Last month, the massive body of a sperm whale washed ashore in Nova Scotia that had ingested 330
pounds of trash, which led to its death The Marine Animal Response Society (MARS) recently shared
the incident, which said the whale's death is a 'stark reminder' about how serious the issue is of human
trash littering Earth's oceans.
Beneath the oceans surface lurks nearly 16 million tons of microplastic
Every year, up to 20,000 whales die because of lethal collisions with vessels.
PROMPT
If a truly dark period is to come, how can poetry preserve itself? ... To put it succinctly, we’re fucked.
Unliveable real estate, financial collapse, social unrest, governments failing, power grids going dark — who knows.
My purpose here is not to revel in dystopia or pine for utopia, but rather to ask what kind of poet or \
poetry can sing the middle course, offering an imaginative ground for developing ideas about
ourselves and how we relate to each other so we can sink sufficient roots for the storm already begun
and help the Earth survive. I’m not sure we can survive it as a species — or much of the rest of life —
but while there’s even a tiny possibility of air and juice, it’s our job to lung and liver it as best we can.
Now I wonder what kind of poet (or poetics) it will take to sing it.
this kind of poet
will just whistle a few notes
of a worn out old tune
the dark period is already here
death and destruction is all about us
no point in carving your poetry
like hieroglyphics on to stone
the pyramids will be reduced to dust
nothing will survive anyway
it's too late
meanwhile
we just toodle along
ignore the plague
(last year's catastrophe)
keep buying more stuff
look forward to the black friday
and boxing day sales
watch more sport
close our eyes
block our ears
to everything unpalatable
and you can forget Bob
he's no one's
uncle anymore
Expression: Bob's Your Uncle - Aussie English
It's an exclamation saying that something is very easy and quick to sort !
So sorry about the whale! From the trash heaps in the sea that found their way into its gut to almost all of sealife ingesting microplastics, our human pollution is complete. Doesn't forebode well for the next poets -- and perhaps poetry too must die -- or find new ways of singing a humanity finding new ways to live or die on Earth.
ReplyDeleteGah! The photos kill me. We need to not turn away from this distress. I feel your poem in my weary heart. I like the irony in the closing lines.
ReplyDeleteKnow someone who's father is Bob. So say "Bob's your uncle's brother" to him.
ReplyDelete