The House That We Built: A Nursery Rhyme For the Gulf
categories: Cocktail Hour
30 comments
This is the oil that spills from the pipe and gushes into the Gulf.
This is the marsh that breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
This is the oyster, now besmeared, that lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe and gushes into the Gulf.
This is the man, all forlorn, who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
These are the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
This is the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
This is the fat cat, to the manor born,
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
This is the Prez, of power shorn, who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
This is the Gulf, round Florida’s horn, which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
These are the storms, that have always torn,
Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,
Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
This is the warming, whose coming we mourn,
That now fuels the storms, that have always torn
Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,
Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
This is the blowhard blowing his horn,
Who doesn’t believe in the warming we mourn
That now fuels the storms, that have always torn
Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,
Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
These are the rules that prick like a thorn
Into the blowhard blowing his horn
Who doesn’t believe in the warming we mourn
That now fuels the storms, that have always torn
Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,
Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
These are the Ecos, of doom who warn,
Who want more rules that prick like a thorn
Into the blowhard blowing his horn
Who doesn’t believe in the warming we mourn
That now fuels the storms, that have always torn
Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,
Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
And this is the car to which we have sworn,
To love and protect and to not fuel with corn
(Even the Ecos, of doom who warn,)
Who want more rules that prick like a thorn
Into the blowhard blowing his horn
Who doesn’t believe in the warming we mourn
That now fuels the storms, that have always torn
Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,
Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
And this is the thing that leaves us all lorn
That we put in the cars to which we have sworn
To love and protect and to not fuel with corn
(Even the Ecos, of doom who warn,)
Who want more rules that prick like a thorn
Into the blowhard blowing his horn
Who doesn’t believe in the warming we mourn
That now fuels the storms, that have always torn
Straight through the Gulf, round Florida’s horn,
Which hosts the Prez, of power shorn
Who scolds the fat cat, to the manor born
Who enrages the public, all full of scorn,
Who follow the writers who roll in each morn
To tell the story of the man, all forlorn,
Who harvests the oyster, now besmeared
That lives near the marsh
That breathes with the sea, and protects the land,
That now fills with oil,
That spills from the pipe
And gushes into the Gulf.
I like Father Osprey. Sounds powerful. Hey David, love it. Great job.
Good Stuff Cuz! Great Obama, and the “sea snake” is also impressive. Who is that standing with you protesting?
Took me a minute to get it. But my hair’s not that long.
Holy crap, Dave. Annie Dillard is at this cocktail party? How can I buy her a beer?
That’s a pretty decent Obama.
love this, David. I mean, Father Osprey.
Love it. And I’m with Lazaru up there. We need the thugs in there somewhere. And then something about how the rabble chases down the thugs and overthrows the oiligarchy. A hard thing to rhyme, that.
Thanks for this. I’m passing it on.
I wonder, Mr. Gessner, have you considered publishing your cartoon strips in a book form? Seems to me they would make an entertaining package, for instance, a trade paperback sized book.
———-
The Deepwater Horizon oil spill is now the fourth worst oil spill, on track to surpass the Mexican Pemex oil company Ixtoc I Gulf spill of 1979. It gushed for ten months before it was finally capped, but was only in 162 feet of water, not the mile depth to the wellhead of Deepwater Horizon. Not surprisingly, efforts to cap the wells and the timelines of both Gulf of Mexico spills are striking similar so far. Deepwater Horizon has got a ways to gush to catch up with the volume of oil spilled in the first Gulf War, and the single worst spill of all time, a land spill in the U.S. at Lakeview, California, 1910. You gush, Deepwater Horizons, while the drama unfolds in all your local and global implications.
At this point I would publish anything–my heating bills, for instance–in book form.
Too many manuscripts cluttering up my study….and, as you may have noticed, I can’t stop writing. (In fact you may share this affliction.)
Yeah, I’m buried under snow drift piles of projects in progress, rejections wanting rewriting, and a brain trunk full of insights, inspirations, and clamoring voices. I finished James Wood’s How Fiction Works and Seymour Chatman’s Story and Discourse, which answered many frustrating questions raised by hunches prospecting at the edges of perception. I feel like I’ve come to the end of the Internet and human knowledge in general, as absurd as that is. However, one hunch that’s been screaming loudest and been most ignored now I’m ready to face: Narrowing and focusing my cosmos full of themes and messages and inspirations into what’s most meaningful to me for best advantage in appealing to audiences. I’ve already noticed one recurring theme parallel to one of yours, Mr. Gessner, culturally intradependent self-reliance.
Spectacular.
I liked this. Thanks.
ahhh… a breath of fresh air, this, in the midst of endless raging and finger pointing. and the drawings speak for themselves. i esp. love the pic of the Prez of power (and hair) shorn. HE looks so forlorn…
David you must come down here, you are the one to write this as you did the Osprey
I walked into a cafe built after Katrina, Grand Isle Cafe, about a mile from the river
It has a beautiful hand built wooden interior with white tin roof, lined on the walls
are fabulous black and white portraits 4’x6′ of the old Cajun fisherman of that area
so Cajun, very intriguing french and creole faces lined by the sun and life in the paradise that they claimed when no other human would face the troubles of life
in such a tropical wetland. I remember my first airboat ride to the pelican rookeries near Lake Salvador off Des Allemandes north of Houma. It was the most mystical
and gorgeous view ever of life on earth.for me. I instantly understood the immense
beauty and terror of nature. Now I see it all coated in oil, looking like red blood bleeding from the ocean floor. I remember the blue herons, and banana spiders
in the cyprus trees. I have no idea if Luke and Hadley will ever see these or if it was
a dream I had. Someone like you must come and document this a give meaning to
such a huge huge tragedy, it will not make it out into the world with films and blogs
it must become a written document for your daughter and my grandchildren. I hope you can, Kate I am just heart sick totally stunned and wonder if it can be healed
or only mourned and lost
Kate, your description of the nature there, and the effect it has on a person, is the most vividly beautiful I’ve ever read.
This is where the action begins…
How did your writer get to the man forlorn? BP controls access to the beaches and is denying media access….
these are the thugs, on land, sea, and airborne
who prevent the writers, who role in each morn,
from talking to the man forlorn…
David
I knew you had the heart of a poet all along….it helped quiet the angst for a moment, the tears we all shed are not in vain…from this horror Life will rebound, maybe humans will be a part…I have grandkids so my investment in the future makes me have Hope
Eric
Dear Father Osprey,
TIme to write the decade’s Silent Spring..
Best,
An Alewiife
Maybe “Brother Osprey”? (At the risk of sounding too Native American–but then, maybe we need to sound more Native American.)
Love it Dave!
You’re the modern day Mother Goose. (Father Osprey?)
Wonderful — and positively ecological! You pull on one string and find it connected to everything else….
I think there was a guy named Muir who said something about that….right?.
I like “Father Osprey.” Except it makes me sound old.
No comment. 😉
That’s the meanest thing anyone ever said to me.
The meanest thing someone never said to you?
Nice work, David. Looking forward to more.
“Father Osprey” kind of has a “Father Time” or “Father Christmas” ring to it…
Who built the Gulf?