Al Gore: God's Gift to Mankind (?)

From Vanity Fair, this gem:

Al Gore: The Poet Laureate of Climate Change (by Mark Hertsgaard)

You can read the entire article, of course, but the gist of it is that in his new book, Our Choice, Al Gore includes a poem of his own writing-- "21 lines of verse that are equal parts beautiful, evocative, and disturbing".

Apparently, Gore wanted his book to contain one more chapter-- one detailing "the impacts of climate change"-- but his editor refused, intent on keeping the focus on "solutions, not gloom and doom".

(*gasp*  No!  Say it ain't so!)

If you're anything like me, you'll be thrilled to read that, "undeterred by his editor’s ruling, Gore re-imagined his impacts chapter in poetic form."

(*whistling, cheering, clapping*)

More snippets from the article:

The result is a surprisingly accomplished, nuanced piece of writing. The images Gore conjures in his (untitled) poem turn a neat trick: they are visually specific and emotionally arresting even as they are scientifically accurate.

. . .

It’s usually a mistake to read too much literal meaning into poetry. But the final lines of Gore’s poem certainly apply to the governments that will gather in Copenhagen from December 7 to 18 for what is regarded as humanity’s last chance to avert absolutely catastrophic climate change.

. . .

. . .the hour of choosing has indeed arrived and, as documented in Our Choice, we do have the tools to survive—if we choose to employ them.

Well, after such high praise, surely you must be eager to read the magnificent poem.

Unfortunately (?), the article only shares fourteen of the twenty-one lines of sheer brilliance:

One thin September soon
A floating continent disappears
In midnight sun

Vapors rise as
Fever settles on an acid sea

. . .


Snow glides from the mountain
Ice fathers floods for a season
A hard rain comes quickly

Then dirt is parched
Kindling is placed in the forest
For the lightning’s celebration

. . .


The shepherd cries
The hour of choosing has arrived
Here are your tools

Ugh.  What a total gag-fest.

And if Al Gore's a poet, I must be a brilliant nuclear physicist.  (Which I'm most decidedly not, I assure you.)

"Some Little Bug"

I can't remember where I found this, originally. I think I was looking for a poem to recite for an "oral communications" assignment, so it probably turned up in some old book of verse. I'm sure I have it copied down somewhere, but I didn't need to go hunt it up, thanks to the Internet. I didn't realize there was more to it than the first stanza, though, so some of it's new to me. . .

Anyway, after reading an e-mail warning of the possible health risks associated with drinking "Wal-Mart milk" (or any milk from hormone-treated cows), I pondered the fact that these days it sometimes seems that nothing's really good for you to eat. Even your water and spinach may be tainted!

And then I started thinking that, you know, that's really nothing new. Apparently (supposedly?) this poem (or maybe it's really a song?) has been around (in one form or another) since the 1890s!

Some Little Bug

In these days of indigestion it is oftentimes a question
As to what to eat and what to leave alone.
Every microbe and bacillus has a different way to kill us
And in time they all will claim us for their own.
There are germs of every kind in every food that you can find
In the market or upon the bill of fare.
Drinking water's just as risky as the so-called "deadly" whiskey
And it's often a mistake to breathe the air.

Cho: For some little bug is going to get you someday.
   Some little bug will creep behind you some day.
   Then he'll send for his bug friends
   And all your troubles they will end,
   For some little bug is gonna find you someday.

The inviting green cucumber, it's most everybody's number
While sweetcorn has a system of its own.
Now, that radish seems nutritious, but its behavior is quite vicious
And a doctor will be coming to your home.
Eating lobster, cooked or plain, is only flirting with ptomaine,
While an oyster often has a lot to say.
And those clams we eat in chowder make the angels sing the louder
For they know that they'll be with us right away.

For some little bug is going to get you someday.
Some little bug will creep behind you some day.
Eat that juicy sliced pineapple ;and the sexton dusts the chapel
Oh, yes, some little bug is gonna find you some day.

When cold storage vaults I visit, I can only say, "What is it
Makes poor mortals fill their systems with such stuff?"
Now, at breakfast prunes are dandy if a stomach pump is handy
And a doctor can be called quite soon enough.

Eat a plate of fine pig's knuckles and the headstone cutter chuckles
While the gravedigger makes a mark upon his cuff.
And eat that lovely red bologna and you'll wear a wood kimona
As your relatives start packing up your stuff.

Those crazy foods they fix, they'll float us 'cross the River Styx
Or start us climbing up the Milky Way.
And those meals they serve in courses mean a hearse and two black horses
So before meals, some people always pray.

Luscious grapes breed appendicitis, while their juice leads to gastritis
So there's only death to greet us either way.
Fried liver's nice, but mind you, friends will follow close behind you
And the papers, they will have nice things to say.

   For some little bug is going to get you someday.
   Some little bug will creep behind you some day.
   Eat that spicy bowl of chili, on your breast they'll plant a lily .
   Oh, yes, some little bug is gonna find you some day.

Just a little something to cheer you up on this rainy Monday morning. ;o) (Of course, it's probably not raining where you are, but. . .)