April 2019
I'm a retired English Professor spending my time writing, taking the occasional photograph, trying to follow the Dharma. For more about me and my musings: http://www.michaelminassian.com
Author’s note: This is one of my favorite poems (and one of my longest poems as well), and appeared in Poet Lore magazine in 2006. The year is relevant because it was written while flip phones were all the rage (the 1st iPhone was released in 2007). So the poem suffers (or not) for being technologically out-of-date. I leave that for the reader to decide.
THE SEED OF GOLD
I
Milan, Italy - 1492
Leonardo stares at the object
on the desk in front of him:
clearly, it is a cell phone,
but he has no name for it:
tinkering with his alchemist’s tools,
he has teleported this object
from the future back in time to Milan;
intending to transmute
gold from base metals,
he has instead transversed
the space/time continuum.
* * *
Leonardo picks up the cell phone
and places it on a scale:
counterbalancing the tray with lead,
he removes the object from the scale
and measures it with an ivory ruler
carved from an elephant tusk -
he flips open the phone
and examines the hinge:
perhaps he has discovered
a design
for his flying machine?
For the next week
he pushes buttons,
numbers, and other symbols
on the keypad
in random sequences,
finding lists, more numbers
in odd patterns, names, paintings,
(he has no word for photograph)
ring tones, games, calendars,
databases, and a calculator,
which he develops into a 15th century
model for a device
that proves the earth
revolves around the sun.
One day Leonardo is startled awake
when the phone rings,
and he instinctively flips it open:
a disembodied voice speaks
through some sorcery or scientific genius,
Leonardo is no longer sure
if there is a difference between the two.
Leonardo holds the phone at arm’s length
and screams at it:
“Why don’t you speak Italian?”
II
The United States - 2006
Martín stares at the notebook
on the coffee table -
it has materialized suddenly
like a wounded bird:
a leather-bound book
full of drawings, diagrams,
mathematical equations;
page after page
written in an elegant archaic handwriting
he recognizes as Italian.
He picks up the notebook
but cannot use it to make a call,
plan his day, check his e-mail;
he misses his cell phone
and decides to call the number:
the ringing sounds odd
as if it were underwater
in a tunnel…
After a long delay
a connection is made -
an angry voice
on the other end of the line
yells at him in Italian:
“Perchè non parlate italiano?”
* * *
Martín studies the notebook for the next week:
although he can’t read Italian,
he discovers Leonardo used mirror writing
starting at the right side of the page
and moving to the left,
but Martín never thinks to hold
the notebook up to the mirror,
so does not realize he is holding
the missing notebook
of Leonardo da Vinci.
III
LEONARDO’S Quarters at the Palace of Duke Ludovico
Leonardo can no longer coax
the phone to perform
its science or sorcery,
he doesn’t care which.
Growing bored with the object,
he places it into a box
next to a letter to a Polish prodigy
named Copernicus
and a working model of a submarine.
He opens a new notebook
and scribbles an equation,
tears it up, and decides
to abandon science for art:
his alchemist’s tools, lead
and gold melted down
to pigment, ink, and paint.
THE SEED OF GOLD
I
Milan, Italy - 1492
Leonardo stares at the object
on the desk in front of him:
clearly, it is a cell phone,
but he has no name for it:
tinkering with his alchemist’s tools,
he has teleported this object
from the future back in time to Milan;
intending to transmute
gold from base metals,
he has instead transversed
the space/time continuum.
* * *
Leonardo picks up the cell phone
and places it on a scale:
counterbalancing the tray with lead,
he removes the object from the scale
and measures it with an ivory ruler
carved from an elephant tusk -
he flips open the phone
and examines the hinge:
perhaps he has discovered
a design
for his flying machine?
For the next week
he pushes buttons,
numbers, and other symbols
on the keypad
in random sequences,
finding lists, more numbers
in odd patterns, names, paintings,
(he has no word for photograph)
ring tones, games, calendars,
databases, and a calculator,
which he develops into a 15th century
model for a device
that proves the earth
revolves around the sun.
One day Leonardo is startled awake
when the phone rings,
and he instinctively flips it open:
a disembodied voice speaks
through some sorcery or scientific genius,
Leonardo is no longer sure
if there is a difference between the two.
Leonardo holds the phone at arm’s length
and screams at it:
“Why don’t you speak Italian?”
II
The United States - 2006
Martín stares at the notebook
on the coffee table -
it has materialized suddenly
like a wounded bird:
a leather-bound book
full of drawings, diagrams,
mathematical equations;
page after page
written in an elegant archaic handwriting
he recognizes as Italian.
He picks up the notebook
but cannot use it to make a call,
plan his day, check his e-mail;
he misses his cell phone
and decides to call the number:
the ringing sounds odd
as if it were underwater
in a tunnel…
After a long delay
a connection is made -
an angry voice
on the other end of the line
yells at him in Italian:
“Perchè non parlate italiano?”
* * *
Martín studies the notebook for the next week:
although he can’t read Italian,
he discovers Leonardo used mirror writing
starting at the right side of the page
and moving to the left,
but Martín never thinks to hold
the notebook up to the mirror,
so does not realize he is holding
the missing notebook
of Leonardo da Vinci.
III
LEONARDO’S Quarters at the Palace of Duke Ludovico
Leonardo can no longer coax
the phone to perform
its science or sorcery,
he doesn’t care which.
Growing bored with the object,
he places it into a box
next to a letter to a Polish prodigy
named Copernicus
and a working model of a submarine.
He opens a new notebook
and scribbles an equation,
tears it up, and decides
to abandon science for art:
his alchemist’s tools, lead
and gold melted down
to pigment, ink, and paint.
© 2019 Michael Minassian
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