Galileo Galilei by William Jay Smith

From the 20th c., here's a mysterious thing. What is the writer thinking? Is it just that the name Galileo and his awakening, changing, robe-draped world bring to the writer's mind these strange, almost apocalyptic, images? Or is Galileo the scientist knocking as a voice of reason against the chaos? Chaos it is, confined to form: a steady beat of trochees, creating a haunting but controlled sound.



Galileo Galilei
Comes to knock and knock again
At a small secluded doorway
In the ordinary brain.

Into light the world is turning,
And the clocks are set for six;
And the chimney pots are smoking,
And the golden candlesticks.

Apple trees are bent and breaking,
And the heat is not the sun’s,
And the Minotaur is waking,
And the streets are cattle runs.

Galileo Galilei,
In the flowing, scarlet robe,
While the stars go down the river
With the turning, turning globe.

Kneels before a black Madonna
And the angels cluster round
With their grave, uplifted faces
Which reflect the shaken ground

And the orchard which is burning,
And the hills which take the light;
And the candles which have melted
On the altars of the night.

Galileo Galilei
Comes to knock and knock again
At a small secluded doorway
In the ordinary brain.

(Thanks to my friend Mary H. for telling me about this poem.)

Please knock.