Thursday, January 12, 2017

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

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