Some physicists say there are really
twenty-six dimensions, but since the Big Bang
the four we know have become incredibly large
and we don’t perceive the other twenty-two.
If they are right, there are many dimensions of time
apart from our familiar rushing,
dragging, nostalgic, painful one. One
for all the time we spend lying in bed
on Monday morning, unable to get up
for work – where does it all go otherwise?
Another for moments of sexual pleasure;
the explorer who first enters this dimension
will never bother returning to tell us. Three
to hold sleep, one for the endless last minutes
of Cup finals when we’re leading one: nil.
One for the wasted aeons that follow young deaths.
As for space: one each for the souls of Christians, Jews,
Muslims and the rest, the ships and aeroplanes
of the Bermuda triangle, lost car keys and socks
eaten by washing machines. There must also be
a place for the Trinity, Virginity,
Plato’s Forms, the Neoplatonic One,
not forgetting Valhalla, Hades, UFOs
and good old movies that are never seen again.
It is easy to lose count, but it is comforting
to know there is a time and a place for everything.
(from Seneca the Spin Doctor, Acumen Publications, 2001)
Poetry, poem, speculative poetry, science fiction poetry, Australian poetry, British poetry
S.C. Flynn 