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Contributing Creators Poetry ROOTS - MAR/APR 2019

The Broken Planet

Written by Sayyada Khaki

Sayyada Khaki (15) was born and raised in Moshi, Tanzania. This poem was originally written for a school project on human beings’ parasitic relationship with the world.

There once was a very lonely town,
With people no longer around.
I make it sound so sad,
But in reality, there’s nothing bad.
This is the story of the place,
That was called Balkanase.

Before the people left,
There was theft, people were stressed and depressed.
All the animals were sad,
Their hearts felt like they were being stabbed.
Literarily and metaphorically
They knew their end would come soon, catastrophically.

The issues they created were many,
The world became ugly and smelly.
They threw their trash without care,
They even began to poison the air
And everything seemed to go downhill,
You could buy anything with a one-dollar bill.

The trash began to take over,
There was no chance even with a four-leaf clover
People no longer seemed to care
There wasn’t even a single pear or bear only an empty snare
They saw the damage,
Even the animals had to scavenge

The demise of the humans came soon after,
The laughter seemed to disappear thereafter.
The humans finally began to suffer,
Life began to get even tougher

The trash was all over the ground, mountains and seas,
There were no more bees or even trees.
The trash was in piles and mounds,
The birds no longer made any sounds.
They had eaten all the trash,
The entire world was covered in ash.

Slowly but surely, we thought we reached the end.
There was no more money to overspend.
One by one the humans began to disappear.
The destroyers of our planet were leaving, we began to cheer.
We’d hoped the world would begin to heal,
And we slowly made a deal.

We began to plant trees,
We cared for our planet and slowly there was bees and even a breeze!
Prayers were made that those wretched humans were gone,
Found another planet to destroy by dawn.
We began living in peace,
The human’s impacts had finally begun to cease

Slowly we resorted our home the way it should be
The animals returned to the seas, we were carefree.
As long as the humans were never to return
Where they could suffer and burn.
I hate to sound so mean and cold
But you should have seen the situation I just told

Now it’s still a bit fragile and worn,
And sometimes we find the need to mourn.
This is the story we never will forget to tell,
The power of humans and our almost demise as well.
Don’t grieve children we say,
In the darkest moments, we found a way.

 

While I was growing up I had a fascination for Space Exploration however as I learned more about how much we’ve destroyed Earth, I realized the next generations could possibly not survive or live on another planet that has survivable conditions. As part of another school project, I wrote this short story/poem to express what I think would happen if we didn’t manage to save our planet (the human race would live on another planet but we soon make the same mistakes as we did on Earth). I wanted to raise awareness about how even if we find a survivable planet (if one exists), we cannot continue destroying planets and making the same mistakes.

-Sayyada Khaki

You can read more of Sayyada’s work here

Poetry ROOTS - MAR/APR 2019 Sybrand Veeger

Expansion and Contraction

Written by Sybrand Veeger

Expansion and Contraction:

I wasn’t the first to observe:
Nature expands through light
And contracts through gravity.

If this is nature’s music, her chordal root,
I’d like to dig deeper,
To play further:

Time’s movement cannot be linear.
It must follow the reality of light and gravity.

Perhaps timelessness, infinity,
Could be thought to resemble contraction.
Maybe timeliness, finitude,
Could be thought to resemble expansion.

What lives, grows and dies, is that which expands,
That which swells reality.
What is and is perpetually, energy, for instance,
Bears upon the finite,
Forcing it to yield,
Like gravity does on light!

The Spirit and Matter of history,
As Hegel and Marx observed respectively,
Dance tango to a pulsing beat:
The rhythm of Time’s dialectical feet.

If we listen closely to the music of history,
We detect its movements:

The allegro of Antiquity,
An adagio in early christianity,
A lentando into the middle age,
And a renaissance crescendo into an enlightened revolution – Accelerando!

Then modernity produced industry,
Which in turn swelled inequality,
Poverty, crooked morality:
The total misery of humanity.

Although there’s some delight in science, technology, globality!
Thanks to which nationality has lost some gravity.

History, then, moves accordingly:
Like an atom, chord and strings,
Expansively and contractively.

There are some tunes left in the chord root of Nature:

The body, human or otherwise,
Follows the tempo of a pump:
The neck’s pulse, the heart’s thump,
Allows for breath to dance likewise.

