Tuesday poem: ‘…Transient creatures that swarm and multiply…’
October 10, 2016
‘…Transient creatures that swarm and multiply…’
Galaxies expanding —
every grass patch blinks
with five hundred petalled suns.
Bees travel between them
mining pollen from stars.
Aliens hover amongst us,
just like us in gold lust
and frantic accumulation.
For us, though,
it’s always spring,
exempt from rumours
of compromising change.
Our ears are buzzing
with far less than bees.
The canals are Martian,
quite epically empty.
P.S. Cottier
The quotation in the title is from The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells. The quote refers to microscopic creatures, but we shall not quibble. The canals on Mars, exploited in the poem for a pun, turned out to be mere features of topography (Here I must insert a green alien saying ‘That’s what you think!’ followed by a sinister laugh. It’s compulsory.)
Mining anything from stars would be a tad difficult, I know, but I’ll flourish my poetic licence on that one, to any cruising and literal minded traffic cops of the blogosphere.
There’s a great tradition of books about creating a breathable atmosphere on Mars, and I’m also harnessing that to a poem partly about our rabid experimentation with earth’s climate.
It’s amazing where a patch of daisies can lead you!
UPDATE: So the gutless NSW Premier has changed his mind on banning greyhound racing. Cruelty 1, Compassion 0. I’ll be interested to see what the ACT government does in response.
And then there’s Mars…
April 9, 2011
It’s fifty years since Yuri Gagarin went into space (April 12), following a few unfortunate animals who had no choice. No doubt about it, he was brave. There are many events happening worldwide for ‘Yuri’s Night’, go here for more info.
Here’s a little poem about him. This poem was previously published in The Mozzie (Queensland):
Gagarin’s death
Yuri Gagarin, first human being in space, died on a training flight in a MiG jet on 27 March 1968.
Some say it was the weather,
and others far too much fuel;
and of course, conspiracies
always have their murky place.
Personally, I believe it was
a simple swarm of birds.
Not envious, not teaching
a Soviet Icarus a thing or two.
I think they just came to see
a man who’d seen much more
than any stonechat who knows
Summer Siberia and Winter Japan.
At least you died in flight.
Some things just have to be.
P.S. Cottier
***
And then there’s Mars. When are we going to get there? Here’s another poem about space exploration, previously published in this very blog in 2009:
Dear NASA,
When we reach Mars, kicking up red dust,
walking against gusts like Marcel Marceau,
let’s not do what we did on the Moon,
forty leap and leap-less years ago.
Let us not plant any one nation’s flag,
like a toothpick through a lump of party cheese.
Might a woman set her feet first on the planet
so often connected with war? And please,
please, no one takes golf clubs, whether niblicks
putters, drivers or irons. Let Mars stay a place
untouched by sprees of futility, no heady sticks
to launch tiny white balls into circles of space.
Leave no junk; let the plains spread clearly.
Just a few thoughts from
yours, sincerely.
P.S. Cottier
Dear NASA
October 22, 2009
Ths poem recently won first prize in the C.J. Dennis Literary Awards (Auburn, South Australia) on the theme The Universe: Yours to Explore. Such an overwhelming topic seemed to call out for a little humour:
Dear NASA,
When we reach Mars, kicking up red dust,
walking against gusts like Marcel Marceau,
let’s not do what we did on the Moon,
forty leap and leap-less years ago.
Let us not plant any one nation’s flag,
like a toothpick through a lump of party cheese.
Might a woman set her feet first on the planet
so often connected with war? And please,
please, no one takes golf clubs, whether niblicks
putters, drivers or irons. Let Mars stay a place
untouched by sprees of futility, no heady sticks
to launch tiny white balls into circles of space.
Leave no junk; let the plains spread clearly.
Just a few thoughts from
yours, sincerely.
P.S. Cottier
PS Cottier 