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| Kushal Poddar |
We have been gazing long enough into the abyss of a rapidly unraveling social structure, moral injustice and above all the changing climates and the ecosystem going to rack and ruin. A vast section of us ignore the truths, but even ignoring a truth is a hollow way to acknowledge an anomaly in a false-faith. So we all have been gazing into the abyss in our own way. Dear Friedrich Nietzsche, does this mean that the abyss has been gazing back into us, changing us, making us lift that safety latch?
We know even if we pretend not to that climate is shrinking the scope of the world as we know it. Is it that sense of doomsday that makes us more careless? Does it give rise to the most corrupt governments in eons everywhere? Is it the reason why we sit on the edge of reasons and sometimes take the leap, shoot our classmates or brothers across the borders? Did we know it always? The cave men us? The new world explorer us?
Poets are unstable catalysts. They can undo the things undone. Perhaps the poets should scriven the holy chants in favour of the social and eco justice. May be their collective consciousness stir up a change towards the better sustenance.
If I were a poet (wait a minute, I am!) I would have written this:
Where The Nuclear Power Plant Melted Down
I hear the footsteps, do not turn, murmur,
"There, they say, roams a wolf, lone,
near the core, in the epicenter."
"I know." Says the wolf.
I steal a peek and lower my eyes.
The beast of this radioactive zone
looks like a deformed reincarnation
of my old man. I close my eyes.
If you gaze at the wolf long enough
the wolf will leave a trace of it inside you.
Ashes still fly when wind so desires.
My hazmat suit makes me a traveller
in space sent in a sleep capsule,
and now that I have seen and reported
about the ruin they no longer need my existence.
Or
I might delve into the life and desire during the duress of the drifting climate and write -
A Family During This Eco-deconstruction
Midst of this haze
the sun rises and sets.
We can discern the shades,
shapeless, tempera smudges
between the time-poles of darkness.
The pink eye hurts the grey sky
bulges out, pushes the nerves.
Clouds at the corners clot like gunks.
Rain tastes saline, and acidic, of mucus.
Midst this chaos my wife fabricates
a home I deconstruct using the daily news.
Climate Change, Eco-activism, Whisperings of Social Justice
Climate Change, Eco-activism, Whisperings of Social Justice: Authors
Great effort Kushal, keep it happening:-) Robert Maddox-Harle
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