“It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity.” - Albert Einstein
I was in Sydney for the day for work and it was very much a commuter’s trip. Getting up at 5:00 a.m. to catch the early flight, seeing the sun rise several kilometres above the earth, landing in the busy airport, finding myself surrounded by milling crowds, queueing for a taxi, doing battle with the early morning traffic and spending all of the day locked up in a sunless room, conferencing and meeting, assessing and moderating… A quick lunch in-house, more work afterwards, a brief recap and then another taxi to the airport for yet another flight back home. The business trip is not a pleasure trip when packed into a very busy day like this.
Flying above Sydney, seeing the bright lights, the endless ribbons of cars on streets, the grid of streetlights and the hum of the engines brings to mind our modern-day existence, technology and the loss of something precious…
The Sound of the City
The city lights cold and distant
Suspended above gloomy shadows
Hovering between the concrete and the ethereal.
Neon flashes mundanely its inanity
Its message thankfully illegible in the distance.
Revolving signs in multicoloured glare
Make known anonymous companies
And broadcast lurid messages of brands X, Y and Z.
The city streets lit brightly in sickly yellow,
By rows upon rows of sodium lamps
And by the blue-white cold and hurtful glare
Of sentinel streetlights.
Spires, domes and towers in full spotlit splendour
Advertise the venues of the rich.
Regular, square, cell-like, impersonal
Windows of the tall office blocks
Enclose faceless cut-outs of carbon-copy people.
City, all brightly lit and brilliant
You are peopled by the men of shadows,
A corpse-like populace.
Ugly, unhappy ghosts transparent
Who lost in the dreary shadowy depths
Revere your garish, gaudy, neon illuminations.
The hum of traffic, erratic red of tail lights
The stinging, ever-moving discs of head lights
All echo your bright lights in unnatural imitation.
City, you callous, cruel, empty-hearted harridan
Your dazzling flashes, your hurtful luminous din
Obliterate the silver symphony of moonlight
And the wispy, hopeful streak of argent falling star.
Your empty humdrum and incessant noise mechanical
Drown the voice of humankind
And the song of rustling leaf and nightingale.
Lucky are those of you that live away from this maelstrom of pullulating humanity, in the countryside, breathing fresh air, enjoying the quietude and the empty spaces on your doorstep.
I was in Sydney for the day for work and it was very much a commuter’s trip. Getting up at 5:00 a.m. to catch the early flight, seeing the sun rise several kilometres above the earth, landing in the busy airport, finding myself surrounded by milling crowds, queueing for a taxi, doing battle with the early morning traffic and spending all of the day locked up in a sunless room, conferencing and meeting, assessing and moderating… A quick lunch in-house, more work afterwards, a brief recap and then another taxi to the airport for yet another flight back home. The business trip is not a pleasure trip when packed into a very busy day like this.
Flying above Sydney, seeing the bright lights, the endless ribbons of cars on streets, the grid of streetlights and the hum of the engines brings to mind our modern-day existence, technology and the loss of something precious…
The Sound of the City
The city lights cold and distant
Suspended above gloomy shadows
Hovering between the concrete and the ethereal.
Neon flashes mundanely its inanity
Its message thankfully illegible in the distance.
Revolving signs in multicoloured glare
Make known anonymous companies
And broadcast lurid messages of brands X, Y and Z.
The city streets lit brightly in sickly yellow,
By rows upon rows of sodium lamps
And by the blue-white cold and hurtful glare
Of sentinel streetlights.
Spires, domes and towers in full spotlit splendour
Advertise the venues of the rich.
Regular, square, cell-like, impersonal
Windows of the tall office blocks
Enclose faceless cut-outs of carbon-copy people.
City, all brightly lit and brilliant
You are peopled by the men of shadows,
A corpse-like populace.
Ugly, unhappy ghosts transparent
Who lost in the dreary shadowy depths
Revere your garish, gaudy, neon illuminations.
The hum of traffic, erratic red of tail lights
The stinging, ever-moving discs of head lights
All echo your bright lights in unnatural imitation.
City, you callous, cruel, empty-hearted harridan
Your dazzling flashes, your hurtful luminous din
Obliterate the silver symphony of moonlight
And the wispy, hopeful streak of argent falling star.
Your empty humdrum and incessant noise mechanical
Drown the voice of humankind
And the song of rustling leaf and nightingale.
Lucky are those of you that live away from this maelstrom of pullulating humanity, in the countryside, breathing fresh air, enjoying the quietude and the empty spaces on your doorstep.
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