Unexpected gift

" ... poetry is like a bonus to life ..." 

Peter Boyle, 2017 Philip Hodgins Memorial Medallist


My relationship with ‘poetry’ has been somewhat tenuous, and despite my desire and occasional diligence, we never really hit it off. Like a long awaited movie sequel, poetry rarely met my expectations, instead often falling far short. And although I have always sought others’ profound words on births, deaths and marriages, poetry has not filled the place in my life I once imagined it might.

Like a lot of Australians of my age and background, my poetry education was shaped by the likes of Paterson and Lawson. Mostly Banjo actually, as his birthplace is just a few miles from my own and our town had been hanging its hat on his fame for decades. His bigger than life identity flavoured all things poetry at my primary school. Years on, thoughts of my father’s galloping rendition of ‘Clancy of the Overflow’ still evoke wistful melancholy. 

As a kid, I loved poetry. I loved AA Milne and Seuss when I was really little and Milligan and Carroll - particularly their nonsense verse - as I grew older. Always an avid reader, I loved words so much that I embraced all things poetry whenever I could, sensing it to be the finer art. I loved its rhythm, sense of adventure and occasion and the way its words fuelled my imagination and painted pictures in my mind’s eye. My childhood notebooks were filled with phrases and snatches of soulful sentences: I loved the sound of the spoken word and peppered my dialogue with metaphor and allusion. As an eleven year old I won a recital competition for ‘The Play’, the fifth chapter of CJ Dennis’ verse novel, The Sentimental Bloke. I distinctly remember selecting the whimsical tale of Bill and Doreen’s date night in a subversive and secret hope that one day I would find meaning in that world of staged representation. I was drawn, I’m sure, to Dennis’ apparent innocence, irreverence and larrikinism - the very antithesis of my home life.

Spike Milligan made this recording in 1999, long after 

he and I became inseparable friends 

I was so entranced by poetry that when I won a speech contest a year later, I proudly exchanged my book voucher prize for Geoffrey Dutton’s compendium, Australian Verse From 1805: A Continuum, at the local Collins retailer. My memory has the prize being $100; a quick google neither confirms nor contradicts this, but hindsight tells me a voucher of this value for a primary school speaking competition is probably unlikely. Either way, my voucher’s worth was a perfect match for the volume’s asking price and after picking it up, putting it down, walking around the shop and picking it up again, I formalised my selection. The poetry section was at the back of the shop; it was such a long walk to the register. On arrival, I wordlessly offered my voucher by way of payment. Oh, how the book store owner must have inwardly laughed!

I've always loved the power of words but the purchase of this
book was a mis-directed attempt to understand them

Sadly (and perplexing beyond my then understanding), was the almost immediate realisation that the works so carefully assembled by Mr Dutton were double-dutch to me! Looking back of course, this is unsurprising, but  can you imagine my disappointment? I remember my confusion as I poured over page after page, doggedly trying to find meaning, wondering whether Mr Dutton even knew anything about poetry at all!!

As I grew older, I came to realise that the lyric poetry of the picaresque I’d heard my father recite, spoke little of the complexities of humanity that assaulted me each day. Now adolescent, I yearned for reassurance in my tumultuous world, imagining I would find it in the words of a long dead poet; if only I knew which poem to read! I sought consolation in Wordsworth, Keats and Blake; alas, these too, were mostly beyond my understanding. However a timely and gentle introduction to Shakespeare spoke to me profoundly. His plays and especially his sonnets, helped me to begin to locate myself inside the continuum of human existence. Dalliances with Chaucer (always one for the risqué), Dawe and Wright gave me another opportunity to explore the questions I had been asking for years and later, well into adulthood, those much wished for sighs of recognition finally arrived.  

Such relief.

But not the life affirming all-singing all-dancing entourage I had imagined in my childhood.

Earlier this year, on a particularly hot summer’s afternoon, I performed at a SLAM poetry open mic. That night, I took a pledge to ‘just write’ - every day - and share my output with a trusted group of co-writers. For a number of weeks, I ground out strings of sometimes pretty and more-often ugly words, always attempting to crystallise something about life and humanity. My results were varied: for each small sweetness there were stockpots of cliche and standard fare. And, short lived. I discontinued my 'just write' almost as abruptly as I started it ... but the commitment was empowering and the occasional perfect morsels filled my soul with hope. 

And so anticipation of Mildura Writers Festival poetry sessions filled me with mixed portent: during these sessions surely, words of rarified beauty might be dropped - or rather deliberately placed? I hoped beyond rational reason that I might decipher them, but was mindful of our rocky past.

The poetry sessions were wonderful. I laughed and cried with equal abandon. But there was more, so much more to come ... 

Over the festival's duration, I shared food and wine with beautiful humans who just happen to specialise in the art that is poetry. They were generous gracious writers comfortable with exposing their vulnerability; Les Murray shed a tear - a big fat single tear that rolled slowly down his greyed cheek - as we spoke about his late parents; and Judith Beveridge revealed her ongoing disbelief that her work has been translated into several other languages. They were both kind, self-effacing and real. Oh so real. 

More than this though, the poets unknowingly gave me permission to continue my own practice … experimentation in haiku, and in which I profess to be neither proficient nor skilled.  

And so, here below, is some of my poetry. Each semblance of words has been inspired by the MWF - by way of an observation or personal encounter - and offered with heartfelt thanks, to its poets.

          

                 a space sits vacant

        empty chairs call company

           nothing is nothing

lovers’ arms entwine

gentle touch, offers light air

needed to soar high

surprise harmony

our melancholy stories 

wistfully exchanged

         empty libretto 

             births impromptu concerto

             unexpected gift

                                                   parental caress 

                                                       gifts unconditional love

                                                                    loyalty in blood

walking beginner 

caramel eyes seek quiet truth

 downhill yet slowly  

                                                percussive rain drops

                                                an improvised symphony,

                                     thirsty olives drink

                                                       autumn’s splendour holds

                                                       unperturbed by emerging

                                                           life, lime wings erupt

I snapped this on the way into the Festival Finale Lunch, 

taken by its juxtaposition of old and new

#writersinaction #latrobeuni

#creativevictoria #artsmildura

#mildurawritersfestival #peterboyle

#lesmurray #judithbeveridge

#stefanodepieri