The Human Body - After Reading Wikipedia Poem by C Richard Miles

Wikipedia states: By mass, human cells consist of 65-90% water (H2O) , and a significant portion is composed of carbon-containing organic molecules. Oxygen therefore contributes a majority of a human body's mass, followed by carbon.99% of the mass of the human body is made up of the six elements oxygen, carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, calcium, and phosphorus.
Element - Percent by mass
Oxygen 65 Carbon 18 Hydrogen 10 Nitrogen 3 Calcium 1.5 Phosphorus 1.2
Potassium 0.2 Sulfur 0.2 Chlorine 0.2 Sodium 0.1Magnesium 0.05
Iron, Cobalt, Copper, Zinc, Iodine 0.05 each Selenium, Fluorine0.01 each

Let us consider what is meant by man:
Two thirds of us is Oxygen by weight -
That gas whose breaths determine life’s brief span,
A fifth composed of Carbon’s bonded state -
No sparkling diamond here, nor dusky coal,
But allied to the atoms small and great
To make its contribution to the whole
Family of organic carbohydrates.

Whilst lightweight, fiery Hydrogen makes up
Just ten percent; so meagre when compared
To the Great Sun. Next, to that, add a cup
Of Nitrogen, chief attribute of air
And Calcium, imbibed at mother’s breast
And that match-head Lucifer - Phosphorus
Of these main chemicals are we possessed
And that’s about the lot for all of us.

Seasoned to taste with teaspoonfuls of salt:
Potassium, combined with brimstone’s fire -
Foul smelling sulphur, from volcano’s vault
And poisonous Chlorine which, incensed by ire,
Cruel man exploited in that Great War gas
Which crept along each muddy, dug-out trench
Silently killing millions en masse,
Agent of sore, suppurating stench.

Finally, we inject our metal fix;
Each a daily, mineral supplement
That aids our living; that smattering of six:
Salty Sodium, from the ocean sent
And milky Magnesium to cure upsets
From gobbling too-rich food or bingeing drink;
Rusty Iron next and now the rest:
We finish off with Cobalt, Copper, Zinc.

Trace elements complete our little list:
Purplish iodine, found in wave-washed wrack;
Selenium; ending the analysis
With Fluorine filling up our mortal sack:
These atoms, whizzing, fizzing specks of dust
Solar systems in miniature appear:
Electrons orbiting the nucleus,
Protons, neutrons: infinitesimal spheres.

And that is man: that clod of common clay,
That pile of ash, that lump of solid stuff;
Of chemicals composed, each in its place;
Just DNA, whose formula’s enough
To baffle brains and fill up many a book
Of clever, calculated chemistry.
But how man came to be, by nature cooked
To come alive; that is the mystery.

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So, is that all there is? And is that all?
No! A potent, pounding, ever-pulsing heart
Sits in that tender, fragile, dermal wall,
Propelling rust-red corpuscles to parts
Which need the vital oxygen to run:
To give us motion, rendering might and main
Till, starved of air, their fleeting day is done
And, service over, shuffle to the grave.

A body built of multitudes of cells,
And vessels wide, both arteries and veins
And minuscule capillaries as well:
Those transport systems carrying ruby trains
Of life-supporting blood, which duly serves
To power moving hands, feet, fingers, toes
Instructed by those sergeant-major nerves
Which tell them how to move and where to go.

And here, incorporated in our earthly shell,
Encapsulating calcinated bone,
Flesh, muscle, ligament and sinew dwell
With cartilage and nerves together thrown,
Providers of our prime, propulsive force
For human industry, Larkin’s vile toad
Without which we would have no hard-earned source
Of cash, to feed our hunger with our food.

Included in our frame, so frail and spare,
Are organs large and small that do their tasks:
Lungs: respirators of polluted air;
Oesophagus leading to stomach vast;
Liver and Kidneys; Pancreas and Spleen;
Small and large intestines; other vitals
And other bits and pieces in between
With tongue-twisting, scientific titles.

