I’m clearing up last night’s Scrabble
and waiting for the toast to pop up
when the title for an unwritten poem
pops up, unbidden, into my head.
I wonder what structure and tone
the poem will take.
Will it be a mirror
which reflects the meandering
narratives of Kirill Medvedev?
Or a string of opaque images
like Paul Emery?
Maybe I’ll try my hand at an original poem
in the style of me?
I think this last one impossible.
All of my poems are a concatenation
of every poem I’ve ever read,
ending up with whatever my latest poem is.
when such a word as concatenation
jumps into the forefront of my mind,
I’ll dismiss it,
unless I’m being deliberately Gilbertian
for comic effect;
but I’m not feeling that brand
of funny today.
Then I remember Sheila’s comment
about my father:
Sometimes, he would come out with a really long word,
and I would wonder if he was making it up.
Making up for a lifetime of absence,
these days he’s rarely far from
the forefront of my mind,
and so concatenation it is,
a tiny acknowledgement of my father,
in a poem which has nothing to do about my father.
Perhaps that explains its appearance,
the word having stayed hidden in my mind
after I’d encountered it
in some dense historical tome,
or a book about politics;
or possibly one about the impending
which is currently doing its sprint finish,
due to overtake us any day now –
unless it already has –
although we won’t realise it has
until we see it reach the finishing line,
ahead of us,
as we come in last,
in a world-sized stadium
filled with the impotent
harrumphs of a lifetime
of social media tantrums.
I interrupt myself
in order to put on my shoes.
I’ve recently decided
that I prefer writing with my shoes on.
I don’t know if the wearing of a pair of shoes –
or, rather, the pair of shoes,
as I only have one pair –
has a beneficial effect on my writing,
but it’s an oddity
which I’ve gradually come to acquire;
one of those idiosyncrasies which evolve
like always writing in pencil,
or having to start every notebook
with yet another poem
about the starting of a new notebook.
The evolution of who I am:
of largely inexplicable habits
whereby I become
an ever more complicated
and ridiculous version of myself;
the unconscious becoming
of a unique, complex belief-system
according to which I live my life.
It’s fortunate that I’m not the new Messiah,
or other people might also start believing
that it is imperative
to buy every album release
which contains a contribution from Johnny Marr,
along with having to wear shoes while writing poetry,
or having to use a knife and fork
to eat sandwiches.
Plastic Concerns was the title.
It’s less a metaphor, and more a pun,
and puns have very low status in poetry,
unless you’re from Japan,
where puns are an acceptable form of expression.
Perhaps therein lies the ambiguity
which I feel towards this title:
I like it as a pun,
but as poetry,
I find it unacceptable.
There is a cacophony of despair
at the discovery of a new continent of plastic,
the latest triumph of human ingenuity;
a cacophony which seems as ubiquitous as plastic in the oceans.
The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse
each now has an entire cavalry
at its disposal,
although I don’t know which regiment
this thing belongs to:
War? Pestilence? Death?
Having discovered this new continent –
the Continent of Plastica,
or perhaps Plasticopia
(no, it’s definitely Plastica) –
I react as I always do to such things:
with a not-quite-detached
after stumbling across the suitably ominous video of Plastica
online for the nth time,
Whence all the plastic?
and stumbled, in my subsequent search,
across a statistic which I hadn’t seen mentioned
by any of the concerned posters:
46% of Plastica is made from
discarded plastic fishing nets.
And the majority of the rest of it?
Other fishing gear:
Other fishing gear:
Give up plastic bottles!
Give up plastic bags!
Give up straws!
Recycle! Reuse! Sign petition!
Tick, tick, possible tick.
Give up eating fish!
FFS, you vegans are so…
Around 100 million sharks
are killed each year
the by-product of fishing;
fishing with plastic nets.
There’s a picture of a deformed turtle,
one of the four holes of the plastic packaging apocalypse,
from the Regiment of Beer Four-Packs,
strangling its shell.
It’s a picture we look at
the sky-high photograph album
of dolphins, whales, sharks,
fish, fish, and fish –
and turtles –
which have all been killed by bikill
in the pursuit of marine cuisine;
maritime mass murder;
the unintended consequence
of battered cod,
or whatever fish ends up in the kitchen.
Without our plastic bottles,
our plastic bags,
our plastic straws,
our recycling plants,
or our online petitions,
the Continent of Plastica will continue to expand.
Perhaps the campaigns –
to ban plastic bottles,
to ban plastic bags,
to ban plastic straws –
will be 100% successful,
while, amid our empty self-congratulation,
Plastica grows and grows and grows,
it will be left to float above the dead ocean,
and all of our plastic concerns for that ocean
will be seen,
by our grandchildren,
for what they really were:
Around 100 million sharks killed every year
Seafood may be gone by 2048
46% of the tonnage of the plastic garbage patch is fishing nets, the majority of the rest is composed of other fishing industry gear