A found poem.


We are, or so we say
the only species to have ever attacked
mother nature and won.


The first story of life tells us, we called it nature,
and so we do not regard ourselves as
a part of it.


The second tells us,
we are apart from the world,
disjointed and disconnected.


And so, our unique glory is contained,
for the myth of progress
is founded on the bones of nature,
each is intimately bound up
within the other.


We are surrounded by evidence that
our attempt to separate from nature
is but a grim failure,
a spotlight not on our successes
but our hubris.


This upheaval of centuries.
                      Men thinking themselves intelligent,
    underlies the crisis we now face.


We imagined ourselves upon a throne,
nature beneath our feet,
yet the fallout from
this imaginative error,
lies in the rubble surrounding us.
An acre and a half of rainforest is desiccated every second.

And what bloody fist
holds the keys that lead to this?
With these facts, we can glimpse the
violence to which our myths
have driven us.


Yet horror strikes our face at the
aforementioned facts,
climate change highlights the painful colour,
the head-on crash between civilisation and ‘nature’,
yet the media dresses it with ‘crazy’ and ‘unscientific’ hung around its neck.


Civilisations machine has a need for permanent growth,
regardless of what it tramples underfoot.
It will require us to destroy ourselves in its name,
and at last,
we will be powerless.


These are the facts,
or some of them,
as if facts could prove anything.

Because they often conceal,
as much as they expose.


  • A found poem, based on an extract from ‘The Dark Mountain Manifesto’


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