Guest essay by Eric Worrall
The UN hopes Marshall Islands Activist Kathy Jetnil-Kijiner’s sponsored poetry readings will convince us to get rid of our cars and switch off our home heating.
Can poetry turn the tide on climate change?
JANUARY 17, 2018 by JOHN DEXTER
Poetry seems an unlikely avenue for forcing action on climate change, but Marshallese poet and activist Kathy Jetnil-Kijiner has become a figure of hope for a nation under threat of rising sea levels.
It was her address at the 2014 United Nations Climate Summit that brought wider attention to Kathy Jetnil-Kijiner as a poet and activist, as well as the peril faced by the Marshall Islands and other pacific nations. Speaking as a Civil Society Representative, Jetnil-Kijiner described the dangers faced by oceanic nations in eloquent terms and implored world leaders to act quickly on climate change.
She subsequently performed her poem Dear Matafele Peinem, written as a promise to her daughter that the world would take action on climate change. The stirring call to arms and promise to future generations received a standing ovation on the UN floor.
Jetnil-Kijiner will appear at WOMADelaide this year in a Planet Talk titled Climate Justice and the Human Face of Climate Change with Ursula Rakova, Julian Burnside, Tim Costello and Ben Doherty.
…
“The thing that people need to understand is that the Marshall Islands is only two metres above sea level,” says Jetnil-Kijiner of her island home. “Because of the rising sea level, we’re getting floods that are destroying homes and destroying crops. It’s happening more frequently but also threatening the very existence of our islands. It’s been happening in the past five years more frequently than we’ve ever seen before. It’s happening right now. With the loss of the land comes the loss of cultural identity and our home and basically who we are as a people.”
…
Read more: https://www.adelaidereview.com.au/features/general/can-poetry-turn-tide-climate-change/
If you want to see Kathy live, Kathy will speak this March in Adelaide, Capital of South Australia.
I listened to half a minute Kathy’s poetry reading to the UN (see the video clip above). I think I prefer the poetry written by the fictional green alien from The Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A8JJH7ZL_Fk
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I think Ewan McTeagle’s poetry could be easily adapted to the cause. One such masterpiece is “Can I have fifty pounds to mend the shed?”:
“Can I have fifty pounds to mend the shed? I’m right on my uppers. I can pay you back when this postal order comes from Australia. Honestly. Hope the bladder trouble’s getting better. Love, Ewan.”
Or even this classic :
“Oh give to me a shillin’ for some fags and I’ll pay yet back on Thursday, but if you can wait till Saturday I’m expecting a divvy from the Harpenden Building Society. ”
Thanks to Monty Python:
https://youtu.be/hp4mENrAnq4
It would have been better if she had started it with “Son, I am a nasty woman…” That phrase works every time, like magic.
No one seems to remember that Al Gore did it first. In his 2009 book “Our Choices” he penned a bleak poem on the coming Thermogedden. He gave the Vogons a run for their money.
So here’s an Algoryhm in his honor-
Pinwheels and Mirrors
A long time ago (in the 80’s or so),
Al Gore warned that warming would soon be alarming;
“Our children won’t know what it’s like to see snow!
Our atmosphere we must stop harming!”
He’d studied, in college, on James Hansen’s knowledge.
Then, over years of political careers,
He pondered this notion: The atmosphere and oceans
Are useful to raise public fears.
He made presentations to all the world’s nations.
His film (sci-fi trash) was a box office smash!
Academy sensation! Oscars, nominations
And copious currents of cash!
Then unto him fell the Peace Prize, Nobel…
Authority, on him was now vested.
(Debates he must quell, for he knows quite well:
Models failed when reality tested.)
So, grew the meme of anthropogenic extreme.
While insiders profited highly,
Those who objected were quickly subjected
To ridicule (and regarded vilely).
Pinwheels and mirrors now litter the lands…
Power lines, mile after mile.
On high plains, sea cliffs and desert sands
Our vistas, they now beguile.
But, collectors of government subsidies
Find them a beautiful sight,
These mechanical menaces… begging a breeze
Or a sunbeam to make their cost right.
Decades upcoming threaten cold’s icy numbing-
Nature’s cycles, in concert, are waning.
The slowness to warm should have cancelled alarm,
But Al never ceases campaigning:
“We humans are bad, with our fossil fuel fad,
It’s a fast-building carbon disaster!
And now it’s two-fold! It’s causing the cold
And the hotness to come so much faster!”
