I wonder to what degree scientists require a poet.
I’ve watched the entire movie Contact, that runs two and a half hours, just for the moment Ellie says, ‘They should have sent a poet.’
It must be difficult to know so much and remain who you know yourself to have been—to know you are primitive but not how primitive you are, to come home after experiencing something you had never dreamed or imagined or prayed could be true and people just don’t believe you, see you or even really seem to need you.
Cyclical nature, psychical nature, physical nature, and spiritual nature make up a poet’s flesh and bones; among death and other things; nature outside ourselves are what sombre poets long for, their joys are completed by these ‘others,’ they are what poets feel missing in themselves and which they seek out; ‘others,’ outsiders, weirdos, are the predominant reason poets live & die at all.
That there is more beyond what is known and more than can ever be conceived! To dream and it not suffice! To reach and know that reaching is but vanity and vice!!