Universe

A poem on etymology

Dante was still on my mind when this poem took shape, and perhaps I am paying homage to him in some small way by employing his method of using poetry to both examine and make art out of metaphysical inquiry. Tolkien, too was there, though that’s more typical—he is essentially ever-present for me (or, as the kids say, he lives rent free). His interest in etymology is one I share, though I couldn’t hold a candle to his expertise on the subject. Anyhow, in the company of these great figures I’ve found myself pondering more than usual the phenomenon of how the word ‘universe’ is used and understood in this secular age.

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Universe

It is one, unique,
and a turning, a transformation.
The etymology website tells me this—the same one
my brother used to read like a novel 
back in the good-old days
when this discoverable, adventure-novel world
held a person I could turn to for anything. 
More recently, a professor offered a version I like far better—
it is one, unique,
and a verse, a canticle.
One song—a hymn to be chanted or sung
in praise. Something made with a voice.
The universe—a line of poetry
made of breath and music. 
Perhaps Tolkien, who became
my advisor in adulthood's void, 
liked this version, for a world 
born of song was his sub-creation. 
Now we invoke, appropriately, a new meaning,
stealing in like cowbirds to lay our hopes 
in someone else’s nest. I, too, have
poured out this libation—universe,
in the accepted deception, groping and grasping 
at the cool shrouded roots below 
the blazing branches, an imbuing 
voice, a single, round syllable 
opening and filling—
God.

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