Photosynthesis

To receive rays from the sun, to feel phosphorylation chains 
spiralling out of control, gushing over the membrane-meniscus 
into microscopic pools of pater-noster lakes — this is photosynthesis, 
tripping the circuit with sleight-of-hand, laser-eyes. 
Simone Weil says that the sorrow of being born into this life 
stems from the fact that seeing and eating are not the same thing. 
Only leaves can do that. They derive food from pure contemplation. 
For humans it’s different. Mystics and charlatans try to mimic trees,
living in monasteries with orchards, castles with zoos; 
i.e. tyrannical places of perpetual masturbation. 
Scientists are no better, relying as they do 
on the monopoly money of kings and queens. 
In short, ours is a debased society. We need to hunt. 
We need to kill. We have not evolved the refined  
civilisation of trees that create banquets from nothing.  
Egg-plants and morulas, mangos, papayas, 
cloudberries in grass where the snow has just melted. 
Every globule bristles and bursts with the fruit of electron-spray. 
In the 20th century, the Royal Society received seven hundred 
and twenty-nine patent applications for perpetual mobile machines. 
All failed a simple test: can we make money from these things? 
Only trees have worked it out — putting light together with light. 
What is elegant and simple is infinitely complex. 
Long ago we made a blunder. Oxygen is an odious liquid, 
a poisonous gas, a radiation that destroys the double-helix. 
The Dutch call it zuurstof — bitter-stuff. What a blunder! 
Plants made the right choice. 
Theirs is a truly refined culture. This is why 
contemplating nature almost leads to nourishment. 
But not quite. Simone Weil was right. The sorrow 
of being born stems from the fact that seeing and eating 
are not the same thing. We are a superstitious species — 
we rely on ancient cures; saliva, cobwebs, flames. 
For the error of our ways we continue to make sacrifices,  
we cut out the hearts and livers of our enemies. 
Our human rights are these: I am hungry. I am cold. 
I must kill to stay alive and nature in its mystery 
or humour provides us with an infinite choice of knives.

Laurence O’Dwyer | Contents
Mudlark No. 79 (2024)