Enviromental science
The following poems / prose emerged from a creative writing workshop on enviromental science. Part of the stemistryPLUS programme of workshops.
What can be done?
We’re barging on, ignoring images of dying land, of drought, of flood, of pestilence and fire, of ice-floe-stranded polar bears – OK, as long as it’s elsewhere, ‘over there’; a little pity, maybe, but not enough for riot, fear. And politicians know we want to keep our four cars on the drive, throw away more than we eat, dress for summer in the freeze, laugh at global warming when it snows; they want our votes, so they’re too scared to make the changes that we need to save ourselves. And we’ll take others with us to extinction while the planet shakes itself and starts again, starts again – In the beginning.
Abandoned
We were left to our own devices and we failed ourselves.
Forsaken by logic, deserted by reason.
And neither talisman nor incantation can cast a magic spell.
We are now abandoned with no one to look after us.
The sun hangs over a dry land.
The planets continue their ceaseless ellipses.
Waves and winds rage and storm
Then continue their sough and sigh
As it has been for ever, and will be forever.
But we are orphaned and soon we will die.
No prayer will be said to remember us by.
Hold the line
So where’s the fight, the battle lines are drawn,
beating of drums as pennants tinkle against pikes.
There’s crisis after crisis, scare on scare, as politicians
hold their corporate breath and wait for each to pass.
They set up scapegoat enemies to draw the fire,
let people kill each other over ideologies, and beards
and culturally different clothes. Meanwhile, the fat cats
rule, so what if we’re the last surviving generation, or
the next to last, what do we care about the future when
we’re dead, we need to live, make the most of it. Let’s
mock the muesli-knitting environmentalists and drink
to here and now – we’re on the edge of the pit anyhow.
So where’s the fight?
No event on Earth is larger than a postcard home
Umpteen shoots back to back. Fizz-filled wood.
Sky-clot, sunlight upsurge.
Birch leaves ignite.
An indigenous frost-nip
Where broiling winds ground.
The day nurtures depleted uranium
Hot rocks
Beauty and terror.
Stinking sulphurous vapours
Vomit tempestuous rage.
Leaving a dream-like
Barren wasteland
No purpose but to terrify.
Active but inactive.
Energy, with latent power
To destroy.
Only the sound of the wind disturbs now,
Playing Gamelan rhythms
Steady, soothing.
Dramatic, erratic.
No birds fly.
No insects crawl.
No plants bloom.
Nature’s own eruption.
Hot rocks, liquid magma
The power of ancient survivals
Channelled to set us free
From the burden of guilt
The self-harm of global warming.
Saving the ant
or, saving yourself
Keep the anteaters coming. Keep them watered
but keep the deserts dry. Keep the sun outside, keep the air
we’re breathing clean. Don’t scare the eagles away,
or stretch the edges too far. Everything relies on this.
Leave the fungus alone, leave the dying and the light
and your crumbs and those pieces of expectation.
Leave room but don’t make more. Don’t worry,
but worry if there’s anything you can’t do.
We are all thrust to this cacophony of life.
Zoom out, retune, and remember the delight.
We are noisy and must work together.
The Ruby Slippers
You can bring only one thing, they said.
One thing that you can carry.
So I chose my Ruby Slippers and I put them on my feet.
And I dusted them with glitter to make them sparkle
Like the stars.
But they wouldn’t let me take them; too polluting to dark skies.
A reminder of all wastefulness and tastelessness
That’s brought us to this pass.
But we’ll take them to exhibit them, along with other noxious waste
And we may review our guidelines in the light of your request.
And disallow reminders of all former affectations
‘But they’re only Ruby Slippers, hardly damaging at all’.
But I had to hand them over to stand any chance at all.
Time
Appearing as we did in the last minute of the life on earth clock – so slow
we woke, and took our time, left little evidence of being here. At last we
made a few marks, left drawings in caves, footprints in the sand, bones,
raised megaliths as messages for those who were to come, to live
in harmony with planets, stars. We hunted, then grew crops –
then speeded up, so we forgot the push and pull of tides, building
to a crescendo, as we worked ourselves into a frenzy, faster, faster,
running towards our inevitable disappearing.
Coda
So, now we are just two (as at the start), we sing a whale song, a lament
to the sad beauty of it all, that we must say goodbye. THE END
When the horse lay on the drops of my memory
Weigh me until I’m sodden
raise me into the atmosphere
break me into nano-pieces
and rain me over Brazil.
Only when you’ve accompanied me
(your keys, your ebony, your ivory)
any distant song begins to dampen
the straw score of love’s composition.
Earth from space, Nasa