POEM: THE TEMPERATURE OF THE UNIVERSE

The Temperature

of the Universe

The temperature of the universe,

at birth, on par was fair.

Now to put it mildly

it gives us quite the scare.

There are those who claim a cooling

while others a great thaw.

And some proclaim we’re perched upon

hell’s frozen, burning maw.

But time's an adolescent,

awkward and full of cheek,

and won’t decide which clothes to wear

from beginning to mid-week.

Thus with chills and fevers

and acne all around,

space and time are muddied up.

(That’s hardly so profound.)

...

But while gravity holds, we still cling,

tethered by our pasts,

And pray that in the time ahead

equilibrium lasts.

OKAY. I WAS BROWSING THROUGH MY OEUVRE, today and I came across this poem which had a picture of my father, I think dating from the late 1950s or early 60s. I did such a brilliant job of Photoshopping it, I will have to drill down into my picture archives to discover the original to know for sure, but I don’t want to go through them now. It may have been taken at the “old house” which we always referred to as being on “Charing Cross Road”, on the outskirts of Chatham, but the actual CCR (not the band!) was several miles further on.

     Again, this poem dates from the early aughts of this problematic new century of ours, and it is a bit of a surprise for me to read it after all this time. The text has this ‘cosmic’ scope to it—all about the universe and the elemental forces that shape our existence. Yet I have this—I think humorous—image of time as an awkward adolescent. What am I trying to convey here? That compared to the universe and its processes, our human conception of time is juvenile? (Well...duh, dude!) That our understanding ‘of it all’ is as limited as that which can be articulated from the confused brain of a hormonally-deranged teenager? There is the suggestion that space and time are “muddied up”; because of our acne-ridden, teenage Time.

     The poem ends with the speaker hoping things won’t…what? Explode? Disappear? And just as long as that other elemental force, gravity, still operates, some balance or “equilibrium” can be maintained. The idea of memories, of being “tethered”, or safely anchored or secured to the past is an image that I find very comforting just now. Without memories we are, in a sense, without time, and that’s a rather discombobulating thought for anyone.

     When I see this photograph of my father, obviously clowning for the camera, happy, healthy and young(ish!), I don’t know whether I want to cry or to take his hand. But one thing I know for sure: I could always judge the temperature of the universe—to the nth degree—by his warmth.