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Poem-A-Day

Poem-a-Day is the original and only daily digital poetry series featuring over 200 new, previously unpublished poems by today's talented poets each year. On weekdays, poems are accompanied by exclusive commentary by the poets. The series highlights classic poems on weekends. Launched in 2006, Poem-a-Day is now distributed via email, web, and social media to 350,000+ readers free of charge and is available for syndication by King Features.

Evolution

Recorded for Poem-a-Day, February 11, 2016.
About this Poem 

“Three years ago, while living in London, I saw an exhibition at the Science Museum on Alan Turing’s life—his work as a decoder in World War II, his persecution as a homosexual, his death by cyanide at forty-four. Although the focus of Turing’s work was not evolution, he did ask how the symmetrical cell could become the asymmetrical being.  When I found myself asking similar questions about Turing’s personal evolution, my poem took shape.”
—Linda Bierds

Evolution

Linda Bierds

How, Alan Turing thought, does the soft-walled,
jellied, symmetrical cell
become the asymmetrical horse? It was just before dusk,
the sun’s last shafts doubling the fence posts,
all the dark mares on their dark shadows. It was just
after Schrodinger’s What is Life,
not long before Watson, Franklin, Crick, not long before
supper. How does a chemical soup,
he asked, give rise to a biological pattern? And how
does a pattern shift, an outer ear
gradually slough its fur, or a shorebird’s stubby beak
sharpen toward the trout?
He was halfway between the War’s last enigmas
and the cyanide apple—two bites—
that would kill him. Halfway along the taut wires
that hummed between crime
and pardon, indecency and privacy. How do solutions,
chemical, personal, stable, unstable,
harden into shapes? And how do shapes break?
What slips a micro-fissure
across a lightless cell, until time and matter
double their easy bickering? God?
Chance? A chemical shudder? He was happy and not,
tired and not, humming a bit
with the fence wires. How does a germ split to a self?
And what is a—We are not our acts
and remembrances, Schrodinger wrote. Should something
God, chance, a chemical shudder?—
sever us from all we have been, still it would not kill us.
It was just before dusk, his segment
of earth slowly ticking toward night. Like time, he thought,
we are almost erased by rotation,
as the dark, symmetrical planet lifts its asymmetrical cargo
up to the sunset:  horses, ryegrass—
In no case, then, is there a loss of personal existence to
     deplore
marten, whitethroat, blackbird,
lark—nor will there ever be.

Copyright © 2016 Linda Bierds. Used with permission of the author.

Copyright © 2016 Linda Bierds. Used with permission of the author.

previous poems

datesort ascending title author
January 21, 2016 Palo Borracho Chip Livingston
January 20, 2016 Degrets Anselm Berrigan
January 19, 2016 Of Shock Nicole Cooley
January 18, 2016 Prayer Nathan Parker
January 18, 2016 Prayer Nathan Parker
January 17, 2016 Sea Violet H. D.
January 16, 2016 To Hope Charlotte Smith
January 15, 2016 Larrea Louise Mathias
January 14, 2016 Imaginary Morning Glory C. D. Wright
January 13, 2016 Blue Vase Cynthia Zarin

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