And organs, too, are gathered in our heads
Directed by that bright and brilliant brain
To sense that which is heard and seen and read,
Smelt, tasted, felt, including hurt and pain.
Enabling us to make our daily choices
That face us in our harsh environment
And hearken to the loud, assailing voices
That call on us to look and browse and spend.

And that is man: a sleek, well-oiled machine
That runs on bread and water for its fuel,
By work and exercise made fit and lean,
A skeletal, mere multifunctional tool;
Until its joints and aching muscles seize
And are replaced by new, metallic parts
Which shudder, creak and squeak and groan and wheeze
Until all life possessed by them departs.

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Well, is that all there is? But is that all
That man can do upon this little globe?
Just work and eat and stand and sit and fall;
Machinery enclosed in fleshly robe;
Yet frail: no chic, space-age engineering
But with design faults built in a-plenty
And a sell-by date, in years, appearing
To be less than a hundred and twenty.

No! Man’s not just a functional robot;
He aspires to deeper things: music and art
And books and cooks and also films and sport
And entertainment play their pastime’s part:
The finer things in life when toil is o’er
Or baser recreation, if you choose
Like punting on the dogs, or trying to score
Some coke or over-using fags and booze.

The inspirational state delights us still,
If, in more pensive mood, we stake our bets
On heroes of the past of thought and skill
Whose poetry and music echo yet,
Allied with sculpture proud and actors’ roles:
That culture which uplifts us from disgrace,
Whilst literature and painting cheer out souls,
Uniting us through every time and space.

So man needs just some rest, some play and leisure,
Something to set his teeming mind upon,
Activities that render simply pleasure,
Some other life when weary work is done -
A hobby, craft or game to get you out
To watch or play to keep the body fit,
Whilst others seem content to lounge about
To switch on the TV and ogle it.

Yes, indulgence seems to play the villain
When our wilting willpower fails the test:
Drinking too much ale, which did for Dylan
Thomas and that genius, soccer’s Georgie Best.
Chocolate and sweets and overeating
Are other ways of satisfying greed,
With poisons each man chooses for the feeding
Of his craving, such as nicotine or weed.

And that is man, a hedonistic rake
Pursuant of a life of joy and bliss -
Mere recreant, and always on the take
To please himself and steal what is not his,
Though some there be who ardently aspire
In leisure time to make a finer mark
And so, attaining standards ever higher,
Emulate Leonardo’s creative spark.

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Then is that all there is? Yet is that all?
No - human life demands much more than this,
For others have their needs that on us call
And, though each man pursues just what is his,
Some altruistic achings stop us dead
And we promote that which is in our hearts
And relegate that which is in our heads
To play considerate and caring parts:

We lead our struggling fellow-traveller on;
We feed the hungry, ask the stranger’s name;
We mourn the dead, lamenting when they’re gone;
We strive for good, neglecting greed or gain.
We nurse the sick and bright inventors plan
Their new technologies to ease our painful path
On that adventurous journey made by man
In that short time allotted us on earth.

So empathy is ours but also hate,
Antithesis of all that’s fair and good,
That drives the despots dire and tyrants great
To wage their wars and wildly bay for blood
And propaganda moves the masses on
To vote for villains, paint the black as white,
Quite undiscerning in their blindness, fond
To be persuaded: virtue is in might.

But kindness, too, effects its generous grace:
That loving look, mild mother’s tenderest kiss
As injured infants raise each tearful face
For reassurance, lest they feebly miss
Their way upon life’s ever-upward trek.
And, more than kindness, suitor’s sweeter song
As with his heartfelt words, as strong as death
He makes his plea for an eternal bond.

So that is man - an interacting ape
No island isolate, nor set aside,
A cog in the device that empires makes
And works for good or ill, a vital tide
Of rich humanity which ebbs and flows
In life’s intercommunicating sea.
So progress drives relentless, knowledge grows
And fashions such that what will be, will be.

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But, is that all there is? And is that all
There is that constitutes our ev’ry being?
Can skilful alchemists build up our soul?
Or is there still some arcane, all-seeing
One, who dwells in those realms unseen above,
Who, with his vital, urgent, cosmic plan,
Combining soul and body with His love,
Inimitably made us into man?