Letter to the first poet on Mars

Do not say “red”.
Avoid mention of Ares.
In fact, don’t wax classical
at all.
Keep it simple.
Don’t drink the water.
There isn’t any.
Say there is.
Exaggerate the prospects
for terraforming.
Tell us the weather is nice.
Or, that it will be.
Wish we were there.
Tell us so.
Invent a new word
for red.
Write it.
Make a circle.
Better yet
construct a sphere.
Create a word for gravity
and place it at the center.
Empty the sky of stars.
Give us a proper beginning.
Write: "I’ve reached the summit
of Olympus Mons,”
and, “from this sacred height,
for kilometers in all directions,
I can see no God
who deals in war.”



—
Published in Mimesis 1 (2007)

Sat, Mar 29, 2008  Permanent link

From Alpha Centauri with love

I’d like to write you a message
in hundred-foot high flaming letters.
It would tell you
you no longer needed glasses.
A passing spacecraft might mistake
my words for a signal
that the earth was running out of air
and, though we are very sorry,
there is no safe place for them to land.

If the words were bright enough
they may carry to the edges of the nearest
star, and there split in two.
Observers on Alpha Centauri
interpret it as a dialogue
on the subtle machinations of string theory.
In translation it becomes a bestseller
on Dagobah 7, and is summarily
taken out of print.

When atmospheric lensing distorts my message
you may scrye the meaning
from the warmth of the words
as each letter spreads itself beyond its boundaries
and becomes a wall.

And regardless of what Chinese textbooks tell us
we can see no walls from space.
So, maybe no one knows the words
I write you—maybe no one is looking.
And if they were they would see only a rope
twisting up through clouds—as thin
as silk,
but strong enough to climb.


—

Sat, Mar 29, 2008  Permanent link