Exhalations, inhalations,
The vibrations, my pulsations.
Expansions and contractions
At the core of all sensations.

All that’s left is the spirit, the mind,
I hope it tango’s á la divine.
Allen Caldeira MICRO CHANGES - JAN/FEB 2019 Poetry

Special Leftovers

Written by Allen Caldiera

They have constructed the cocoon,
sparkling, diamond-body, fecund
sac of mottled clay, congealing
in a formless flotilla, the dew pearl,
a stamen for the light of moon.

And the soul is ferried
across the channel, a future fortress
for the fire-brand ball balancing
against the stem of mast,
basking in the lake before the river
before the castle, whose towers
it will rest in, whose apses
it will hover above while soldiers
work alembics and furnaces, shelter
windsacks and retorts, who press the ashes
of a phoenix cooked in clay into
the form of a future body, the form,
homunculus, fed by the blood of seven kings
and left to flower in the strike of daylight.

And the body is breathed, astrologers
operate breathwork automatons by the stars,
which haul fireworks to the shoreline, which stoke
the ember of an endless flame formed
from sunlight in their stomachs,
the priestesses and virgins flock
against shores, against the weight
of their hope, their longing for new days,
for re-born kings, for the unfurling
of the sail of the sun.

And the king unfurls his fingers,
tendrils of day, and embarks
in the memory of chrysalis,
the reconfiguration, molding of his body
in a soup thick like sap, mutable
like marble-mirrored light beams, hot as
fire on a wrung-dry forest floor, cold as
the shelterless northern wanderers in night.
“And where had I been when I was
there? How to know the body
if it is reconfigured ceaselessly?
How can one be himself when there
are infinite one’s to become? Is there a spark
is there a core? Is there any inkling of
immutability anywhere in”

And then a jolt –

the merchants
and soldiers, handmaids and schoolboys,
priestesses and plum farmers,
flower-haired, confetti-formed,
waiting at the shore to ferry him home.
MICRO CHANGES - JAN/FEB 2019 Poetry Sybrand Veeger

Heraclitus and “I”

Written by Sybrand Veeger

To the skies he cried,

Nothing is but fire!

Observing thus that everything is change.

He knew that God-or-Nature had but one desire:

To stay in flux, to stay in flow, to re- and rearrange!

Nothing ever stands, for the cosmos eternally will dance:

Being’s moves are both random and necessary,

For the beat is chaotic yet perpetually voluntary.

One never steps into the same river twice,

Whispered our Greek identifying parallel streams:

The river flows and so do I,

Observing thus that “I” is something else than what it seems:

There is no meaningful, purposeful or essential “I,”

Or a “self” to be developed as a self-contained existence;

Rather life’s basic playfulness is unwise to deny!

If at every instant “I” returns as another

and as an other,

Self is a ceaseless repetition of different others to discover:

If this morphing game is a play of masks

Like an inwardly theatre with no future, with no past,

We should conclude that self’s a stream                                                                       or a perpetual come-and-go,

That there is no truthful state that will one day lead the show –

So?

Unfold all masks!

Release all fire!

Let us play!

Let us dance! – to the cosmic beat’s desire.

Marten Bart Stork MICRO CHANGES - JAN/FEB 2019 Poetry

Creatio Ex Nihilo

Written by Marten Bart Stork

(A) Small change.
(B) A little different.

A little goes a long way.

Together all the bugs on this planet not only got us outnumbered, but they also got us outweighed.

What’s a little and what’s a lot?
What is big and what is not?

An amount only has meaning in comparison to something else.

The size of something only has meaning in comparison to something else.
What is a galaxy to us could be only the nucleus of a cell.

The cell of a body so big we could never even experience it as such.

What’s small change for you to someone else could mean so much.

Make (a) small change.
(B)e a little different.

What is change?
What is difference?

Change is everything.

Change is the difference between everything and nothing.
The conflict between everything and nothing.

Change is energy.

If an object or an event never change it’s impossible to experience them.

If there is no difference between things it’s impossible to observe the things.

Difference is information.

The difference between 0 and 1

Creation out of nothing.

Everything is the change from nothing into something.

Change is the difference between everything and nothing.