segunda-feira, novembro 06, 2006

Two Views of Climate Change

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Tuesday November 21 2006

Something from Leonardo Boff: Ecologizar a política e a economia, (Archive).

Monday November 6 2006

Two Canadians, both Newfoundlanders, talking about Climate Change. For Rex, the mere fact that I now capitalize this phrase 'Climate Change' is pretty much the whole point; while Gwynne puts out something which seems to me both realistic and even ... hopeful. You pick.

03/11, Rex Murphy, Overheated climate arithmetic, (Archive), Globe Comment.
29/09, Gwynne Dyer, Climate: A Stich in Time ..., (Archive).

I am thinking specifically of another Newfoundland journalist as I post this, David Sorensen, editor of the Memorial University of Newfoundland's Gazette (and MUN Today as well by the look of it) - I wonder what he thinks? (As I thought, he is concerned with hockey and beer, so it goes; he's young enough, if the ice goes and the beer gets warm sometime later in his lifetime he may remember, probably not. Anyway ... for now he's a star eh?)

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A-and from the real climate scientists: RealClimate: How much CO2 emission is too much?

Here's another Canadian, not a Newfoundlander but still clever: 21/10, Thomas Homer-Dixon, Unleash Canada's capitalist creativity on global warming.

A-and finally, a good word or two from Spiegel: 06/11, Our Warming World - The Day the Climate Changed, (Archive), Technorati Blogs.

There is a kind of anger in this poem that appeals to me, not just a possibly dying earth but all the possibilities that have been smothered by greed and stupidity.


There was a whispering in my hearth,
A sigh of the coal,
Grown wistful of a former earth
It might recall.

I listened for a tale of leaves
And smothered ferns,
Frond-frosts, and the low sly lives
Before the fauns.

My fire might show steam-phantoms simmer
From Time's old cauldron,
Before the birds made nests in summer,
Or men had children.

But the coals were murmuring of their mine,
And moans down there
Of boys that slept wry sleep, and men
Writhing for air.

And I saw white bones in the cinder-shard,
Bones without number.
Many the muscled bodies charred,
And few remember.

I thought of all that worked dark pits
Of war, and died
Digging the rock where Death reputes
Peace lies indeed.

Comforted years will sit soft-chaired,
In rooms of amber;
The years will stretch their hands, well-cheered
By our life's ember;

The centuries will burn rich loads
With which we groaned,
Whose warmth shall lull their dreaming lids,
While songs are crooned;
But they will not dream of us poor lads,
Left in the ground.

      Wilfred Owen.

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Posted novembro 07, 2006 2:23 PM by Blogger Codsheads /  

David Sorensen? He's not even a real journalist. Who cares what he thinks.


Posted novembro 08, 2006 10:44 AM by Anonymous Leah /  

Is there any way to view Rex's comment without suscribing to the Globe and Mail?

Posted novembro 12, 2006 7:32 PM by Blogger David Wilson /  

you don't need to access the Globe, I have made a copy in my Archive, just click on the (Archive) link following the Globe link :-)