Archive for August, 2019|Monthly archive page

Avant le deluge…Rising up against that sinking feeling

sinking feeling

A bitter example of how vested interests (William Burroughs named them “the Nova Mob”) pervert reason, choke compassion, and stymie sane responses to global warming played itself out at this year’s Pacific Island Forum. Australian Prime Minister, Scott Morrison, refused to endorse the Tuvalu Declaration proposed by the Smaller Island States group, “which acknowledges a climate change crisis, encourages countries to revise the emissions reductions targets and calls for a rapid phase out of coal use.”

“I am accountable to the Australian people, that’s who I’m accountable for,” Mr Morrison said.

Tuilaepa-Sailele

Tuilaepa Sailelethe

Not a year ago, Tuilaepa Sailelethe prime minister of Samoa, delivered a speech in Sydney, Australia, 30 August 2018, wherein he said that “Any leader … who believes that there is no climate change I think he ought to be taken to mental confinement, he is utter[ly] stupid and I say the same thing for any leader here who says there is no climate change.”

By serendipity (if not synchronicity), the year the world was supposed to end (2012), I composed a chance, fourteen-line poem in harmony with Sailelethe’s sentiments. I’m not sure it’s much of a poem per se, unless a linguistic expression that fuses topical pertinence, heart, and complex irony is enough.

 

“BE IT RESOLVED…”

 

BE IT RESOLVED that

whereas public officials

who deny the reality

 

of Anthropogenic Climate Change

and hinder efforts to mitigate

its destructive effects present

 

a clear and present danger

to themselves and others,

said public officials should be

 

removed from office forthwith

and placed under a physician’s care

until such time as their suicidal

 

and/or homicidal and/or ecocidal

tendencies cease to present.

 

Corpus Sample: Grappling with the Heraclitean Tao: “At Red River’s Edge” and “Tonight, the world is simple and plain…”

Sometimes, whether sincerely or out of hubris, one comes to believe they’ve got a grip on things, and so it seemed, more or less, to me. But, recently, reading Baudrillard’s Symbolic Exchange and Death and an overview of the late Mark Fisher’s life and work, reflecting how, when I was around ten years old, the world was being maneuvered into its (apparent) Neoliberal (dis)order (a view of things probably already belated) and beginning a perceptible acceleration into what has come to be called the Anthropocene, I feel, now, there is nowhere to stand, nowhere at a standstill, that vertigo and fear just under the heart that starts at a sudden drop.

Of course, unknowingly, I’d grappled with these matters before. “At Red River’s Εdge”, the first poem of my first book (Grand Gnostic Central) attempts to resolve, with all the virtues and vices of a youthful work, this nigh metaphysical  flow of things (or, as I thought of it at the time, “dissemination”), while the last poem of the book (“Tonight, the world is simple and plain…”), it appears to me now, approaches the same concern, but from a different angle.

IMG_3184

 

At Red River’s Edge

 

I shed scales and

blood the slow water

at the river’s edge, the fish

gutted on some warming rock.

A wondering after

origins and wellsprings

rises with my standing

and squinting into the glare

of light broken upstream

at my vision’s limit.

What source spills

up this river?—

numberless puddles brimming

over as rain falls

to fill them, clear

water writhing

over slick dark rock

too hard to carve

a lasting path in,

waves of rainwater

draining in rippling sheets

off flat rock walling

a gleaming highway,

or running in rivulets

charging a careening stream

from a sudden height

in an opening spray of sparks

that scatter against one

mountain’s steep

lower rises. Upward,

glaciers moan and turn

themselves to fluid under

their own weight

for the sake of motion.

Lighter ice and snow

drop, overheavy

overhang, giving

the glitter of crystals

to the lift of winds

and the long swerve of descent

to dew on darting speargrass

leaves or on the grains

of the smallest antmounds

mining the glint

of sand mixed in the topmost soil

of swelling foothills.

Clouds shadow the climb

of rock, condensing

and losing themselves

in the strain

to come to nothing

but clearest light.

Everywhere, countless sources urge

one flow that fills

perfectly any particular

gap in every ground

in its scrambling run

to that ease of gravity

proper to the sea.  This river

one route before me

and beyond me on

either side, never ebbing,

only ever changing course

to another.  I follow

some black bark carried free

on flashing rises of the current,

sometimes edging a shore, sometimes stilled

in the turning of

a darker random

swirl, but always

spiraling out again

to give with the slow measure

of the ocean’s deepest founding swells

or float on the light

lift of waves

and the chance of the wind

into some child’s quick

excitement in the seadrift.

 

“Tonight, the world is simple and plain….”

 

Tonight, the world is simple and plain.

The earth is round and the sky two domes

Enclosing us, excluding nothing.

 

The stars are all arranged in such a way

As to suggest an endless emptiness

Or heavens full of foreign deities.

 

And choosing to choose neither we lose

Ourselves, desiring only an end

To this plane enclosed around itself

 

That keeps us coming to ourselves again.

 

sk night sky

Corpus Sample: “Hamburger Smalltalk”

While I was trying to imagine a set list for my last reading, I had thought to perform poems that, though written in the early 90s, spoke to today’s world situation. One of these would surely have been the following poem, “Hamburger Smalltalk”, composed in 1991 and later collected in Grand Gnostic Central and other poems.

One of the stops during my first visit to Europe was Hamburg, Germany, where we stayed a few days with a couple, friends of my partner at the time. One was widely travelled and had lived some time in Africa. During a very pleasant, evening walk, with our respective partners and the dog, he related the anecdote the poem retells. Accordingly, the poem is spoken in his voice, complete with Germanisms of syntax and expression.

 

Hamburger Smalltalk

 

You’ve seen a picture of a cheetah

on a gazelle:  its teeth in its neck

bent back, its leg

around the gazelle’s hind leg

to break its back.

 

Cheetahs are a serious nuisance

for farmers in southwest Africa.  Lions

and other cats kill what they need

and leave something

for the jackals and vultures.

 

A cheetah goes into blood-frenzies—

if you have a herd of sheep

in the morning you’ll find forty

torn apart and maybe seven lambs

carried off.

 

The farmers know their herds

they watch and know which cows are ready

to calve and if a calf goes missing

they mark the mother

and send her next to the abattoir.

 

Now you’ll see five cows gang up

on a cheetah to protect the calves

and drive it off.

(He shook his head and chuckled)

The white tribe of Africa.

 

BSAC_settlers_Southern_Rhodesia