The Loneliest Man in the World- a sestina

Tags

agribusinesses, Amazon, habitat loss, illegal loggers, Man of the Hole, North Rondonia, pistoleros, sarampion, sestina, yams

The harbingers of the highway, strange men –

pistoleros? – murdered his tribe.  Alone,

he raises maize and yams.  He is the last

to roam 4,000 hectares; to survive

sarampion, flu, smallpox and the loss

of relationships, family and friends.

The agribusinesses have been no friends

to Amazonian rainforests.  Men

decimate the land; their gain is loss.

This man has lived for twenty years alone.

With four, or five, some other tribes survive,

but human diversity will not last.

When the illegal loggers have, at last,

razed every tree to the forest floor, friends

of the indigenous will not survive.

Stripping rare plants that might have healed men

will leave us with dilemmas, all alone,

to face health crises; scientific loss.

In today’s world we experience loss –

loss of our souls; our languages.  The last

man to roam North Rondonia alone

at least felt what it was once to have friends.

He knew the co-operation of men

was vital for tribe members to survive.

Without his wisdom, how can we survive?

No man is an island.  All sense the loss.

Our planet is affected – even men

who murdered his kin.  The effects will last,

impacting their families and their friends.

Doubtless their guilt should not be borne alone.

Corporations do not erode alone.

Immunity itself will not survive.

Time’s arrow can pierce foes and even friends.

The Man of the Hole, who suffered great loss,

knows his breath will be surrendered at last,

but he holds that in common with all men.

Friends of our earth, how shall we survive loss

of habitats and species?  Fellow men,

look at this last man.  He’s not alone.

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A post of the poem I already published in February 2021.

‘The Man in the Hole’ was found outside his straw hut, dead in a hammock

and covered with Macaw feathers. He was aged about 60 and no foul play

is suspected at this time.

The Loneliest Man in the World (Sestina)

Tags

agribusinesses, Amazon, habitat loss, human diversity, illegal loggers, North Rondonia, pistoleros, sarampion, The Man of the Hole, yams

The harbingers of the highway, strange men –

pistoleros? – murdered his tribe.  Alone,

he raises maize and yams.  He is the last

to roam 4,000 hectares; to survive

sarampion, flu, smallpox and the loss

of relationships, family and friends.

 

The agribusinesses have been no friends

to Amazonian rainforests.  Men

decimate the land; their gain is loss.

This man has lived for twenty years alone.

With four, or five, some other tribes survive,

but human diversity will not last.

 

When the illegal loggers have, at last,

razed every tree to the forest floor, friends

of the indigenous will not survive.

Stripping rare plants that might have healed men

will leave us with dilemmas, all alone,

to face health crises; scientific loss.

 

In today’s world we experience loss –

loss of our souls; our languages.  The last

man to roam North Rondonia alone

at least felt what it was once to have friends.

He knew the co-operation of men

was vital for tribe members to survive.

 

Without his wisdom, how can we survive?

No man is an island.  All sense the loss.

Our planet is affected – even men

who murdered his kin.  The effects will last,

impacting their families and their friends.

Doubtless their guilt should not be borne alone.

 

Corporations do not erode alone.

Immunity itself will not survive.

Time’s arrow can pierce foes and even friends.

The Man of the Hole, who suffered great loss,

knows his breath will be surrendered at last,

but he holds that in common with all men.

 

Friends of our earth, how shall we survive loss

of habitats and species?  Fellow men,

look at this last man.  He’s not alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Who Do I Think I Am?

Tags

Amazon, dementia buddy, Hilary Boyd, Seurat, Sondheim, Sunday in the Park with George

Tiger-Lily decided to visit her grandmother, Ginevra, to interview her for a school History and Raising Self-Esteem project.  The synthesising thread that suffused the two areas was genealogical research and the children had been given the title: Who Do I Think I Am?

Tiger-Lily’s mother, Carrie, had often said to her daughter:  And who do you think you are, young lady?  However, the question had been given a different emphasis.

Magda, Ginevra’s carer, answered the door.  Shhh! she said.  Come into the kitchen and have a …hot chocolate.  She had nearly offered Tiger a gin and tonic, but remembered in time that this was inappropriate.  I’m a little worried about your grandmother.  She has been in the study all day, on the computer.  She hasn’t moved for six hours.  At first I thought she might be-you know…. Magda trailed off, not wishing to involve a teenager in too much anxiety.

What are you up to, gran? asked Tiger-Lily, pushing open the study door and spilling some of the hot chocolate in the process.  Oops!  She spooned out some of the melting mini-marshmallows and ate them, to leave a little more room in the mug.

Cover of Sunday in the Park with George

Oh, hello, said Ginevra, not even turning round to greet her granddaughter.  I’m busy writing my e-book called Sunday in the Park with George.  It’s about an eighty year old woman who meets a man on a mobility scooter and is knocked head over heels by him.  Sometimes they feed the ducks together.  It’s..

…raunchy gran-lit, said Tiger.  But you can’t use that title, gran.

Why not? said Ginevra indignantly.

Because it’s the name of a Sondheim musical.

Oh, really?  I thought it was something to do with that spotty painter.

Yes, Seurat, said Tiger who had seen his paintings in a book in the Art block.

Well, he’s dead, so the copyright won’t apply.  Maybe I could change it to Sunday in the Park with Graham, Gordon or Gregory.  Yes, Gregory sounds okay.  Anyway, there’s a woman called Hilary Boyd who gets 20 pence every time someone downloads her e-book.  Amazon might put me on promotion.  I don’t know why I’ve waited so long to do this.  Mary Wesley was the same: she didn’t publish till she was past seventy.

Twenty pence won’t buy you too many Dewlaps, gran.  I don’t want to discourage you, but..  Privately, Tiger thought that old people doing it was disgusting and writing about doing it was even more reprehensible..  But old to Tiger was anyone over the age of twenty.

You’ll be singing a different tune when I’m on some programme with that woman Mariella Jockstrap, said Ginevra determinedly.  Anyway, what did you want?

I wanted to ask you about our roots.  It’s for my school project.

Ginevra spun round on the swivel chair.  There was nothing she liked better than to be the centre of attention.

Magda, get me the photo albums, will you?  Oh, and a Dewlap, darling.

Tiger settled in for the long haul.

When I married your grandfather it was really on the rebound, she began.

Gran wouldn’t need a dementia buddy- she had superb recall.

Wait, gran.  I’m just going to record you on my phone. Tiger could see an A* in the bag.  She just hoped there wouldn’t be too much information.