Ode to Banjo

I’ve always wanted to write poetry just like ‘Banjo’ Paterson,

But I’ve neither had the intelligence or the wit.

Words flow from my mouth more easily than my pen,

And I’m often taken by many for a twit.

Banjo wrote of sheep and stockmen, and Clancy of the Overflow;

And characters you found along the track.

He made the past romantic, with somewhat of a lure

And I’ve often wished that I could travel back.

He had a sense of perception not common in our time

Though it was more usual in his day.

He could make you cry with a verse but when you turned the page

His prose would have you laughing all the way.

I could never hope for the skill or even for the wit

To write my verse with Banjo’s kind of flair

For history was his canvas; for colours he used words

And his “paintings” shine with a stately kind of air.

MDC

April ’81

Ball Tampering

A decision made in an unguarded moment

Lightly made as a result of faulty thinking, not realizing

the corrupted logic lying within

And like the decision, the execution of the dastardly deed was

haphazard and poorly discharged

Opening the way for inevitable discovery, making

the obviousness of the shame clear in an instant.

If only that clarity had exploded upon you before the event you would have

realized how puerile and distasteful it would seem to all

and now you wonder how you missed the undisguised rancor

that your behaviour would inescapably make.

Yes, so preventable, but your true motives and intentions

are now broadcast and the world sees that it was not

your decision that was unguarded but your true heart,

and now you are ashamed.

MDC

28/03/2018

Sunday Afternoon

An afternoon zephyr provides just enough

relief from the noon’s heat.

The hammock’s oscillation gently supporting

the whisper of the leaves conversation.

The stillness of the space causing time to halt,

the quietude becoming its own inertia, allowing eternity

room to express its presence.

Not asleep, but not awake, my thoughts idly

meander through the crevices of my mind

like unsupervised rivulets leisurely exploring

undiscovered territories.

The hiatus of body and discontinuity of mind

indistinguishable from each other, the vacuum

extending to the edges of reality.

The bang of back-fire startles the tranquility of the interval’s serenity,

causing the crows to caw and cry in kinned pandemonium;

Their unplanned escape successful nonetheless.

The raucous cacophony of kookaburras in the grey gums

laughing at the dissolution of our reverie.

Dogs bark, offended by the interruption to their siestas,

turning their complaints into a contest to see

who rules the neighbourhood.

A door slams somewhere, as if feeling the need

to join the protest against the rude disturbance,

and getting the last word in,

places a punctuation point on the whole affair.

Time to fire up the barbeque.

MDC

March 2018

On A Windy Day

The tree branches engage in a mysterious dance

An ancient frenzy; dos-à-dos and enchufla

The steps of which remain in taxonomic secrecy known

only to the phylum; even the wind does not understand

the choreographic response of the fronds.

The rhythm of their writhing declaring an impenetrable knowledge.

No matter how long I observe their swing,

sway and shimmy, I am no more learned of their communications than

before the weather changed.

MDC

March 2018

The Cost of Creativity

The cost of creativity is born by few while being enjoyed by the many.

More than material cost or financial cost is the personal cost paid by the artist

Knowing aforehand that they will follow their creativity

regardless that fortune and satisfaction will likely avoid them

Bound to their gift like a slave in chains

even though they feel freedom is not a choice available to them

Unwillingly accepting the inherent emotional risks

that are part and parcel of a creative life

Enduring for long seasons at the hand of their endowment

Undone by their gift, dying a little with the production of each work

And yet renewed a little by success, should it choose to come,

such recompense being elusive and fleeting.

And should success, wealth and fame present themselves

To then have to avoid the so easily stumbled upon offenses

of arrogance, conceit, narcissism, and pomposity.

Resolved that their artistry always leads to anguish

Either via the path of disappointment and exhaustion

Or the flame of fame and adoration.

Perceiving that humanity may be willing to adore their works

But not consider it important enough to purchase

That they will bemoan the poor state of funding by governments,

selfish procurement by corporations and

opportunistic acquisition by the wealthy

but make no effective step towards personal cost

in order to enrich their own lives, endow enterprise with pleasant environment,

or even to maintain the aesthetic culture of society.

For this reason, it is rare to find a truly creative person that is

Free without being wild

Expressive without being excessive

Unrestrained without being intemperate

Solitarian without being reclusive

Melancholy without being saturnine

Can we blame them when

Their solitude turns them into an eremite

Their ill-humour into moody antagonism

Their indiscriminate sins into public excesses

And their attempts at amelioration

produces alcoholic manic-depressives

We approve when a corporation commences an expensive re-engineering of itself

in order to better serve its customers.

