Suicide Note, California Condor

Trumpeter (1990)

ISSN: 0832-6193

Suicide Note, California Condor

Stephen Ely
Trumpeter

 California Condor
 there is no place for us in a world like this. 
 Soon we will be joining your ancestors 
 and the world you have known
 for fifty million years
 and the world I have known for twenty
 will wipe us from its memory forever.
 But in these final moments
 as we wait to die, incredulous and defeated
 I will try for us both to remember our lives. 
 Magnificent bird
 your vast obsolescence
 rode in from the lumbering Eocene
 already archaic when loping man
 was straining to rise from all fours.
 The death pangs of the dinosaurs 
 meant nothing to you -
 the birth pangs of the molten continents
 too, within your vast embrace. 
 In a changeless world
 where time was measured in millions of years
 you were perfect -
 in ponderous retreat from the slow encroachment of 
 glaciers
 or the ponderous regaining of ground in the million 
 year
 melt
 equally you thrived
 right on into history
 until the Spanish and the Yankees voices
 sounded in the sun-scoured canyon
 with the bullets and bulldozers
 poison and snares
 that are driving you into extinction. 
 Now,
 as I sit and watch
 this terrible programme on TV
 there are twenty five 
 California Condors
 alive on this planet
 and all of them
 held in a cage at the San Diego Zoo. 
 This year 
 is the first in fifth million
 in which a new California Condor
 has not been born to the world
 and the future of the species 
 is vested
 in twenty five feeble vultures
 too old, confused and weary
 pampered by desperate people
 in a chicken wire hutch in the desert. 
 They have come 
 from perfection to obsolescence
 in a microsecond of their massive history.
 And here am I, writing poetry.
 It seems so little, so poor.
 And indeed I am defeated. 
 
 I cannot bear to live
 in a murdering world
 whose only civilization is death
 whose only culture, destruction.
 And I cannot bear to live
 in a world without the California Condor
 torn down from the sun
 like a ripped banner
 a ragged black cross
 of its own unbearable absence
 wrenched from the heart of its soaring skies.



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