POETICAL & POLITICAL & sometimes PUPPETS
Poetry rushed out of me when I was 16 years and lodging in a school-friend’s house. It was quiet – Bruce and his mum led an orderly, suburban life in Melbourne, and it was what I needed after the drama’s of my alcohol fuelled home life.
I wanted to continue to study but it wasn’t supported or really encouraged by my parents. They drank regularly in a University student’s bar because it was fun, but disparaged mature-age students.
When I was reading Macbeth which I adored and absorbed, my step-father said with malice: ‘what you reading Shakespeare for? Reading shit, and fanning yourself like Lady Muck!
Who do you think you are the Queen of bloody Sheba?’
Unlike many parents who make sacrifices for the education of their children ours were sure leaving school and getting a job in a factory, bringing in some money into the household and their pockets was the best thing to do.
I knew I had to leave home in order to stay at school.
It was my parents who were a bad influence, not my friends!
My first real poem was called The Waves, and rushed out after lying on my neat single bed in the last camping holiday with friends in the Summer holidays 1979.
It was near Wilsons Promontory in Victoria – we’d all gone for a treck along the rocky shoreline and I nearly died, being hydrated from the teenage alcoholic binge of the night before.
Lesson learned, after surving my first Australian camping sojourn – keep lubricated with water and wear a hat. I had emigrated with my family a year earlier. I was learning how to take responsibility for my own survival.
My poem was therapeutic. It is the one natural gift that has kept me sane, insightful and finding meaning to my life.
Half a century later, I remember the scene of writing, and the exhilaration of producing a spontaneous pomet, but the paper got lost moving around, and when I try and retrieve it from the back of my mind, it has been washed ashore and disappeared.
This blog is so I leave some imprint behind for you to Enjoy.
Hope it makes you think!
To be ignorant of what occurred before you were born is to remain always a child. For what is the worth of human life, unless it is woven into the life of our ancestors by the records of history?
I started to research the family tree when my paternal Nan died in Birmingham, a common trigger and very therapeutic and addictive. It is an excellent way to learn his and herstory.
My maternal family history is a work and novel-in-progress at