Yet, while he’s pleading that all should be heeding
His carbon reduction ambitions,
He hopes you’re not seeing his own footprint being
Hundreds of poor folks’ emissions.
Let’s hope he’s thought out, while jetting about,
The messages of his actions.
By far they outweigh any words he might say,
In the minds of the wiser factions.
Lets have some proper poetry:
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits.
Yes. Or this:
I would not be just a muffin’,
My head all full of stuffin’,
My heart all full of pain;
And perhaps I’d deserve you and be
Even worthy even you
If I only had a brain.
It could be your anthem.
Keats or Bruce… ?
Ah what a choice for the discerning mind…
+10
Griff, your poetry (I’m assuming you composed) conveys deep depression and the need to save your personal world from the terrible dregs of humanity. I also find the over use of idioms to be trite unless the composition is intended to be humorous irony. Just my opinion.
Hmm- my assumption that you had some talent was wrong. I can see why you chose that Keats poem. It fits you
Griff
Nice but a little opaque – for me at least.
Here’s one I like:
Ozymandias
By Percy Bysshe Shelley
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
‘For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.’
William Topaz McGonagall
It’s all about emotions with the climate faithful. All feewings, zero brains.
There are people who believe that the end of the Cold War was brought about by an arts movement. You can’t fix stupid.
You mean the 3 Stooges didn’t defeat Germany, either?
Certainly artists made a major contribution to the end of communist rule in Czechoslovakia
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Velvet_Revolution
And artists were prominent in resisting and opposing communist oppression behind the iron curtain
The better question is whether poetry can generate a stream of indulgence payments for new tourism assets like airports, high rise condos, and resorts.
I would suggest writing the poetry in Mandarin and delivering it to the Chinese Ministry of Coal with a copy sent to the comparable Indian ministry.
We thought we were missing some heat
even though our model’s complete.
So we’ll add some cool fuzz
if it turns out that it was
missing heat that was missing, not heat.
I thought Forest Gardener would post this, but I’ll do it for him.
SAID HANRAHAN by John O’Brien
“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
In accents most forlorn,
Outside the church, ere Mass began,
One frosty Sunday morn.
The congregation stood about,
Coat-collars to the ears,
And talked of stock, and crops, and drought,
As it had done for years.
“It’s looking crook,” said Daniel Croke;
“Bedad, it’s cruke, me lad,
For never since the banks went broke
Has seasons been so bad.”
“It’s dry, all right,” said young O’Neil,
With which astute remark
He squatted down upon his heel
And chewed a piece of bark.
And so around the chorus ran
“It’s keepin’ dry, no doubt.”
“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
“Before the year is out.”
“The crops are done; ye’ll have your work
To save one bag of grain;
From here way out to Back-o’-Bourke
They’re singin’ out for rain.
“They’re singin’ out for rain,” he said,
“And all the tanks are dry.”
The congregation scratched its head,
And gazed around the sky.
“There won’t be grass, in any case,
Enough to feed an ass;
There’s not a blade on Casey’s place
As I came down to Mass.”
“If rain don’t come this month,” said Dan,
And cleared his throat to speak –
“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
“If rain don’t come this week.”
A heavy silence seemed to steal
On all at this remark;
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed a piece of bark.
“We want an inch of rain, we do,”
O’Neil observed at last;
But Croke “maintained” we wanted two
To put the danger past.
“If we don’t get three inches, man,
Or four to break this drought,
We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
“Before the year is out.”
In God’s good time down came the rain;
And all the afternoon
On iron roof and window-pane
It drummed a homely tune.
And through the night it pattered still,
And lightsome, gladsome elves
On dripping spout and window-sill
Kept talking to themselves.
It pelted, pelted all day long,
A-singing at its work,
Till every heart took up the song
Way out to Back-o’-Bourke.
And every creek a banker ran,
And dams filled overtop;
“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
“If this rain doesn’t stop.”
And stop it did, in God’s good time;
And spring came in to fold
A mantle o’er the hills sublime
Of green and pink and gold.
And days went by on dancing feet,
With harvest-hopes immense,
And laughing eyes beheld the wheat
Nid-nodding o’er the fence.
And, oh, the smiles on every face,
As happy lad and lass
Through grass knee-deep on Casey’s place
Went riding down to Mass.
While aound the church in clothes genteel
Discoursed the men of mark,
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed his piece of bark.
“There’ll be bush-fires for sure, me man,
There will, without a doubt;
We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
“Before the year is out.”
