Article Contributed on: 5/26/2009 10:47:06 AM
I"m no poet, as you can clearly see, but this has been running around in my head for weeks, so I finally wanted to put it on paper. The discussion on how much development we want is complicated and has become a web of interests rather than a linear process. This is, quite simply, the gardener's side of the argument.
The Planner and the Gardener
The planner sits in cubby small and makes a new design
He sees it all behind his eyes and deems it to be fine
The theories and the planning books have put him to the test
And now, he's nearly finished, and he knows it's for the best
It is a visionary feat, a plan for thirty years
Into the future, all mapped out; it's accurate, don't fear
How can you know? we ask, concerned, the way it all will go?
It's plain you just don't understand; the planner always knows
He knows we're all about to suffer woes from climate change
We need the trains and TOD and walk and biking lanes
They don't go near the place we work, we say; our cars are best
It's not your choice, the planner says, think more about the rest
But what about my job, I say, it's miles from any train!
It takes three buses and three hours, and that commute is pain!
So who are you, the planner says, disdain loud in his voice
The planet suffers daily, and you arrogantly want choice?
It's critical to change your ways! Your driving made the mess
And you don't have the right to think you're better than the rest
We all must suffer equally and none should be immune
The plan will fix it all, you see, the planner calls the tune.
But what about the problems from the crimes of urban life?
So many people crammed in close will make for woes and strife
That really doesn't matter, says the planner with a smile,
Our theories are against it, and the buildings have such style!
But Desmond Morris proved beyond the shadow of a doubt
That creatures crammed together tend to steal and kill and shout
That even creatures docile when they're left with room to roam
Turn deadly when the city is the place that they call home
And what about the children, there's no place for them to play
They'll have some pocket parks, he said, so they won't tend to stray
Besides, the empty nesters are the ones who want to try
The restaurants and the cute boutiques which keep them all nearby
But I'm an empty nester, sir, and I don't want those things
I want my grass and trees and lawn and garden, and a swing
Again, you're being selfish, says the planner with some pride
The world is changing; just adapt, I tell you it's been tried
When people were allowed to run amok they gave us sprawl
It put us all back in our cars and led to our downfall
That CO2 it poisons us, our climate's now too warm
Your selfish way of life has caused us all a lot of harm
I want some trees around my house, to bring me welcome shade
To add some extra oxygen, and make it seem a glade
I want some grapes and hops, and peas and cabbages and such
Why does the planner always say I'm asking for too much?
I want my garden, sir, I said; I need it for my soul
It keeps me happy, thin and fed, and it is not your role
To tell me how to live my life; a plan's your only task
Consider what the people need when planning's all I ask
The people, he said with a sneer, don't know what 's for the best
We planners read and study hard and barely get to rest
We got tax money for the deal, the builder's set to go
Don't worry, it will all be fine; the planner always knows.
If Urban's such a glorious thing for all of us to do
Why is my soul so tired looking at the urban view?
Why does the concrete and the tar put me at such dis-ease?
Why do I feel the need for green and want the cooling breeze?
I think that man was meant to live in closeness to the land
In independent harmony, in peace, without the hand
Of planners tied to wealthy folks who profit from the plans
The Urban, multi-use and such, is not to comfort man
You needn't care for anything; life's simple and it's quick
But cultures that don't learn to care can often grow quite sick
To nurture and to weed and hoe are tedious, it's true
But all the flowers and the food you get belong to you
Rewards from gardening are pure - your work and toil are paid
In seeing the accomplishments that you and nature made
The concrete lots and pocket parks just never make the cut
The planner doesn't see us in the plans - he's in a rut
To me the land is sacred, and the soil, it holds the key
Creating life from tiny seeds is still a mystery
Yet concrete streets and bikepaths cover it at every turn
It's sterile and it's lifeless, yet for this the planner yearns.
Ah yes, the letter comes to me; the job is now at hand
To get the transportation right, the planner needs my land!
The law you know, say it's OK, he's well within his rights
To pay me half of what it's worth, and show me well the might
Of planners and their willing tool, the government with force
They sweep out pesky gardeners trying hard to change their course
So now the yuppies and the heirs to fortunes will soon live
Where people never dig the soil, or know what gardening gives
My home it's gone, my garden too, my years of work ignored
But I will find a new place if there's one I can afford
I never had a chance against the power of the scheme
My garden's now paved over, and it's evil and obscene
So now I search, to find a place, downhearted as I roam
Where planners never get their claws on places I call home
Where I can grow my veggies, have a hen, or goat or two
And drive to work on rural roads, enjoying a nice view
I'll grow my garden, thank you sir, in places you don't haunt
And move each time you push me out for land the builders want
The planet will be fine with far less concrete, brick and glass
It will survive the planners too; your time will also pass
My garden will be making air much fresher and more pure
While urban areas get old with broken pipes and sewers
And I'll be in my garden making food and air for man
While you'll be trying to figure out what happened to your plan
And I'll be in the garden where the air is clear and sweet
And you'll live near the pavement with the pigeons in the street
And tho' it's true your grand design, has won; I paid the cost
While you may never fathom why; I'm sorry for your loss.