TWELVES FOR THE TWELFTH NIGHT: POEMS IN SUPPORT OF THE BEELIAR WETLANDS

Similar to The Other Report: Poems Against the Destruction of the Beeliar Wetlands, Twelves for the Twelfth Night is a rapid poetic response to the 100 hectare desecration of natural bushland for the Roe8 highway.

From the introduction: Traditionally, the twelfth night of Christmas falls on the fifth or sixth of January and signals the eve of Epiphany, or Epiphany itself. Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night and ours were written in the spirit of twelfth night entertainments, and Malvolio figures large, whether as an antagonist come to grief through greed, delusion and crazy ambition, or a here-to-now quiet road in Coolbellup that woke to find a major highway mapped across its vitals.

Our Twelfth Night was triggered by the wonderful and occasionally bizarre use of Shakespearean characters as street names in Coolbellup, including Cordelia Avenue, Romeo and Juliet streets (which never meet) and Malvolio, poor Malvolio, which only ever wanted to be left in peace, adjoining the best bush block there is.

Each of the twelve poems in our Twelfth Night contains a four-line stanza by Wendy Jenkins, John Kinsella and myself.

Please press on the image below to download the free book.

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Inside View: Save Beeliar Wetlands

In June of 2014, I took two buses and a train from my home in Fremantle to the trail head of the Bibbulmun Track in Kalamunda. In rain and a leaky jacket I walked for three hours to Hewitt’s Hut, arriving in the dark. Already at the hut was my friend, his brother and two friends of theirs I had never met before. My friend was walking the entire track. His mates had driven in as close they could to the hut. They had brought eskys full of alcohol, meat for the bbq and mobile phones to watch AFL on.

Read the rest of this article here.

The Battle of Northlake Road

“If we don’t take action now, we settle for nothing later” Zack de La Rocha

Your Mum swims with polar bears before heading to Beeliar
she has a square blue patch pinned to her blouse
she joins us watching an Empire collapse
our leaders with their misfiring synapse
nothing makes sense, their actions don’t add up,
this bulldozer inside bush in Coolbellup.
The protectors are more compliant, more attentive
to the rules than the State is,
good luck keeping keeping them to their word, kid.

But this is the Premier’s hamartia
after the E.P.A. failed us in the boardroom
the frontline is now the courtroom
the camera pans, a human dolly
as locals clang the fence in rage at this folly
and colonial cogs churn out arrests,
after you’ve lost patience to peacefully protest
the cops will knee cap you, threaten violence
as the bulldozer rips apart animals silent.
Dust correlates to root depth, the drive-belt gravity,
the trunk incision, upper management depravity,
with each frame the forty metre tree falls.
Slow. Gargantuan. De-metabolic.
Who knew Barnett’s buddies were this shambolic?
A thousand media views to each frame,
hundreds of shares, likes and vitriolic blame
into the night and to the next day you truncheon nasty trolls
while on Malvolio dried blue tongue lizard skin rolls,
the now empty vision your friends see on their computer screen
oh echo chamber, oh deaf ear collective, listen to this:

your xmas presents won’t capture the war
the trees have with the bulldozers, blades score
the soil until the top is too light, the muscian’s play,
you pause the video, Earth-Shattering,
cockatoo scattering, drowning in mounds of dead balga trees,
the smell of lost oxygen, the fronds that no longer flap
these fallen stakeholders, you call this democracy,
the precondition to being human is hypocrisy
they say ‘the road will be built, you’re wasting your time’,
but I’ve seen the monk doused in petrol
so we’re here to document the fall
and after the machines have left we go in with stitches,
every surgery a lesson to future witches
you don’t need gas to have tears in your eyes
when your friend John is too shocked to cry
too confused to take notes or offer sacrifice,
too bewildered to even think, we know we’re born
of a broken Environmental Protection Authority
who can’t even follow their own policy.

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Barnett Destroys Wetland 

This photo shows the Barnett government’s orders for police presence at the Beeliar Protest this morning.

Here’s the first poem I wrote on day one of the protest – 8 Dec 2016.

It is not a great poem by any means but I wrote it while standing on the barricades and felt the need to write right there and then.

Peace
Roe8#1

You may have never protested before.

To stand in the way of the Roe 8 highway feels wrong. To take a day off work to hold a banner feels wrong. You’ll be called a bum. They’ll say you’re unemployed, have nothing better to do. The ‘mainstream’ will tell you the ‘development’ is going ahead, the ‘plans’ have been in the ‘works’ for years, that clearing native bushland is necessary for ‘progress’, that the correct environmental protection measures have been taken, don’t worry friend.

But they don’t follow their own guidelines, they say the native animals will be trapped and moved to other areas, yet we know few animals survive. On Northlake Road the fencing contractors are asked to turn their music off, the police can’t hear their intercom. The police apply suncream and help the fencing contractors move traffic cones.

The police ask one another if they are right for water and say we could be here all summer.

How does a woman, shifting from one foot to another, become a police force? How does a few scribbles on a napkin become an environmental disaster?

In the shade of a flame tree the protesters hold banners and car horns beep and a pair of pink and grey galahs fly overhead. When my parents were my age if a ‘development’ was taking place, there was no temporary fencing, portaloos were not delivered to site and the Cold War delivered renewed apathy.

When my parents were my age protesting was not illegal and developers need not chop down trees in the dead of night. I grew up where the damage had already been done; the river dredged, three billion year old wetlands filled with yellow sand.

In Tonkin Business park, giant ziggurats were built to cover toxic waste, the destruction is older than me – the river poisoned before my birth. Where there is no bush the bush can not regenerate. When I was three…