Make magic here on Earth...

I came across this poem while listening to the Astrology Hub Podcast.

Here it is. By Rick Merlin Levine.

“Radios”

Planets talk;

their cosmic discourse

determines the fate

of vulnerable babes;

 

Each armed with a few trillion tiny cellular receptors

 

Each cell with its calibrated micro-antennae

tuned into the emptiness

of deep space

and infinite time.

 

Planets talk;

their discordant orbital harmonies

shout with power of Wagner,

resonate with intensity of Stravinsky,

chant with the mystery of Grieg,

orchestrate with the majesty of Tchaikovsky,

vibrate with the magic of chanting Gyuto monks.

 

Planets talk;

their spherical vibrations

pulsate ultra-low frequencies of life;

electromagnetic waves

broadcast unique moments

of patterned universality,

while mysterious, invisible rays

from omnipresent space and time

make magic here on Earth.

 

Meanwhile, with naive determination

I carefully disassemble my radio

looking for the music inside;

 

Frustration builds

for I find only pieces of mechanical things.

I cannot find even one tiny shred of evidence

of the wondrous symphony

that moments before

came from within this plastic shell.

 

Printed circuits of resistors and capacitors,

semiconductors, and wires:

these magical artifacts offer no clues;

 

This electro-mechanical universe

is not a map that points the way

to the magic of song.

 

Elsewhere, with the very same determination

scientists dissect animals

looking for the source of life,

and take apart the human mind

searching for the phantom captain,

while the obvious truth

is staring us in the face:

 

Life is everywhere

and consciousness does not

originate within the brain.

 

Plants and animals are bioradios

optimized to receive the broadcasts of life;

our nervous systems

are energy transformers;

our electro-chemical brains

are organic televisions,

each playing its own variation

of the inter-planetary music of the spheres,

each playing its unique pattern

of cosmic consciousness.

 

When the radio breaks

the broadcast station

does not go off the air.

poetryTamara Shmidtpoetry