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Hurricane, c. 2030

by James Graham 

Posted: 04 November 2012
Word Count: 160
Summary: Trying to write a climate change poem. Failed so far. This is an old one which might, with a squeeze, just fit the subject.


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Hurricane, c. 2030

It was category five, the third in as many months.
The book was thumbed again; they named him Nathan.
Romping in Emily's path awhile, he soon made off
on a deviously different course. But the mind

of the wind was known. Five days before
young Nathan found his feet, his cataclysmic dreams
were modelled in high resolution, and his courses
mapped and measured to the yard. And fill the sky
with roofs or brandish bridges as he might, the people
were all gone. All but a very few -

an oddball solitary who saw his rescuers off
with a salutory salvo, a company of twelve
snuggled in the basement of some Church of Grace -

were off to breezy towns a hundred miles away.
In cars and buses heading west and east,
the children of the cities, free of school for now,
chattering, questioning, pointing at their screens,
contrived with their elders ways to live on Earth.






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Comments by other Members



Dave Morehouse at 14:38 on 05 November 2012  Report this post
James. I enjoy the narrative of this poem. The story is powerful in a manner-of-fact timeline. I think this poem addresses climate change subtly and fills the bill in that regard. The title sets the reader up and the opening stanza narrating three CAT5 hurricanes in succession differs from what we experience today.

Getting back to our previous discussions regarding prose v. verse I think this would work well as a prose poem also. It functions nicely as a prose poem or free verse because it is a story told perfectly. That said, even though it works nicely in porse form I don't see and decided advantage. In other words, the prose form isn't any more powerful than the verse. (It does LOOK more like a weathermap hurricane in prose form.)

It was category five, the third in as many months. The book was thumbed again; they named him Nathan. Romping in Emily's path awhile, he soon made off on a deviously different course. But the mind of the wind was known. Five days before young Nathan found his feet, his cataclysmic dreams were modelled in high resolution, and his courses
mapped and measured to the yard.

And fill the sky with roofs or brandish bridges as he might, the people were all gone. All but a very few - an oddball solitary who saw his rescuers off with a salutory salvo, a company of twelve snuggled in the basement of some Church of Grace - were off to breezy towns a hundred miles away. In cars and buses heading west and east, the children of the cities, free of school for now, chattering, questioning, pointing at their screens, contrived with their elders ways to live on Earth.


Sorry to muddle things up. I do like the poem. I was just moving things around and this is what it looks like. Must've been the wind... Thanks fro sharing. Dave

James Graham at 11:35 on 07 November 2012  Report this post
Thanks Dave. It was well worth putting it in prose; I think it reads quite well. We've had some that seem to work better in one form or the other, but this one seems quite comfortable in both. I'll file away both versions and maybe at some later date decide which to submit. Thanks again - I'm pleased the narrative works.

James.


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