We demand that politicians commit to a higher calling than their personal betterment.

We applaud when a sportsman lives on the poverty line in order to reach his goal.

We admire the mother who goes without in order to give to her children.

Why then do we observe with disapproval the artist who gives to the point of emotional bankruptcy for the very thing that brings purpose to themselves and amenity to the world?

MDC

March 2018

Considering Past Misperceptions

He sits, pondering, looking out the lounge window
The curtains billowing from the zephyred evening
The twilight air fretting upon his aging skin
His stubborn thoughts fretting upon his aging mind

His opinions framing his perceptions
like the window curtains filter the tableau through the casement
But a window needs drapery and perhaps the faulty
view is the price to be paid for such lovely curtains.



MDC
March 2018

The Concert

The slight nervousness

seeking allocated seats

seeking for known faces in the crowd

seeking for calm before the storm

The programme dims

auditorium lighting

conversations, pins dropping

vestiges of footfall

The roar of adulation

lifting people from their seats

raising their arms in adoration

satisfying their expectations

The first chord strikes

another explosion of elation

another wave of worship

another spike in audience adrenalin

The measure of music

halts chronology

stretches eternity

present and future united

The final encore brings

the thunderclap of applause

the exodus to the carpark

the sigh of fulfilment

the vacuum of insatiable desire

MDC

Feb 2018

The Pleasure of Sounds

The symphony of cicadas,

conducted by calendar, not hormones

The conversation of trees,

discoursing branches batting pros and cons back and forth

The raucous romp of rain,

gurgling and gargling its journey down the gutters

The aria of birds

rivaling a heavenly choir

Sausages on the barbeque,

arguing with snap and sizzle

The peals of playing children,

their lilting laughter calling to Evensong

The weekend reprise,

either boisterous pandemonium or quiet somniloquy

The humming of my wife,

quietly administering the household chores

MDC

6/2/2018

The Australian Farmer

Australia; a country filled with green grass and promise. Where abundant rain falls in the tropics, and occasionally in the fertile valleys and plains. When the rain stops it is as if it had never come. The rain, long passed, turns into the Dry. The Dry becomes drought and children under four do not know what rain looks like. Where the Dry kills every crop, backyard garden and bowling green, the drought kills dreams, family dynasties and livelihoods. The Dry is a schoolyard bully but long foresight, deep pockets and early preparation might allow you to minimise losses. The drought is a cruel, harsh dictator; amoral and merciless. No one escapes the drought.

The only way to remove an unrelenting drought is by flood. Not any flood, not just a flood that causes rivers to swell, dams to be filled and inland lakes to breath again. Not just a flood that brings birds a-flocking, grass a-growing and bees a-buzzing. No, it has to be a flood that wipes out any remaining stock and crop, that cuts roads for days, wrecks rail lines, cuts power and phone for weeks and takes human life. When drought takes a firm grip of the country, only a flood such as this can break it.

And one thing is certain. Every flood is followed by a drought.

So the man who decides to farm this country, whether by own choice or the decision is made for him through the charge of family loyalty, long dynasty or paternal pressure, is a man like no other man. He is a man who is able to be stoic against the elements, resolute against pest and disease, and indomitable against the markets.  He has learnt plumbing and carpentry, mechanics and fitting, fencing and irrigation, agronomy, chemistry, biology, meteorology, economics, marketing, politics and value-adding. He is able to labour from dawn to dark in the field and then expend hours at night keeping accounts balanced, records accurate and orders submitted to ensure the next season has a chance. He is able to help a neighbour in distress even when his own family is impoverished. He rallies the community and brings strength to the weak, he advises paths of action to others even if it means detriment to himself.

He is not born this way for these qualities are never birthed in a man; they can only be forged by the searing of the sun and the slicing of hail; by bumper crops in time of market downturn and drought-ravaged crops in time of high market demand; by callous demands from ruthless bankers and cold-blooded policies from uncaring governments.  He risks his finances and jeopardises his reputation for the love of his family and his land.

This is the Australian farmer.

Insight

There are times when hearing something about yourself that you already know to be true is the most unbearable intrusion into your sense of well-being. Any stability in demeanour or presence of mind can suddenly seem very fragile indeed. Maintaining a poised and gracious facade requires a well-practised dexterity that few can maintain under all circumstances.

