Thursday, September 07, 2017

Quand le monde de la neige se disparait/ Shrinking World of Snow


Title: Be Sure, Your Sins Will Find You Out
Filmmaker: Finn Harvor
Poet: Finn Harvor
Runtime: 4:51

Synopsis: As the snow becomes more fragile on the ground, so our jets monitor the change in planetary rhythms.


Statement: This originally appeared as an illustrated poem in a graphic fiction magazine called Mind Theatre (the drawing of the “be sure” preacher is from that original publication). I've since reworked the piece, and also translated it into French (with the help of Google translate and my own imperfect skills).



Be Sure, Your Sins Will Find You Out


In the morning, the snow is there
It rests on the ground, cold and fragile.
But as day passes,
The wind gently blows with the sound of cars
And the snow disappears.
The world of nature
Is always the same
But always different;
It's the human factory that does this.
It's something
Similar to the machinery of evolution.
Therefore,
Be sure
Your sins
Will find you out....

*

In amongst the carcinogens
of the Erie Canal
is the holy gill,
which coalesces with filaments of asbestos.
Pollution bulges like
sick pink wedding cake
on the backs of belugas;
the plasticky discards of six-packs
choke the life out of young seals;
and dolphins asphyxiate
in the ghostly waverings of nylon nets.
So – as the mosquitoes splatter across a multitude of windshields –
do we.
It's murder, unintentional murder,
aborted from the vacuoles of our mind
and spun into outer space,
where we will flee, lifelessly,
the planet's disgrace.



*

Sois certain, vos péchés vous retrouvèrent


Dans le matin, la neige est la
Elle se reste, calme et fragile.
Mais pendant la journée,
Le vent souffle doucement avec la bruit des voitures
Et la neige se disparaît.
Le monde de la nature
Et toujours le même
Mais toujours different;
C'est le usine de l'humanité que la fait.
C'est quelque chose
Proche d;une machine d'évolution.




Parmi les carcinogènes
du canal d'Erie
est la branchie sacrée,
qui se coalesce avec des filaments d'amiante.
La pollution se gonfle comme
un gâteau de mariage rose et malade
sur le dos des bélugas;
les rejets de plastique de six-paquets
étouffent la vie des jeunes phoques;
Et les dauphins s'asphyxient
dans les oscillations fantomatiques des filets en nylon.
Ainsi - comme les moustiques éclaboussent à travers une multitude de pare-brise -
faisons nous.
C'est le meurtre, le meurtre involontaire,
l'avorté des vacuoles de notre esprit
et tourné dans l'espace,
où nous fuirons, sans vie,
notre planète en disgrâce.

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