Typhoon, Nature *** Options

[Psyche]

I've changed the name of the poem to Typhoon because that's what cyclones are called in the Philippines. I was recently reading about the differences betweem these catastrophes, and it turns out the names are more geographical than anything else. Except when a tsunami also occurs, or earthquakes under the sea, etc. This disaster in the Philippines was caused by incredibly high winds that hit the islands' shores with immense force.
My first poem was about the 1991 cyclone in Bangladesh, when about 138.000 people died and millions went homeless. One can't keep up with the rising number of gigantic storms worldwide.
As human development thrives, and global temperature continues to rise, natural protection from tidal waves and cyclones is being degraded at alarming rates. This will inevitably lead to species loss in richly bio-diverse parts of the world, if nothing is done to stop it.


New version of poem I wrote in 2007. That one was specifically about a cyclone in Bangladesh, called "Sidr". Due to recent giant waves destroying and flooding various areas of the world, this poem could be about any of them, excluding, maybe, countries with early-warning systems. But not necessarily. Chile suffered vast destruction in 2010 in spite of sofisticated early-warning systems all along the Pacific. The poor, as usual, were worst hit.


REVISION


Devilish winds blow fierce,
carving visceral death, watery death,
death of unknown souls;
blazing bitter death, branded by
splintered wood and hurtling sails.
Life pulped by bamboo death-traps.

Awesome becomes awful.

A malodorous and malign monster
wraps devastation in primal silence.
Verdant land vanished long ago:
hunger on hunger on hunger,
unforgiving.
Slapped by cyclones, brightness
is eclipsed in bouncing bays.
Airports, seaports,
ferries awaken warily.
‘Copters fling food packs.

Unclaimed corpses, victuals for vermin.
Dogs slink in shattered huts,
sniffing at clueless cadavers.
A woman picks a path over branches
and slush, lifting torn skirt, legs
battered and bleeding. She shakes
huddled children awake.

Drowsiness threatens defeated,
O seductive sleep of slaughter!
To die, to die, almost pleasing
in wake of catastrophes.
Soldiers overload stretchers
to nowhere hospitals.

Moans knife my heart, foul waters
steep my eyes… eyes of our distant
cultures celebrating sacred seasons.
We feast on ignorance.
Does our living god bear their cross too?
The world haphazardly heeds
wails of faraway isles empty of joy,
their villagers adrift in skulking lunacy
as they pray to diverse divinities.

The winsome children
are gone and a few folks
return to routine starvation.
Bounteous islands, your mangrove swamps
degraded, traded, jaded. How do your harvests
fare, milenial barriers blasted?

Did man or nature create the beast?

By Psyche
Copyright: Sylvia Evelyn, Buenos Aires, Argentina, 2014.



ORIGINAL VERSION



Devilish winds blow fierce,
carving visceral death, watery death,
death of unknown souls;
blazing bitter death, branded by
splintered wood and hurtling sails.
Life pulped by bamboo death-traps.

Awesome becomes awful.

A malodorous and malign monster
wraps devastation in primal silence.
Verdant land vanished long ago:
hunger on hunger on hunger,
unforgiving.
Slapped by cyclones, brightness
is eclipsed in bouncing bays.
Airports, seaports,
ferries awaken warily.
‘Copters fling food packs.

Unclaimed corpses, victuals for vermin.
Dogs slink in shattered huts,
sniffing at clueless cadavers.
A woman picks a path over branches
and slush, lifting torn skirt, legs
battered and bleeding. She shakes
huddled children awake.

Drowsiness threatens defeated,
O seductive sleep of slaughter!
To die, to die, almost pleasing
in wake of cyclones.

Moans knife my heart, foul waters
steep my eyes… eyes of distant
cultures celebrating their sacred seasons.
But the winsome children
are gone, and a few folks
return to routine starvation.
Soldiers overload stretchers
to nowhere hospitals.

The world haphazardly heeds
wails of faraway isles empty of joy,
their villagers adrift in skulking lunacy
as they pray to silent gods.

Bounteous islands, your mangrove swamps
degraded, how do your harvests fare,
natural protection gone?

Did man or nature create the beast?

I know no living god bearing your cross.
We feast on ignorance.

By Psyche

Copyright: Sylvia Evelyn, Buenos Aires, Argentina, 2013.