Hi,
This blog combines an interest in things to do with cities with an interest in creative writing.
In Australia, where I live, natural hazards have a huge affect on cities and towns. The recent news tells me that California and Greece also suffer from the spectacular disasters we call “bushfires” (“wildfires” in the US). But there are also storms, cyclones, floods, earthquakes and the like. My frustration as a retired urban planner is that people don’t seem to learn. This frustration is made worse by the way that people who can make money out of selling property, or who have the influence to sway local decision-makers, can take advantage of ignorance. For example, a “1 in 100 flood” does not mean if it flooded this year you can expect to be safe for the next 99 years. It means in every single year there is a 1 percent chance that there will be a serious flood. Some people falsely promise safety to line their pockets.
So I wrote a poem about “The Feasting Spirits of the Land”. Another version of the poem won third prize in the the Sutherland Shire Literary Competition earlier this year, something I’m very proud of. Enjoy.
The Feasting Spirits of the Land
When outflung arm extols the blue-grey haze
extending from house to far bush-clad slope;
when a grey-hearted townie trades his ways,
and ‘midst tumbled trees lays out his fresh hope;
when each avaricious tycoon surveys
bush patches seeking exploitable scope;
then the Spirit of Bushfires licks dry lips,
recalling the tang of charred dry gum tips,
reminded of fire-feasts, wind-gusted trips.
And waits!
A dishonest developer deceives
officials that her swampy land is dry,
or that small fixes, she truly believes,
will divert floodwaters to creeks nearby.
Or a clear past mistake duly receives
permit for a dead home rebuilt. Oh, why?
The River Flood Spirit flaunts its delight,
its shifting wet shape concealing its might.
Savouring swirling mud, dark as midnight,
It waits!
When unsightly mangroves are trimly shaped
to form elite special coastal havens;
when ancient front dunes are flattened and draped
with tawdry icons, flocked like ravens,
so mimicking myriad sweet places raped
by theatrical piles from design mavens.
Now the Storm Spirit licks its salty bones,
and tastes again the wave-washed wind-flecked foam.
Its bright eyes reflect dejected drowned homes.
And it waits!
When each catastrophe brings an inquest
with no lessons learned from pasts soon forgot;
when recov’ry means but shunning the best
and putting back only what they had got.
Victims forget, so new people are blessed
with ignorance of the pain that’s their lot.
While greed is praised, and riches build power,
the Spirits know all is theirs to devour;
their feasting is sure, for soon comes their hour.
So they wait!
4th August, 2018
My city
(With apologies to the homesick Dorothea Mackellar, who in 1908, while living in the UK, published a heartfelt poem about her love of the the Australian outback, a poem now called “My Country”. She loved a ‘sunburnt country, a land of sweeping plains’. I love cities.)
An origin myth of bold settlers
Droving slowly ‘cross sun-burnt plains,
Fighting fires and floods and famine
Runs through our country’s veins.
Strong love of epic distance,
Dry rivers and bush-blued skies.
I know, but cannot share it,
My heart lies otherwise.
I love the urbane city,
Its buzz and power mains,
Inventive arts and civics;
Its history and good drains.
I love the clean city water,
I love free art galleries.
Our cities embrace and support us:
The city life for me!
The seduction of hidden laneways,
Mysteries behind iron lace;
The tales layered in buildings
Tell of heroes and common-place.
Lush green amongst the structures
With parks and squares and malls
Where friends will meet, and chatter,
And new prospects open for all.
Soul of my heart is the city!
But pity the poor and the stranger
When lost in the maze of new streets,
And shadows flicker with danger.
But then bystanders give direction,
And trust overwhelms growing fear.
Surroundings take on a new meaning
As familiar and novel are shared.
Soul of my heart is the city!
Green suburbs their families enfold.
For crush and cars and litter
It pays us back manyfold.
Grand places and quiet oases
Accessed by car, bus or train.
Our cities keep on giving succour
The longer we choose to remain.
Select shops and cute cafes,
Old books and new indie bands.
Rewards from many fresh cultures,
Joyous joining of hearts and of hands.
Though Earth holds many splendours
And even wide spaces may please,
I know that I love city offerings
For that’s where I’m truly at peace.
John Minnery
(Published in “Australian Planner”, 29 June, 2017 —
http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/07293682.2017.1345964 )
John's place 