Language Abhors a Vacuum
You say, An empty room - my mind
Sees skirting boards, a light bulb, dust
Thats how it goes; when we use words,
All Nothings gain a Something crust.
Yet humans have a stubborn urge
To get at utter Nothingness,
And grasp for the unsayable
With various kinds of unsuccess.
Gaunt bright-eyed mystics long to find
A Nothing words can never reach,
But when theyve glimpsed their zero state
Can only tell us so in speech.
The modernist who hates the cosy
Rips a hole within his text,
But the more loose ends he leaves
The more a weaving mind connects.
Our language is a social thing,
Joins us, and steers us from the void
Till thoughts of Nothing come to nought
(Which leaves philosophers annoyed,
But Mr Practicals unfussed;
He speaks the things that can be said,
And maybe cheerfully points out
That well know Nothing when were dead.)
This poem was composed after hearing a lecture on Re...creation from No...thing by Rob Pope.
If you've any comments on this poem, George Simmers would be pleased to hear from you.