090 Environment & Covid19 & Poetry

Covid19 has been a nightmare for all populations. Paradoxically, the planet and the environment have benefited. Just before lockdown, I was invited with a group of poets in Bath to respond to a short but powerful video produced by two remarkable women by writing and reading poems reflecting their lament on environmental destruction. Rise: From one island to another is their work. One is from the Marshall Islands in the Pacific and the other is from Greenland.  They are Kathy Jetñil-Kijiner and Aka Niviâna https://350.org/rise-from-one-island-to-another/ is the link. In response we produced short poems each and are posting on You Tube soon. For now, these are the ones I read on today’s podcast. All land is hallowed with earth baptised by some god and seas swum in by angels. yet we walk in sadness, watching sisters in two oceans paint our legacy in words of despair. we, the infant stewards, young with no control, just blind to broken rocks and shells. this is a globe of poisons, close to oblivion, wounded by each  generation, as our sun takes her dead child back to the beginning.   Pacific child cannot stop the theft alone. Some sand can be saved but not all. the woman of the sand sings so sweetly of love and protection, speaks a verse in praise of perfection, with a golden invitation to the land of ice where a soul sister cries with every melting day. no faith a heart left broken and land has gone where mammoths stood.   I also read this poem I wrote reflecting the historical  savaging of local land over 2000 years   THE  CHARTERHOUSE MINES. Blood washed and slate, the sky presided over one hour’s walk to mark the mines. the mist formed veils in fading light as shadows slid from shafts and a banshee of an owl claimed the night.   long headed shepherds, moor and marsh dreamers, prehistoric miners of Iberian descent all colonise the hills and form a Charterhouse of painted caves and white skulls then the mist moves as a turning worm.   hard and straight the lines of Rome converge with convicts for the mining and theatres for the troops smells of alchemy, arrogance and blood seep through villas whose owners rattle dice cups on mosaics where the wolf packs stood.   the bleakest times of iron and mud soaked wars let a merchant church command the shafts. between the rage of Forresters, the Royal sword and the silver greed of Bishops, the land wept lead without a word.   near Cheddar streams as red as Waterloo soldiers boys curled up and faded with seven years of life. in the swamp smell tunnels, through gruffy ground, lamps in a thousand tents vanished in the wind and left the owl, in the mist, the only sound.   all quiet now on the desolate hill. no noise and silent graves, washed away with slurry but their spirits pray in the heather bed, near the reeds where snipe prepare for sleep and the grassland as the rabbits lick the lead.   and finally a short poem from the UK  about Covid19 by Georgina Shuckburgh  a west country poet.   Corona I remember when Corona Was a fizzy red drink, Long before we were Keyed by Lockdown. Men with yellow floppy hair Lead us who knows where And we resort to Zoom, Our new neighbourhood. The Queen comes out of hibernation To evoke another Dunkirk And ask us to stay at home, Saving the odd trip to the supermarket, Where staff with huge lollipops In strict two metre exclusion zones, March the aisles. And march we still in daily exercise To the beat of virus doom. Friends remark on guilty secrets Of peace and quiet and bird song Of books read and puzzles solved. The domestic violence of our precious lives Wielded not at each other But at another clod of earth. We few, we precious few, Give some thought to Those that risk their lives Whilst others fight for their’s And each Thursday proffer claps In exchange, Applauding our own survival.     My thanks , as always, to Alba Digital Media for technical assistance on this podcast.