Creative righting!: A poem about Canada
This blog is focused on academic issues, but I hope to offer some bits of “creative righting” occasionally. “The Holy Land: A Satire” is a poem of mine that I published on a separate blog, but since it’s received approximately zero hits (ah, the plight of the Internet poet), I thought I’d publish it here as well. Plus, it’s not really publishable anywhere else.
It’s Thanksgiving weekend in Canada, and this is my offering of gratitude.
The Holy Land: A Satire
Henry Wentworth Monk,
The Zionist prophet of Ottawa,
Left his cold hometown
Like George Parkin Grant,
And Percy Wyndham Lewis,
And every decade’s brains and talent,
He gave up on Canada.
Why do all the best ones leave?
—They’re not the ones we need.
Let us force the rest to breed.
Let us make the Last Man.
Each Canadian is the brainchild
Of my ancient class of man—
Headquartered in this great nation,
We have sculpted generations.
Cash to fund my class comes from
Our liquidated native sons:
Scraped and gutted tiny martyrs,
Served on steel to Morgantaler.
We are they who razed the dams
To let two hundred-thousand in
Every year. We train and baptize
New Canadian citizens,
And free them in this fractured land.
(Ask the old ethnologists—
You cannot save a mongrel mix.
Mind you, please don’t mention this.
Bigots beware! Your hearts of hate
Will steam upon our dinner plates.)
On Canada we’ve staked our claim,
From sea to sea and pine to plain.
To our kind, this yawning tomb
Functions like a womb.
We offer no apologies
To tribes and cults that we’ve displaced.
There never were first nations here—
We were the first to walk this waste,
Given to us by our lord,
As part of his great plan
To hobble and castrate the West.
This is the holy land.
We consist of forces legion:
Every province, every region,
Every school and church and party
Bows to our control.
Canada is just the base;
Other lands will fall in place.
As you lie there, tied and muzzled,
Watch us make our tedious puzzle,
Watch us build our blandest breed
A global, just society.
Underneath our open spaces—
Snowfields void of human faces,
Maple jungles, deserts of wheat—
A hidden hell lies wide and deep.
Wails from this Cocytus,
Passing through the limestone,
Become a frigid wind to carry
Our mosaic syndrome.