Wednesday, August 9, 2017

Against the Nuclear Weapon Programmes of All Nations

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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