A poem in support of Tahlia and Emma at the Roe 8 protest

Sweeney Witnesses the Attack on the Coolbellup Bush
by the Forces of a Corrupt Police State

for Tahlia and Emma

Wings clipped, you’d expect Sweeney to plunge

to the ground, plough into the ploughed sand

and wait helpless till collected by the mulcher

and spat into a pile of has-beens, signed-off on.

Wings clipped, you’d expect Sweeney to plunge

into the clouds of toxic dust generated by the smash-

and-grab, by the sweeping of the last pieces

from the board in an endgame not quite going to plan.

Wings clipped, you’d expect Sweeney to plunge

into the microclimate of asbestos, the bush stressed

as dumping ground for waste no one wants to pay for,

then murdered because other forms of life test reality’s limits.

Wings clipped, you’d expect Sweeney to plunge

into the crowd of protesters, some wearing face masks,

others exposed to the dust that reaches into front gardens,

houses, the small amount of space allotted to public recreation.

Wings clipped, you’d expect Sweeney to plunge

into the police lines, police told to watch out for the particles,

that it will cost them too in the long run, but the Big Cop

says hold your positions, breathe in, breathe out, it’s all propaganda.

Wings clipped, you’d expect Sweeney to plunge

into the bulldozer, stuff up its hydraulics, its bamboozled

driver bragging of his agency. And all the while the women

up the trees looking down and roosting, roosting, roosting.

Wings clipped he lifted, flying high, to sit close with Tahlia.

Wings clipped he lifted, flying high, to sit close to Emma.

Together, he said, Together we will keep the trees upright.

Together, he said, We will unravel the bulldozer, the mulcher.

            John Kinsella

On Witnessing With Many Others the Destruction of Remaining Bushland Alongside Malvolio Road, Coolbellup

A New Ode to Westralia: Anthem for All Future Sporting Events

The state is killing our souls

The state has murdered the people — some they murder over and over

The state has deployed vicious antibodies to kill the good cells

            and let the infection thrive

The state has equated work with destruction and manipulated 

             the outcome — remember, the state has no love for unions.

The state deployed its shock troops who watched on as poems were yelled

            at them, their commander marshalling attitude, saying: how can we

            shut this one up? Poets of the world, take notice. They will close

            you down the moment you break free of your anthologies,

            your safety in pages of literary journals, the comforts

            of award nights.

The state shapes itself out of the dust rising from underforest

            which is its soul exposed to a caustic, toxic atmosphere

            made by so many other such actions of malice — the shape

            is cartoonish to start with, then like a Hollywood effect

            then just terrifying ectoplasm feeding on sap and blood and grit.

The state chips and mulches because it has heard rumours of Plato’s

            theory of forms and thinks it needs a new translation full of local

            business inflection, full of their own brand of ‘civilisation’.

The state has no intention of letting traditional owners maintain 

            traditional places of worship of culture of belonging — it’s always 

            been about the twin poles of denial and deletion.

The state has reservoirs of species names and the odd pressed sample

            of a flower they wish only to remain as a Latin name and 

            a collectible, gathering in worth, which is the essence of market 

            economics, rolling on through the bushland with gung-ho 

            in-your-face finality.

The state wants you to gasp as the tall tree cracks and is brought down fast,

            the pair of tawny frogmouths lifting to nowhere, dazzled by daylight.

            John Kinsella