We never learn by Marcel Herms
Ryan the Choreographer by Terry Chipp
One day historians will delineate the eras
before and after the pandemic. They will
record 2020 as the year Enlightenment’s
crown slipped and Science became a ‘hoax’.
Galileo would commiserate with virologists
over rejection of reason, remonstrate with
politicians for overwriting fact with fiction.
Death rides a pale horse, blotting out
the sun. Mourning reigns, the sound of it
echoes in our bones. We are hollow
women and men. Even as earth’s ragged
claws claim souls we love, we are divided
in competing kingdoms. Millions of eyes
closed, and still deniers die, ‘hoax’ written
on their lips. Ignorance is a circle of hell.
In the Land of the Free, Enlightenment
recedes to the Middle Ages. Justices restore
preeminence to theocracy, Science quashed,
five to four; assembly of the devout legally
rendered more important than public health.
The wealth of knowledge gleamed from five
centuries deemed ‘elitist’ by a minority
whose reality is insular. We never learn
that progress will fail us; that on dark nights,
rational thought devolves into a fear of wolves
and conspiracy outruns the light.
— Gayle J. Greenlea
(We Never Learn)
Isolation splits those not suited to the state in two; multiple beings
Terrified of vague notions
Lips smudged and dripping, drowning in (self) imposed silence
Technically speaking, sooner or later, the unsuitable subjects realise: They have the power to lessen isolation’s weight
But, well, they never do seem to learn
(Ryan the Choreographer)
Artistic interpretation, a celebration
Of creativity, awarded and supported
Breathtaking, attention seeking
Exceeding all expectation
this is a lie
We never learn
Repetition beyond comprehension,
squirrels digging new holes
for old acorns, bark
beneath my hands, pushing
through relentless tangle of thicket,
fox vine, bramble and scrub oak
fans of palmetto, pines
eventually there is a road
for more houses,
as if anyone should live here
Gulf ever simmering
ready to reclaim
what was always
just a sandbar
:: isolation ::
the things were in the cubby
where he climbed and chucked them
sat in the doorway smiling
i took his photograph
which went to exhibition
now we are in isolation
so where is the difference?
a younger rock formation isolated among older rocks
someone who moves differently to others.
an exercise in the way to view the world.
we are all
as much as this is said
this performance can do with quite an improvement
Ryan the choreographer
Body fluid, motion
carried through flesh,
restless creatures, wind
coils up the framework
of bone, sinew, what floats
from fingertips is the crest
of a wave not yet collapsed
on itself, when he moved
there is the taste of sea,
hard corner of a building
an echo of people talking
down the street
a window opens
a woman sings
Get me out of this frame
I gotta count the beat
don’t box me in
when there’s a chance to dance
I’m callin’ the steps
eyes up jazz hands
slide to the side
with a shoulder lean
with a Harlem shake
and a whip/nae nae
Give me something I can do,
a task to make me feel useful,
valued; give me the one thing
I have ever been taught to use.
Let my hands take that tool
and wield it, the spanner
that unbolts the sky.
He’s a cool guy
a bit of a skip to the beat guy
shopping for denim and trainers –
a look at my threads type of guy.
He’s a counter, a mapper.
Listing moves to the grooves
sort of guy; popping and locking
breakdance and boogaloo.
He’s dancing in the street.
WE NEVER LEARN
Hear the meaning
not the words.
Let knowledge unfold.
Care for it
as if a fledgling bird.
Be here for now,
not before or ever after.
For in a time of
all is in
a state of flux.
© Dai Fry 26 November 2020.