More carbon emissions or less

Let me put it to you like this: the lady or the tiger?

The tale is told of a kingdom where the condemned man must choose one of two doors. Behind one is the fairest of women and the man shall be freed and live happily ever after. Behind the other, the fiercest of tigers and he dies.

The tale, as written more than a hundred years ago, is more complicated than that. It involves a princess, daughter of the barbaric king who designed this system of justice. And this princess also happened to be the dearest lover of the condemned man and on the fateful day of the choice, the princess, knowing which door was which, with the slightest of motion of her hand must indicate to her lover - who will then go off to be with the other woman forever or die - which door he should choose.

The tale of climate change is more complicated in other ways than that but our choice, in some respects, is like that. Only in our case, roughly 97 out of 100 princesses, who are in a position to know, are pointing to the door of reduced carbon emissions. And while they can’t know just how fierce the tiger is, they and their children, will share our fate; that is, they don’t share the situation of the first princess in which we, upon heading their advice, would leave them and go off and live happily ever after with the other woman; nor are they are so likely to be so psychologically conflicted that they might knowingly point to our deaths.

Am I missing something important?

Oh that’s right. No barbaric king is forcing us to actually choose. We are not in truth being compelled to make a deliberate choice, although by default one door will begin to open and the tiger will trickle out if we haven’t already gone through the other door to happiness.

So wake up; use your own imagination: the lady or the tiger?

One other problem. A solid majority of all of us must make a decision, not merely murmur amongst ourselves irresolutely. And somehow almost all of us must open the door together, with voters and non-voters stepping through.

So which will it be: the lady or the tiger?

The complications in the climate change tale are endless, but strip them away – and many, many, many of them are largely beside the point and we are left with this: the lady or the tiger.

Rather, the lady or the tiger?

Tune in next century to see who lived and who died.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe there’s no hard choice facing us.

But if I were king, I’d start actually cutting carbon emissions tomorrow. And after that, one step at a time. There would be no happily ever after, with some of us unhappier than others, to be sure. But if we put our minds to it, we would find ways to do things better and, in the long run, we’d be better off than we would be by taking the consequences of that other door.

Time to line up. The lady or the tiger?

Or more likely: murmur amongst yourselves.

Maybe I should be putting it to those who have more at stake. But have you seen what those kids try to do with their skateboards – without a helmet?

We’re all going to die.

But more of us could have lived longer and better if we would only step up and make a real choice: the lady or the tiger.

I’d choose the lady. But I bet we get the tiger.

Nuts.

A summation of poetry

For me, poetry is primarily a quality – let us say, without a sharp definition – a lyricism, an intensity of language, an attempt to circle and strike at what is more deep-seated than our simple intellect. I still expect there to be meaning – although I will not always find it - in every poem I read. And when it comes to poetry I try not to become entangled in its many forms and definitions – although I sometimes enjoy those questions.

For myself, I pick and choose. If I find a poem too obscure, I move on, although I also assume that with poetry I will sometimes have to attend with some care to what I am reading. And I recognize that there will be some poems I might not have the mind to comprehend. But there are far more poems that I can reach if I only will. And there is much poetry that has not been designed as a formal poem waiting to be discovered.

Resonance in the words, the sounds that enter my mind or leave my lips, and of course the ideas – that is what most matters to me.

A few examples will have to suffice:

T. S. Elliot starts: Let us go then, you and I, when the evening is spread out across the sky …

Robert Frost advises: Two roads diverged in a yellow wood …

Paul Simon sang about a girl with diamonds in the soles of her shoes and a boy as empty as a pocket.

The Psalmist consoled with King James’s help: Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death …

Faulkner cautioned within a novel: …how words go straight up in a thin line, harmless, and how terribly doing goes along the earth, clinging to it …

And St. John states, with me possibly pulling it out of context: In the beginning was the Word …

And there stood Mr. Lincoln: Four score and seven years ago …

And good old Shakespeare has scattered poetic phrases throughout the English language.

And clearly I have missed too many words of women, but I keep this fragment by Annie Dillard close: The world is fairly studded and strewn with pennies cast broadside by a generous hand.

There is much in what is expressly contemporary poetry that seems to mostly speak to the confusion of our times – I find little meaning there - and I recommend not spending too much time in those pages. Older poets lose me as well. But there are also poets who have found their voice and can express their mind and reveal bits of the universe. I’m glad to read them.

And not all that is old and has lasted, and finally, not even all that is very good, will speak to you where you are. Never mind. But there are many good poets, living and dead who have produced poetry in books and who have laced it into writings by other names.

I have found that poetry is a crucial ingredient in human life and culture. You will want to read and hear some of its rhythm and rhyme and ponder its meaning. Poetry is what you get when words hum along with the harmonics of the universe. Sometimes truth and beauty cannot be expressed better.

And one last note. Many, many poems will not be great or enduring but are little more than words which call attention with a little flair to what you otherwise might have overlooked – like a glass of ice water when you’re thirsty. You will find their reading will be worth your time.

Here’s a little bit of poetry I wrote. At least I found some satisfaction in the writing.

Crossing Mass at 9^th

  Bert Haverkate-Ens

In the folds

of her dark green

sweater

lie hills and valleys

of sunlight and shadow,

each one a new horizon

across her form.

She walked ahead of me,

her face looking forward,

pale sneakers

marking the pavement

with disappearing steps.