This is ground zero of the cataclysmic global event known as the Industrial Revolution—the first ‘factory’, on the river Derwent, with its convenient reliable flow. It is now the Museum Of Making in Derby town centre. It is a place of wonders—ones we have made for ourselves, our of our own desperate rush for more, for better.
Forgive my self indulgence, but here is one of my poems which came to mind as we visited yesterday. I may have shared it before, but it is a poem that I feel like I am carrying just now. Or perhaps it carries me.
Human Races, by Chris Goan
The upright ape ascends from knapped flint to
Silicon chip. He scratches sonnets in split slate and
Solves problems (almost) as fast as he makes them.
Alchemy promises gold, but instead it turns the
Lights on, lighting a road ahead called Progress.
There is nothing new under the sun; the circle is still
Unbroken. Empires rise whilst others fall; ours was
Not the first at all. It turns out that our times were never
Linear (just oscillation) and that for every page of
Knowledge gained, another is forgotten.
But what are we, if not whisps of the same Spirit?
We carry in us the same am-ness as all things that ever were,
Hidden under thin skin and hubris, waiting for those moments
Beneath stars or trees or tenderness when we remember;
It is all about connection.
