Fordlandia Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Nature takes care of its own
The jungle reclaims Fordlândia

Decomposing cars rust in derelict workshops
Already the Amazon jungle has swamped the Winding Brook Golf Course.
Floods have eaten the cemetery, stockpiling crosses.

The 100-bed hospital, beautifully designed
Lies plundered and perished, a travesty of itself

Ford's magnificent homes on Palm Avenue.
Is occupied now by squatters.
The furniture, doorknobs, interiors,
Carted away by predators, human and insect

Here farmers, former plantation workers
Live in the crumbling wreck of Ford's Utopia
The American dream turned nightmare

Streetlamps creak over mouldering sidewalks.
Dance halls disintegrate, warehouses rot away

Ford, the stern teetotaller, banned alcohol
Advocated gardening and square dancing (in Rumba land)
And poetry readings of dry American poets
His sanitation squads destroyed stray dogs,
His operatives drained pools of stagnant water
To counter the deadly challenge of mosquitoes
His employees were vetted for V.D.

The complex mushroomed into a golf course,
Tennis courts, a movie theatre,
Swimming pools and road for his famous cars
Where paths are quickly churned to steaming mud

Ford left his project, signed it back to Brazil
Now, zebu cattle graze there, manioc grows

As quickly as they arrived, the Americans left
Some, via nervous breakdowns, others ravaged by fever
The jungle came back stealthy, reclaimed its birthright