Pandora on the Eve of Destruction

Hello again,

I’ve decided to try to post once a week on Fridays, we’ll see how that goes, but I hope you’ll stay along for the ride.

I have to say I almost gave up, because it’s pretty crowded here on Substack and my open/read rate seems to be dropping rather than growing… Understandable, because there are just so many things seeking our attention. 

But then I had such an encouraging heartfelt email from an old and dear friend who I haven’t seen for years, that I was inspired to keep going. 

This one is for all who are weighted down by the horrors we are witnessing, and by the feeling of helplessness and shock that this can still be going on, and that our governments are still colluding In it — in supplying critical mechanisms for fighter jets, for instance, and hosting arms trade conventions, and in ‘abstaining’ from the historic UN resolution this week. There is no ‘neutral’ place here. Unless we vote against genocide we are voting for it. 

This poem is from my first book, Things in a Glass Box, which was published 30 years ago this month. It was written around the time of the Gulf War. I wish it wasn’t still relevant. 

I’ll include the text below, in case you prefer to read rather than listen, but first — here’s some phone numbers if you would like to take a small action, and let our politicians know that you want them to actively, vigorously, passionately support a Ceasefire, and to stop arming genocide. 

I think this is worth doing, because I know that many MPs and their staff are also horrified and want action, so please encourage them to stand up in Caucus, and let them know you support this. You’ll probably only have a minute or two on the phone, but that’s enough to tell them that you wish to add your voice to those who want Ceasefire, sanctions, boycotts, divestment. Let them know voters are watching, and are aware. Numbers matter. Give them the evidence to argue for this.

Thanks so much to those who have left such great comments, or hit the like button, or shared. It really helps and I am sending out a big warm hug to you all.

much love, Beth
…and here’s the poem text, and if you scroll the the end — a song to turn up loud and sing along.

Pandora on the Eve of Destruction

(For January 1991)

There's a rerun of Homicide on morning tv:–

milk bottles clink,

a coffee pot boils over (blurp blurp)

& a housewife gets red streaks in her hair.

In the kitchen Richard throws open the cutlery drawer 

and tosses the knives

one by one

at the fridge

(too many trips to India, and too many trips).

I turn up the television;

he begins on the pencils in a jar by the phone.

Later we sweep the knives into piles

and while the Chippendales dance on Donahue

he gently stacks a bowl with weet bix,

pours milk slowly up to the edge &

sprinkles it all with a fine even powder of sugar.

The house surrounds us like a set of sheets

(continuous coverage),

we make love on the floor

(young, bold, beautiful & restless).

In the night sky, far off, cameras

follow a little light endlessly, 

obsessively, their talk fills the airwaves

(click click).

I reach out and touch the fine tuning.

Wheel of Fortune spins into the living room

tongues of fire from every spoke,

& questions answered weeks ago

(a delay button for everything).

I grip the remote and pass it to Richard,

who runs to the kitchen to get some coffee.

We serve it topped with Ian Turpey's moustache,

go on a Supermarket Spree –

trolleys careening around corners

bashing into shelves full of tomato paste and kitty litter.

'You watch these important words,' Ian says.

'No spread works harder than Becel!'

I take my string bag when I visit the shops,

and push 'pause' before I leave.

(Under the sink: a small forest of paper bags,

a strip-mine of aluminium bottle-tops.)

Then one of Mr Douglas's 3 sons

has another lot, who'd each be 

big enough to have three more

if this was real.

–The world never stops!

It keeps ticking, ticking.

I lay out my lives (nine, ten, a dozen)

in a long straight line...

or I channel flick and take them all at once.

        Laugh, 

        cry, 

        go red 

with excitement 

till my heart 

click, clicks:

a small 

time bomb.  

 (Pure emotion. 'How does it feel 

          – your house burnt down?')

I want a red car,

so I jump up and touch the ceiling rose with my fingertips.

The dust, the artificial pink...

Then oil wells flame in a desert storm,

a sea turns black and thick

& fish belly up, while we ring for Pizza 

and sink balls of icecream 

into glasses of Coke 

and watch them fizz.

It's like Being There I guess

(but not funny),

cheaper than the Olympics.

Ash from one part of the world

comes down on the alps of another.

I check the windows and lock the doors.

Switch the channels, quickly, when no-one's looking.

(Richard burns the toast.)

Then we dream of Jeannie and travel a Big Country. 

Visit Burke's Backyard, 

get a warm glow 

watching kelpie dogs run across the backs of sheep.

Laugh at the Goodies doing everything wrong...

I am Pandora's daughter, you see

 and this is my task:

to keep the world safe 

 in a box.

I rearrange the chairs and tables 

when things get messy;

 put out the garbage; 

  grow potatoes on the couch.

I am green fingered (red where I bite the ends)!

I grow my hair over my eyes,

I like its softness

the way it spins around when I shake my head.

I leave little droplets of blood

when I tap on the furniture

(Richard follows me with Mr Sheen).

& I keep my sanity,

while the world goes mad.