A call for total nuclear disarmament across the world and an end to ALL nuclear weapons programmes. Discuss, don't destroy. Converse, don't attack. Peace, not conflict.
Graphology Kaleidoscope 27: nuclear peace poem
Things I
can just see from here not drawn
into
descriptions earlier, or rather
descriptions
as they are remade
in the
reality of now —
circuits of
a windmill
drawing up
through deep hill
of rock, a
stand of wandoos
singed
during burn-offs
now framed
by a green lie of pasture.
From his
golf club at Bedminster, New Jersey,
green of a
sort, Trump says to North Korea:
‘...they
will be met with fire, fury
and frankly
power
the likes
of which this world
has never
seen before’ — a nightmare
of
lineation, too close to all hands,
as Kim
Jong-un’s juche
tracks its
course to the doors
of history,
of unresolved
policy. The
‘hermit kingdom’
pondering
issues of re-entry.
Such
‘thousands-fold revenge’,
such
‘preventative wars’,
such
rearrangement of atoms
and
molecules. We are drawn
into the
wars of the soul —
final
proofs due soon.
Rarely,
seabirds make passage
to inland
waterways
quickly
saline, still fresh in living memory —
we see
silver gulls in Northam on the river,
we see them
overflying farm dams.
We can’t
lose sight of the personal in any of this —
concerning
all of us.
Technology
of peace at our fingertips —
wild
flowers still managing to erupt,
prepare
their blooms.
Newest
World maps, projections — ICBMs
capable of
reaching here and here and here —
wave motion
practicum — the case itself —
as they
have for decades now,
locked and
loaded.
A machinery
shed, a figure, a swirl of low cloud.
All drawn
in here now, as I see us,
I see the
above-ground silos
prepared
for grain receival, though
the crops a
long way from harvest.
True, I’ve
seen this before,
but now I
am in this context.
I write to
the bureau of meteorology
to point
out that rainfall figures
for three
rural towns
are
missing. How will we
know the
yearly averages
if days go
missing?
It’s all in the details,
it’s all in the details.
I hear back
— a missing day
means no
annual figures
will be tendered.
I see the
grey skies the swirling leaves and branches,
the run
rolling down the slopes of Jam Tree Gully.
In these
drought lands
there’s
been so much rain
to step out
is to invite
instability
— the ground
that will
be blown away
in summer,
will shift
dramatically
underfoot,
I am sure.
They are sure of winter.
Fire, fury, power, thousands-fold.
Paperwork. Cultural-linguistic
windshear.
Our settlements.
Miniaturisation
of.
Bomb in a
warhead
mounted on
top.
Steady
& ready.
Trajectory.
Inclination.
Parrots
unable to
find
nesting
hollows.
I receive
lists
of illegal
clearing
going on
of
overclearing
going on
of clearing
to begin
again.
‘International
waters’
the biggest
test site.
Skeletons
in suspension —
I, too,
converse with them.
A detente
from interior
to coast.
And then out,
where the
lifeboat
rocks
headstrong
and
dangerously
in the
swell.
All drawn
into the
picture
of now.
The
production of tablets
will ease
our passing.
Legislation
of death
centres,
pummel
our sanctity,
our refrains.
Disarming
as sanctions
deathtag
hypocrisies — the nuclear weapons industries
doing very well, thank you!
Things I
can just see from here not drawn
into
descriptions earlier, or rather
descriptions
as they are remade
in the
reality of now —
circuits of
a windmill
drawing up
through deep hill
of rock, a
stand of wandoos
singed
during burn-offs
now framed
by a green lie of pasture.
John Kinsella
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