Sunday, May 2, 2010

Oil Spill Spilling Poetry




Oil
By Nordette N. Adams
[audio file]

That bird don't know me.
If I met that bird
on a beach, it might christen me.
That bird might drop bombs like karma
on my head or peck my ankles with its long beak
if I cornered it, if I limited
flight.

Look at its eye!

Look at the tinge
of affliction managed.
A human closes fingers around a feathered neck,
siphons out a throat,
helping, hoping to help,
healing.

Humans.
We like making holes in the deep blue sea.
We like seeing illustrations of our compassion
in the aftermath of chaos.

We like fixing things that need to be fixed
because we like fixing problems like
our shortage of fossil
fuels.

That "bird is normally white with a yellow head"
but now it's slick. It's black,
but not cool like jazz trumpet grooves.
It's denigrated.

We like fixing things
like ravaged wetlands,
and chem-soaked rivers,
and polluted groundwater,
like Gulf Coast oil spills,
and polar ice caps melting,
and holes in the ozone layer,
and almost blown to bits soldiers,
and that other country's genocide,
and horribly caged fat chickens,
like third world babies starving,
and ammonia in our ground beef,
and fall-out from enhanced corn,
and obesity, and levees,
and savage inequalities,
and hatred, and memories
of history, and air,
and we like to save
cash,
and the Confederacy,
and baby whales,
and penguins,
and fetuses,
and hope
to restore
all things
that come
from the
fix.

Fix that bird!

It has an eye
like the
blues.

© 2010 Nordette N. Adams


Photo from Getty Images via CNN

4 comments:

Sage Sweetwater said...

Goose of a Different Color

The goose and the firebrand
threatened with incineration,
their fate randomly written
across the woodland.

A blast of heat hits her,
she rescues the goose,
a reminder that a muse's
power has no limits.

Ignited by a careless
woodcutter, the tinder
here already from the
infestation of mountain pine beetle.

The sprinkler pipe on loan
to the muse, from Mormon
farmers to wet down the
goose migration corridor.

Writers of today will see
fire behavior and oil spill situations that they've never
seen in their careers.

The muse comes from a
surge of wind and flame,
sifting through charred trees, looking for the carboned wings
of the goose.

The muse's expertise in fire ecology estimates regrowth patterns, counts lodgepole
pine seed wings leaving a blueprint design for future diversity.

The poet, to start to renew,
serotinous and open only
when heated, a poet's insurance
policy that the poet will start renewal.

As for the goose, mother nature is
her primary manager, life in the woodland is self-priming, a blackened forest from fire or oil refinery soot is a distraction.

Copyright 2.26.2006 Sage Sweetwater
http://www.authorsden.com/sagesweetwater

verble said...

Thank you for the poem. It's the first Gulf oil spill poem I've seen. Sometimes the "facts" of an event don't really cover it. That's where poetry comes in.

Rahkyt said...

Ive been thinking of writing about the spill...I guess I will, but what uve written here is very applicable, graphic and disturbing in its implications. There has to b an end to it..i just wonder if it will b an ending of our choice.

Roger Vincent NZ said...

Gulf of Mexico

Oil is leaking everywhere,
not a drop for cars to drink.
Sea and sand are full of it
but no one’s stopped to think.

If God put us on the earth
to manage its resources,
were we not all better off
when we were riding horses?

If cars could run on water
and man could make it rain,
would we all work together
or would greed take hold again?

Feel sorry for Obama
and the bosses of BP.
Save the sea and clean the mess
what responsibility.

By Roger Vincent – author of
Apostrophe to Zenith.