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Volume I, Number 1 (Summer 2006)
ISSN 1934-4324

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NEW-CUE, Inc. is a non-profit, environmental education organization founded primarily to assist writers and educators who are dedicated to  enhancing  the public's awareness of environmental issues.




G. W. George


On First Looking Into Grennan’s Physics


The Church



Winter covers the huge fields

with glistening white snow.

Summer covers the huge fields

with new plants’ white flowers.

Such beauty it takes to grow




On First Looking Into Grennan’s Physics


. . . miming the way matter itself

might be: restless specks

of luminous wounded music

in this enchanted void.

—Eamon Grennan, “Shepherd to the Wind”


Even ten seminars

of starving graduate students

or a hothouse of literature professors

in the full flush of tenure fever

could not deconstruct

the discourse of that,

while over in the physics department

they would simply say,

“Nope—we stuck this ‘matter’

into the cyclotron, bombarded it

with gamma-bamma waves,

dunked it into serial emulsions,

and left it a Bunsen-burned crisp,

from which we can tell you

that ‘restless’ might apply,

but there’s nothing ‘luminous,’

‘wounded,’ or ‘musical’ about

anything in the subatomic lot,

and the void in which invisible

smidgens of grit called ‘matter’

chase themselves is totally


Nonetheless, when those lines of the poet

on first reading instantly broke

unimpeded and unscathed right through

all the enfiladed fire of my stickling mind’s

star forts, something

in the castle keep of me said—

“Yes! That description’s just right!”





Which moves us most in winter?

The serenity of falling snow?

The whiteness of surrounding hills?

The glistening of frozen water?

Perhaps one should admire most

the endurance of the evergreens

bearing tiny flake upon flake.



The Church


In New England style,

it beatifies the hill,

drawing to a point

the little scattered town.

The weary graves behind

—memory’s pottery—

reveal upon their stones

weathered names and dates

of consecrated bones.


The living love the steeple

and the gothic window panes,

unstained, the glass left clear

to let the sun burst in

like armed and flaming angels,

moving us not because

we may find heaven from here,

but because such gloriousness

makes “here” ethereal.


The lower half of the church

has been repainted white;

the clock has been repaired,

but the steeple, unrestored,

will someday tumble down;

to what, then, one must wonder,

as each day we go from street

to street and hope to hope,

will our dark eyes look up?





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