That day, twenty years ago, was perfect for the outing;
Sunny, but cool enough to wear a sweater or cardigan.
North Hollywood, famed for its cinematic myths
And ‘stellar’ galaxies; a ‘must-see’ view of a wooded hill,
With the name-sign of the fabled city on its brow,
Emblazoned in bold capital letters, for cameras to prove
The tourist was there. What if that day
One letter, an ‘O’ penultimate, was missing?
The air-conditioned bus-ride was a treat
A drive through trails of trees and flowers,
Hillside verdure and hectares of Griffith Park;
Wondrous with nature, we picnicked at a cement table,
Watched by two hopeful blue jays. We climbed a slope
Beyond the amphitheater and the Observatory.
The guide led us to a signpost pointing eastward, where
Los Angeles hailed its twin-ship with Berlin, ‘6019 miles’ away.
We had glider-like views of Culver City and Santa-Monica,
Outcrops of tall buildings like clutched pencils.
A haze of mountains and the sea horizon.
Inside a white domed building,
The Observatory, we saw a telescope
With a Foucault pendulum swinging in a large circle,
Rhythmically knocking off pegs set up
In its four-minute orbit. Much to admire in Reason.
A friend once singled out the trait of mind
That seeks precision, measure, exactitude,
As what we lack as amateurs and global aspirants
To human happiness beyond formulas and Science.
A lady at the ticket window told us of the evening lecture
By an expert, on the comet Hyakutake that might be seen
That night near the Pole Star, though only as a smudge.
Go to the desert with binoculars.
I used to plead for metaphor and words,
For hints and promptings from poets and
Word-besotted authors, who
Awaken meanings in creation and chaos too.
The time is always “out of joint”, we are not here,
Thank god or Providence or chance, “to set it right.”
– – 29 March,1996
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