Around the Boree Log and Other Verses, 1921
🙂
For “Hanrahan” substitute in “Michael Mann”
So, in other words, this is the UN’s latest attempt to subvert our sovereignty and fleece our nation.
His name is Griffin. Folks though call him “Griff”
He hails from universities of stone
Debate with him is as a smoken spliff
It leaves one’s mental faculties undone
For high o’er land and sea and distant isles
The eye of Griff doth wander wide and free
All he beholds, his intellect defiles
Dreaming disaster from the rings of trees
The seas do rise – we’re told – to drown our coasts
Though photos of past bays show nary a change
Griff terrifies the kids with tales of ghosts
That steal the frost from every mountain range
Beholding life, he see-eth only death
In forms of beauty, veiled catastrophe
And morbid gas in every human breath
Damns sinners to a lost eternity
But that dread gas – O Griff! How see-est thou not
Bringeth not death but life, that springeth green
The photosynthesis thou hast forgot
Is nourished by the thing thou call’st unclean
And so adieu, my ode to Griff is done
To that sly master of the shifting files
Of numbers spelling our Armeggedon
And yet behind that mask of doom – he smiles!
🙂
Battle of the Flood
What a party we had last night
at old Ceasaro’s shack
The dancing girls were dressed in drag
and the servants all wore black
The band played military tunes
and the wine was spiked with blood
The chandeliers were draped with lace
you could hardly even see the flood
We toasted every word we spoke
just to see if it could be done
We giggled when the lights went out
somebody said there goes the sun
Ya shoulda seen the things I saw
for a moment I was Elmer Fudd
With cwazy wabbits everywhere
even dead ones floatin’ in the flood
The generator kicked in thank god
right on cue festivities resumed
If that old Ceasaro knows anything
it’s how to keep a body nicely entombed
When the saints come marchin’ in played on
china chimin’ in at every base drum thud
We rocked to the rhythm like a cradle of love
it was almost like before the flood
When the band struck up that old ang syne
not and eye in the joint stayed dry
We rocked to the rhythm like a cradle of love
better buddies you just can’t buy
That old Ceasaro sure does it up right
silver crystal and a red rose bud
Just the ticket for keepin’ a spirit afloat
in the battle of the goddamn flood
Here is a poem recited by its author which sums up the alarmist’s world:
Oops,
Poetry and art are casualties of modern erosion of morality, education, language, freedom of thought – basically destruction of western culture and replacement with homogenized and sterilized vetted commandments on what can be taught, thought and done. knowledge crafted and bounded.
I had the experience of seeing prewar statues of hardworking heroes with sickle and sheaves of grain staring off into a bright future following the shining path made for them by the same brand but new central planners that are destroying the greatest civilization ever.
Ironically, the best of cultural Europe will end up being preserved in Russia and the other former Iron Curtain countries despite all the liberal propaganda that aims to destroy that country’s image. The Eurocrats and the Democrats who threw their lot in with them would have loved Russia much more than China. However Russia would not go along with the Big Plan like China pretends to do (big letdown in their admirerers’ near future!). Russia is at least honest in its rejection of Europes model for global governance.
The Lay of the Last Molecule
With apologies to Sir Walter Scott
Breathes there the ‘cule, with form so foul,
What to force the consensus to howl,
“This, the cause of all heat in the land!”
Th’idea, despite no fuel, e’er did burn
And many a good scientiest did turn,
From seeking fact upon which to stand!
If such theory assaults you, mark it well;
For it, no Nobel raptures swell;
High though its budgets, proud its name,
Boundless wealth its adherents claim;
Despite those models showing aught but highs,
This wretch, concentred all in lies,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust, from whence it sprung,
Unwept, unhonor’d, and unsung.
rip
The lovely young lady got to speak at the UN. She will also get the opportunity to visit Australia. It is a big thing is a poor nation of many Islands, frequently battered by terrible storms. But these are natural, not human-caused.
But the speech to the UN will no doubt make a huge difference to the overseas aid to a country of 53,000 and GDP of $183 million.
Despite having never visited the Islands, I feel a strange affinity to the place. I wish the people well.
Kevin VS Marshall
Well, who knows, and it takes all sorts.
In Ireland, the home of the UNFCC’s Climate Charity leader, Mary Robinson, the eco activists are dancing against climate change.
https://www.stopclimatechaos.ie/events/2017/11/04/dance-for-climate-action/
If they could successfully dance for a nice summer it’d be great…….
“Sponsored poetry” – they used to call that “propaganda” back when the Soviets did it … Pravda in iambic pentameter 😛