of gods and poems

Michel de Montaigne said that man cannot make a mite yet he makes gods by the dozen.

The worse thing is that sometimes we play god ourselves, casually perhaps, or even unknowingly, in such a venue none closer to home than our very own backyard. I am talking about an instance when we encounter a bug venturing in our bermuda grass, or in the shrubs, and it scares the hell out of us so we decide to end our agony by giving the bug a good thumping of the foot, and we are relieved by the fact that our life is one less creepy creature to live by. We head to the pool, with cold lemonade in hand, think of the day's events, and curse at the active sun.

In those animated movies showing the lives of bugs from their own eye level (or perspective), we get to see - even animatedly - how bugs go about their buggy lives lurking in danger, veering away from the mouths of their predators but more so, from the indiscriminating shoe of their godly human giants.

My favorite poet Wislawa Szymborska has this to say - from the perspective of a god-giant. (I suggest that this poem be read aloud, with strict consciousness applied on parts where they break, thank you.)

SEEN FROM ABOVE
(translated from the Polish by Magnus J. Krynski and Robert A. Maguire)

On a dirt road lies a dead beetle.
Three little pairs of legs carefully folded on his belly.
Instead of death's chaos - neatness and order.
The horror of this sight is mitigated,
the range strictly local, from witchgrass to spearmint.
Sadness is not contagious.
The sky is blue.

For our peace of mind, their death seemingly shallower,
animals do not pass away, but simply die,
losing - we wish to believe - less of awareness and the world,
leaving - it seems to us - a stage less tragic.
Their humble little souls do not haunt our dreams,
they keep their distance,
know their place.

So here lies the dead beetle on the road,
glistens unlamented when the sun hits.
A glance at him is as good as a thought:
he looks as though nothing important had befallen him.
What's important is valid supposedly for us.
For just our life, for just our death,
a death that enjoys an exorted primacy.