The Computer is Unable

R. S. Thomas

The Computer is UnableThe computer is unable

to find God: no code

number, no address.

Technology stalls

without the material

we provide it. There must be

some other way. ‘Try

looking,’ says the eye,

‘Try listening’ the ear

answers. I stare into distance:

nothing but the gantries

where art is crucified in

the cause of new art.

I have heard amid uproar

in London the black redstart

singing among the ruins;

so I strain now amid

the times’ hubbub for fear

the still, small voice should

escape me. ‘Is he dumb?’

Wrong language. ‘Am I

impatient?’ I resort once

again to the word processor.

But where a poem in his honour

should emerge, all in bud

like a birch tree, there is only

the machine’s repetitions,

parallel tramlines of prose

never to come together in praise.

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