Mr. Gore has sported many hats throughout his three-score-some: As congressman, as senator, vice president, and Nobel laureate. Now, as Andrew Malcolm tells us, he can wear versificator of climatic dread beret upon his balding pate. His output is elegiac, his set of seven haiku may be read as separate doleful items or together as a heartsore whole. Whichever way, the Goric oeuvre shows but little of the fevered fulsomeness of his disquiet for our planet’s soul. A little sampling will suffice to plumb his poesy; all the rest’s best left for parody:
One thin September soon A floating continent disappears In midnight sun Snow glides from the mountain Ice fathers floods for a season A hard rain comes quickly Then dirt is parched Kindling is placed in the forest For the lightning’s celebration The shepherd cries The hour of choosing has arrived Here are your tools
I like the tools especially.
