Men Are Vessels to Hold Knowledge
Men are vessels to hold knowledge, just as
Goldfish are made to drink rivers and seas.
Knowledge enormous is meant for a god.
God to whom all men aspire as they grow
Out their years. Immortal in spirit but
Viral in truth. Man takes – does not replace
Except in that sense where waste is put back.
Stupid, ignorant Man, who thinks that as
Knowledge grows, it makes him God. Only
When that seventh age comes, will he find bliss
Having no mem’ry of the six prev’ous.
At start, the toddler drinks full with his eyes.
All things new he laps up like parch’d puppy
And questions all with impetuous “Why?”
Soon he’s a schoolboy: at first unwilling,
Yet once fed, he gains an appetite.
However, he doth feed too much, too soon,
And after one meal, thinks that he is full
After one lesson, he knows all there is.
But as the third age looms, he finds he is wrong.
Taxes and debts drown his mind, his proud mind,
Until he is forc’d to admit that he
Truly knows nothing of the world he’s in.
The fourth, as the fifth, is chaos of the mind.
The man of three decades tears at his brain
For the next ten years, for the previous
Thirty he has wasted so badly, and
Waits till the fifth age to resolve th’matter.
Now four decades too late, the Middle Aged
Spreads butter on toast, living in crisis
Kingdom. He has replac’d his money
With self giv’n gifts that hold false promises.
Seeing his foolishness, he throws away
And wisdom sheds but a small light on him.
This ray transforms him into the sixth age
But he learns nought. His wisdom magnifies
Through grumblings to young ones. He says to them
That all they think they know is what they don’t
Yet that all they need know will not be known
Until they are too old to need it. Thus
The six decades becomes seven, and the
Sixth age of Man, through grumbling, becomes
The seventh. Man grumbles, crumbles, decays
And soon is just a wond’rer inside four walls,
Happy to meet the same people each day.
Sans sense, sans sight, sans san’ty. No Knowledge.
The old is new. The new is beautiful.
The explor’d is unknown. The old is young.
The child drinks full. Ignorance is bliss.
A.R. Wardrop - August 2007
Goldfish are made to drink rivers and seas.
Knowledge enormous is meant for a god.
God to whom all men aspire as they grow
Out their years. Immortal in spirit but
Viral in truth. Man takes – does not replace
Except in that sense where waste is put back.
Stupid, ignorant Man, who thinks that as
Knowledge grows, it makes him God. Only
When that seventh age comes, will he find bliss
Having no mem’ry of the six prev’ous.
At start, the toddler drinks full with his eyes.
All things new he laps up like parch’d puppy
And questions all with impetuous “Why?”
Soon he’s a schoolboy: at first unwilling,
Yet once fed, he gains an appetite.
However, he doth feed too much, too soon,
And after one meal, thinks that he is full
After one lesson, he knows all there is.
But as the third age looms, he finds he is wrong.
Taxes and debts drown his mind, his proud mind,
Until he is forc’d to admit that he
Truly knows nothing of the world he’s in.
The fourth, as the fifth, is chaos of the mind.
The man of three decades tears at his brain
For the next ten years, for the previous
Thirty he has wasted so badly, and
Waits till the fifth age to resolve th’matter.
Now four decades too late, the Middle Aged
Spreads butter on toast, living in crisis
Kingdom. He has replac’d his money
With self giv’n gifts that hold false promises.
Seeing his foolishness, he throws away
And wisdom sheds but a small light on him.
This ray transforms him into the sixth age
But he learns nought. His wisdom magnifies
Through grumblings to young ones. He says to them
That all they think they know is what they don’t
Yet that all they need know will not be known
Until they are too old to need it. Thus
The six decades becomes seven, and the
Sixth age of Man, through grumbling, becomes
The seventh. Man grumbles, crumbles, decays
And soon is just a wond’rer inside four walls,
Happy to meet the same people each day.
Sans sense, sans sight, sans san’ty. No Knowledge.
The old is new. The new is beautiful.
The explor’d is unknown. The old is young.
The child drinks full. Ignorance is bliss.
A.R. Wardrop - August 2007