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Chance and Geometry

Chance and Geometry

There is a sense that all
the magic has fled us.
Weber says that intellectualisation and
rationality mean
that there are no mysterious,
incalculable forces
that come into play,
but rather that one can- in principle-
‘master all things by calculation.’

How could we think that we prefer
our own puny calculations
(So devoid of real data,
So luminously ignorant)
to that lash of random, beautiful Chance,
the sting of incalculable, mysterious forces
that care so little about our outcomes
except to spice up the narrative?

I ‘m sure i want more meaning than
an equation of
pros and cons, good and evil
the right man at the wrong time
the wrong man at the right time,
but
all my silly femininities and lost causes
blast away at the foundations
of my careful construction.

Yes, I thought I’d
mastered all things by calculation,
added and subtracted
my failures and successes,
weighed up the possible outcomes,
come up with a sum
I could live with...
Tidy sums.
isosoles triangles
E=mc 2.

This morning finds me once again
on my knees in the floor laughing or crying
for want of the mysterious
that once guided my life so
deftly.
God or
Love or
Destiny. I’ll admit it,
I’m addicted to Chance.
‘Fuk it’ I pray.
Fervently.

Unwilling to let the decisions
make themselves or
throw up my hands in the face of the undeniable
truth
that
you don’t love me
anymore.
Let the devil have his 10 minutes of fame
where the consequences of my loving you
fall fully across my back.
‘40 lashes save one’

isn't’ that the sentence that Jesus took on back
when reason feared the incalculable mysterious?
Whipped like a puppy because
He loved us too much to accept our decisive
‘piss off, Jesus, you’re doing my head in’

(We say, “I mean, He’s a lot of fun at parties, but He’s so intense’
We say, ‘ It’s the way He finds a meaning in every little lie we tell ‘
We say, ‘Hey, lighten up, God, would you? ’)

And when He persistently, insistently
continues to love us,
mercilessly generous
and not caring that we are complete shits;
we kill Him.

He takes about three days to decide
He’s not having it,
uses our brutality to secure
us an eternal life we
never asked for.
Now we owe Him
exactly
what we previously refused
to give Him freely.
So much for calculation.

This morning in my room
I was empty after weeping,
fine as an eggshell, you
could have crushed me with a smile;
remembering how God
warned me that my life was about
to come undone,
asked me if I still wanted an answer to my last
prayer.
(‘heal me or kill me’, i’d prayed back then.
Meaning every word of it)
Boarding that trans-alantic flight was
my ‘Yes’ to Him.

I bared my heart, allowed it to be
sliced wide open with His sabre of Chance,
He watched as the Mysterious ran me down with
this freight train of desire.
for you.
slapped me with this holy stupid Love.
Allowed me my useless hope
founded on misinterpreted prophecies,
left me here where the only deliverer
possible
is the One who let me fall.

Left wondering if He will deliver me
after all
God knows, you aren’t going to.
Well. Fair enough.
I asked for it.
You know as well as I what everything
its cost me,
just as I know how it cost you exactly
what you’d budgeted.

Now comes the healing part:
take this love back, God
-which has neither killed nor healed me,
shown me the light nor given me eternal life -
take it back
along with Chance and Mystery.
Use them for something bigger
if You can.
Because right at this moment
-if You don’t mind-
I’m reconsidering the beauty of
Geometry.

poem by Sarita Brown
Added by Poetry Lover
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