancholy drizzle?
I never metaphysic I didn’t like.
Take up gardening, you’ll sometimes pray for rain, sometimes curse it.
It’s all just an illusion.
An old one you may find pleasing. Modern translation is often just given as goose so it is somewhat easy to miss.
I have news for you:
The stag bells,
Summer has gone;
Wind high and cold,
The sun low,
Short its course
The sea running high;
Deep red the bracken
Its shape lost,
The wild goose has
Raised its accustomed cry;
Cold has seized
The birds’ wings
Season of ice
This is my news.
ro gab gnáth
translated above as ‘the wild goose has raised its accustomed cry’
I prefer ‘usualness has taken hold of the barnacle goose call’
ro-gab (take hold) gnáth (customary/usual)
giugrann (wild goose/ barnacle goose) guth (cry/call)
I am rather fond of it.
Swap some of our drought for some of your rain.
Zombies do not feel the rain, but act exactly as if they do.
We who are men cannot tell zombies by how they react to the rain.
Neither can zombies, and they act exactly as if they cannot.
Comments are closed.