And receiving a compliment that you know to also be untrue can also bring such a discomfort as to render the intention of the compliment void. And being on the receiving end of either compliment or censure without making a response can often feel like we have deserted our own conscience and principles.

We are a fickle folk, rendered all the more so by our refusal to admit anything to the contrary, and by our determination to prove to all and sundry that behind the strong, confident, well-balanced, accomplished facade is a strong, confident, well-balanced accomplished person, even if we secretly feel that this, too, is untrue.

Perhaps if we were to be a little more accurate in the portrayal of our thoughts and fears, we might give others opportunity to consider different words when they spoke to us. And perhaps there would come a greater understanding of who the real person is that we are conversing with.

Summer Week-ends

I love this time of year. Late Spring - early Summer.The weather is the catalyst, as is the pending holiday break. And although the weather can be a little unsettled this time of year, it never intrudes on events because I can enjoy a beer on the patio looking at my garden whether it's raining or not. 

My week-ends commence with a conundrum of decision. To barbecue or not barbecue? That is the question. If barbecuing, should I smoke the meat or simply throw it on the hotplate?

I love the lazy afternoons filled with cicada symphonies, far-off dog barks, a farther-off car horn, the uncomfortable caress of bottle brush against the side of the house, the wind turning ten thousand pages in the camphor laurels. 

Friends dropping in and deciding to stay longer than intended. 

I love the sizzle and snap of sausages on the hotplate, their fragrance overpowering the mock orange.

The happy sounds of children playing in water - whether in the neighbour's pool or the unexpected splash of water when a gust of wind blows the fountain spray across their path as they run around the yard.

The gentle late-afternoon breeze that brings relief from the hot day and, with it, a scent of a possible thunder storm. 

I love too the relief that comes when I realise that this down-time is enough to recover my strength and composure after a hard week, knowing I am facing another one.

Oh, yes. I love this time of year.

Melancholia

My melancholia, whether from disposition or habit, is like any man's; unable to be vindicated by stoicism or wisdom, happiness or patience, generosity or even godliness.

Melancholy is the character of mortality. Any man who is able to avoid all melancholic feelings from his thoughts, desires, and anxieties shows proof of an inability to fully and properly comprehend life itself; for to avoid melancholy is to avoid empathy, refuse comprehension and shun participation in reality. To hold to a perpetual tenure of happiness in life is ridiculous and absurd. Even Solomon himself held that "in the midst of laughter there is sorrow". Indeed, to not know melancholy is to make oneself unable to reciprocate true feelings and affection to another.

Melancholy should not be mistaken for depression, nor should it be joined with any other thoughts or attitudes that may legitimately be considered vain, egregious or erroneous in some way. Melancholy provides a window to different perceptions. It enables a deeper understanding of distress and trouble, and once understood, opens doors to the provision of support and anchor for the one suffering.

For some, their melancholia may have derived from a period of disquiet, an issue raising apprehension or even an event that caused perturbation. It may creep in during a season of distress or during a time of upheaval. The arrival or existence of melancholy is not evidence that something has gone wrong. It is not a state that requires correction or "fixing". True, a prolonged period of melancholy may be an accurate indication that help is required, adjustment made or support given, but the same can be said for prolonged periods of celebration, extreme physical activity, and over-work.

Of itself it has the same right to exist as contentment, peace and calm. Melancholia promotes contemplation, reflection, and personal insight. Just because it may lead  to an unhealthy measure of introspection does not mean it should be avoided or eradicated. That would be like refusing to teach children how to swim because some might drown. True melancholy does not focus on the inner person. It is not a self-indulgent, introspective, ego-centric, "woe-is-me" deportment. These conditions indicate depression, not melancholia. A true melancholy state provides a time of reprieve in order to assimilate the current season and conditions and to adjust attitude, approach and response. 

There are times in my life when I deliberately seek a melancholic disposition. I am careful to keep my demeanour appropriate when I am with others, but I find the environment and culture of melancholy helpful for personal stocktaking, attitude and perception adjustment and it assists me to maintain a humble and judicious attitude towards others and life in general. Melancholia can sometimes make me pensive and sometimes this may come across as being despondent or disconsolate, but I am rarely in either of those states. 

In short, occasional melancholy makes me easier to live with and that's got to be a good thing, right?