Wind Farm Near Lake George

Wind Farm near Lake George

Sixty long white nails
hammering the horizon,

the personal commons
of my imagination

– roaming away into haze,
breath-open vista –

suddenly enclosed
by wind barons.

Unreal asparagus fence
clean as Kyoto,

clouds pinned
like dead butterflies

over diminished sheep,
your silly toothbrush,

electric as a chair,
has fried this wide lake

of grass that ebbed
and flowed in cycles

unknown as New Zealand
or the moon.

At the lookout
crammed with cars

identical tourists
stand at the ready,

identical cameras
click identical horizons.

[First published in my chapbook Collidoscope (Mark Time Books 2011), available for $5 from Lake George is in southern New South Wales very near Canberra, just over an hour’s drive from here. This is not a poem about the pros/cons of mega-windfarms per se. On that topic, suffice to say I would argue for more consideration of their actual net energy budget (electricity produced minus fossil energy/pollution invested in the mining and construction of their materials), of their prolongation of the ecocidal consumerist and technical-fix paradigms and of landscape-aesthetic concerns. The alternatives: less energy use via energy conservation and less affluent consumption combined with decentralised democratic control of small, community-owned renewable energy systems embedded within their local ecologies and economies.]


~ by Peter Lach-Newinsky on March 17, 2012.

2 Responses to “Wind Farm Near Lake George”

  1. I am ashamed to say that if I don’t like the first few lines of a poem I stop reading it (I know – it’s unforgivable) but when I read the opening couplet to this I knew I was going to enjoy it – and I did.

    Sixty long white nails
    hammering the horizon,

    Brilliant opening salvo of a worthy poem expertly written.

    • Thanks for the comment, much appreciated. I tend to have the same poem reading style you mention. After all, we are so inundated by millions of words flowing our way, why waste time? On the other hand, some pieces take several readings and a certain slowness to come fully home, n’est-ce pas? P.

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