Wednesday, December 1, 2021
HomeCulture WarsThe rime of the ancient climate sceptic

The rime of the ancient climate sceptic

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THE COP26 climate conference in Glasgow next month, where Boris Johnson will be grandstanding his bonkers Net Zero plan for Britain, will also feature readings by the winners of a poetry competition. 

Contestants up to the age of 25 from all parts of the world were asked to compose verses for the summit on the theme of ‘Poems to Solve the Climate Crisis Challenge’. 

The first prize went to a 19-year-old American girl, whose offering is called An Alternative Geometry of the Universe.  

Sadly, my multi-poem entry was rejected – the judges said I’m too old, I blatantly plagiarised William Wordsworth, Percy Bysshe Shelley and Thomas Gray, and I ‘failed to embrace the spirit of COP26’.  See if you agree . . .  

Solar panels   

I wandered lonely as a cloud   

That floats on high thro’ heavenly channels   

When all at once I saw a crowd   

A host of monstrous solar panels   

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,   

Rattling annoyingly in the breeze.

Blotting landscape, dark, malign   

In serried ranks they stretched away   

A never-ending, choking line   

Along the margin of a bay:   

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,   

Producing power? Not a chance!   

The waves beside them danced; but they   

Lay row on row quite uselessly   

The sky was sombre, murky grey,   

Not one photon floating free.    

I gazed – and gazed – and then I thought   

These costly panels brought us nought.   

For oft, when on my couch I lie   

Blanket-huddled in bitter mood   

They flash upon my inward eye   

And aggravate my attitude;   

And then I don my warmest flannels,   

And go out to smash those solar panels. 

Whizzymandias  


I met a traveller from England,   

Who said: ‘A vast and trunkless leg of steel   

Stands in the North Sea surf . . . Near it, on the sand,   

Half sunk a shattered generator lies, whose rusted coils,   

And twisted shafts, and broken rods,   

Tell that its maker well its transience read.   

Solely survive these lifeless things,   

Built in arrogance, by folly fed;   

And on the baseplate, these words appear:   

My name is Whizzymandias, Turbine of Turbines;   

Look on my Blades, ye Climate Deniers, and despair!   

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay   

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare   

The cold and darkened cities stretch far away.’

Elegy in a Net Zero World   

The blackout seals the dark of parting day,   

The alfalfa fields stretch widely o’er the lea,   

The plowman homeward plods his weary way,   

Hoping power is restored for tea.   

Now fades the windless turbine on the sight,   

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,   

Those bloody blades ain’t turned since Monday night   

And everyone is getting coughs and colds   

The telly giving traffic news at dawn,   

The radio playing Right Said Fred,   

The Teasmade, or the shrill car horn,   

No more shall rouse folk from their lowly bed.   

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,   

No coal, no logs, shall blight the Reconstruct   

For warmth, each must now take his turn   

To be breathed on from a Polo sucked.    

In Net Zero World, the future is a dud  

Life’s gone from comfortable to crappy   

But Gates and Soros tell folks: ‘All is good.   

You have nothing and you’re happy.’   

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Weaver Sheridan
Weaver Sheridan is a wannabe best-selling novelist, one of his efforts being the Fifties Franny series, available on Amazon Kindle books.

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