Hollander and I

None of those Fates
(a reply to Mr. Hollander)

The choice between legacy and reason is so strangely hard
As to be a subject of contemplation,
Despite glancing to the end, where the minister
Lies miserable, taken to God, but the murderer
Ascends down, delighted—punishment alone perturbs us.
“Do what you will not what they will,”
We all ignore that and encourage others to do the same.
Who cares what they think, well, I do.
(We have to admit it.)
All of the education in the world and
Wisdom comes from children:
I shall ignore what they think, if they think
That this toy should not make me so happy.
Is this a good revelation for a college student?
And
Are things created, invented, to better own,
Though they begin independent and untouched
Is their reason not as corrupt as their makers?
The bomb is full of death, when lit,
When silent it is the object of beautiful photographs.

Some of us flit across the vast face of the well-oiled
Saming machine. It eats some, processes most,
And no matter what we all finish as identical dust.

I suppose I see no logic in this but humanity
So no logic at all. Next year I am off to be educated.
I know what I want to know
But they don’t care. I am there to be processed
Refined
Finished

Oh I don’t know. Well I do.
But who doesn’t throw up their hands
And disclaim responsibility for the machine?
Anarchy is beautiful. It is the sweetest of freedoms.
But the oily taste never quite goes away.



Science and Human Behavior, by John Hollander (for B. F. Skinner)

Feeling that it is vaguely undignified
To win someone else's bet for him by choosing
The quiet girl in the corner, not refusing
But simply not preferring the other one;
Abashed by having it known that we decide
To save the icing on the chocolate bun
Until the last, that we prefer to ride
Next to the window always; more than afraid
Of knowing that They know what sends us screaming
Out of the movie; even shocked by the dreaming
Our friends do about us, we vainly hope
That certain predictions never can be made,
That the mind can never spin the Golden Rope
By which we feel bound, determined, and betrayed;

But rather, if such a thing exists at all,
Three nasty Thingummies should hold it, twisting
Strand onto endless strand, always resisting
Our own old impulse to pull the string and see
Just what would happen, or to feel the small
But tingling tug upon the line, to free
The captives so that we might watch them crawl
Back into deeper water again. It is well
To leave such matters in their power, trusting
To the blase discretion of disgusting
Things like the Two who spin and measure, and
The Third and surely The Most Horrible,
Whom we'd best forget, within whose bony hand
Lies crumpled the Secret she will never tell.

Which Secret concerns the nature of the string
That all Three tend, and whether it be the wire
Designed to receive the message or to fire
The tiny initial relay. In the end,
The question is whether merely Determining
Or really Knowing is what we most pretend
To honor because it seems most frightening
Or worship because we hold it most to blame.
I once saw Dr. Johnson in a vision:
His hat was on his hand, and a decision
Of import on his lips. "Our will," he said,
"Is free, and there's an end on't." All the same,
Atropos and her sisters, overhead,
Grinned at this invocation of their name.