Dope poem.

There is a referendum about Cannabis going on as part of the election. A lot of the great and good support it, along with the anti racists, with Meth dealing convictions. To the point that the PM is scared to say what she thinks.

NZMA chair Kate Baddock said cannabis can cause psychological harm to its users, particularly younger people.

Opponents to legalisation, led by the likes of Family First, have been quick to seize on the NZMA’s stance.

Family First has pitted the debate as one between the Green Party and the Drug Foundation, against medical professionals.

But a number of doctors have come forward to RNZ to say that simply is not the case.

In fact, one doctor, Dr Nina Sawicki, said she has quit the association because of its stance.

“I decided to leave because I felt that their stance on the cannabis referendum, while it wasn’t incorrect, I felt it was incomplete,” Sawicki said.

This (please note that the Greens are going for it, as usual) leads me to some mischief. There are poems about dope. But unfashionable dope. Such as nicotine.

And from Ezra Pound, who Swarbrick would refuse to read because he supported a socialist of a previous era, Benito Mussolini.

Hymn to the Dope

Goddess of the murmuring courts,
Nicotine, my Nicotine,
Houri of the mystic sports,
trailing-robed in gabardine,
Gliding where the breath hath glided,
Hidden sylph of filmy veils,
Truth behind the dream is veiléd
E’en as thou art, smiling ever, ever gliding,
Wraith of wraiths, dim lights dividing
Purple, grey, and shadow green
Goddess, Dream-grace, Nicotine.

Goddess of the shadow’s lights,
Nicotine, my Nicotine,
Some would set old Earth to rights,
Thou I none such ween.
Veils of shade our dream dividing,
Houris dancing, intergliding,
Wraith of wraiths and dream of faces,
Silent guardian of the old unhallowed places,
Utter symbol of all old sweet druidings,
Mem’ry of witched wold and green,
Nicotine, my Nicotine:

Neath the shadows of thy weaving
Dreams that need no undeceiving,
Loves that longer hold me not,
Dreams I dream not any more,
Fragrance of old sweet forgotten places,
Smiles of dream-lit, flit-by faces
All as perfume Arab-sweet
Deck the high road to thy feet

As were Godiva’s coming fated
And all the April’s blush belated
Were lain before her, carpeting
The stones of Coventry with spring,
So thou my mist-enwreathéd queen,
Nicotine, white Nicotine,
Riding engloried in they hair
Mak’st by-road of our dreams
Thy thorough-fare.

Ezra Pound