Apocalypse When?
A strange, milk-cloud sky, skimpy, with the sun
a pale, dimly-glowing disc, and my pen scarce
casting a shadow as the nib limps over the page.
Out on the west coast, fires still range free and this
is the result, these high, thin clouds casting a spider
web cloak over the sun face and darkening the day.
The west coast: five or six hours by plane and three
whole days to get there by train, even longer by bus,
all chops and changes with multiple stops.
The wind blew and the clouds came widdershins,
backwards across the continent. Today they reached
across the ocean to claw the sun from European skies.
It is indeed a small world after all. Isostasy:
you push the balloon in here, and it bulges out
over there, in the place you least expected
Now we are all interconnected in an intricate network
of a thousand ways and means. What does it all mean?
Ripples ruffle the beaver pond’s dark mirror.
The forest mutters wind-words, devious and cruel,
that I sense, but cannot understand. High in the sky
clouds turn into horsemen on plunging steeds.
Fear, fire, flood, foe, poverty, pandemic, crops destroyed,
unemployment, and, waiting in the wings, the threat of civil unrest,
leading to the apocalypse, and another war to end all wars.
Commentary:
Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. I wrote that particular poem several years ago. Poets, some people say, are sensitive to time and its changes. Certainly, this poem is full of premonitions that still ring true today. We have seen the sky cloudy from the various forest fires that have colored and covered the skies here in NB. We have smelled the burning and seen the sun blotted out, not entirely, but just enough for a slight, subtle chill to settle in. Shivers can come from the weather, but they can also arise from premonitions and fear of the future and what it might hold.
High in the sky, clouds turn into horsemen on plunging steeds. This particular line comes from Ponferrada – Pons Ferrata in Latin. Sitting in the park one day, I saw the clouds lining up, climbing higher and higher, then pouring down from the hills like a cavalry charge. It reminded me of the legends of St. James, the Moor-slayer / Santiago Matamoros, who appeared in the sky at various battles and helped the Spanish defeat the Moors, during the Reconquista, and reclaim the land of Spain. So may poetic moments were born from those days. We would do well to remember them.
Another war to end all wars – oh dear, oh dear, how many of those have there been throughout history? Countless, no doubt, and yet there’s always another one, waiting in ambush, just around the corner. Well, the next war to end all wars may just do that, especially if the unthinkable happens and it goes thermo-nuclear. Mad, the world is going mad and it’s very sad because madness – MAD > Mutually Assured Destruction – will destroy us and our planet. And then we will all be homeless, in the worst sense of the word, for as many demonstrators have said, waving their placards from side to side, ‘There is no Planet B.”
rogermoorepoet 