Poetry can be a Comfort

It is sometimes said that it's good to take up pen and paper to write a letter in a moment of anger or desperation, even if you don't post it.
To me, writing poetry is perhaps a more satisfying solution. I found it so during one particularly testing time in my life ...

Signs from the Body

My shoulders
have borne the weight of my heart.
They tighten. They scream with tension,
The pain, the tears…

Sometimes I want to live without people,
for the sadness of rejection is too much…
I ask
Why should I put myself
in the way of such melancholy?

There has been betrayal.

Dare to trust again?
Do I dare it?
Trust is a comfort which,
when misused,
leaves open the path to a crumbling
of the spirit.

Do love and companionship warrant
the risk?
Could I dare again?
At this moment….NO!

Solitude seems safe and manageable.
But can we betray even ourselves?
© June Saville 2008

Precious Breath

Breath comes more easily now,
Flowing through a body in need.
Breath, deep and generous.

Relaxed. More relaxed …

The knot in my back is passed.
© June Saville 2008

At other times it is wise to reach towards truly masterful writers. To my mind this is one of the most beautiful love poems I have read:

Sonnet from the Portuguese XLIII

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise,
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning


June Saville's original work not to be reproduced without written permission.

Hill End Suite - A poem about an old Australian gold town

These are my great grandfather John Ross and his wife Rebecca Winter-Ross who went to Hill End at least as as early as 1868 - four years before the main gold rush began in the town, and stayed until 1902. It is very likely that he was there with his father in 1858 when he was a child of eight years. Evidence suggests that John was part of the team which reputedly discovered the biggest nugget of gold ever found - the Holtermann Nugget.


What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,and the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,and the dry stone no sound of water…
T S Eliot The Waste Land

My poem, Hill End Suite was partially inspired by T S Eliot's poem. However, the main catalyst was family history research which brought to life the fact that my mother's family had been gold miners in Hill End, near Bathurst in New South Wales - one of the richest of all mine fields in Australia in the 1870s. It was a wonderful experience finding out about the people of that time, and transporting my knowledge into verse. The result is something of a dream in poetry, with characters past and present intermingling with some from my imagination. The poem was fed when my sister and I spent a week camping in the old town that is now an historic site.

This poem's pretty long but I thought - what the heck! Please let me know what you think ...


I. The Old Gold Town
Spirits ride on the winds in Hill End,
Their fickle steeds wafting, eddy o’er pockmarked hills,
Sweep gullies of their gumleaves
And set ruins of brick and mortar groaning with
Illusions and secrets implanted in the dust.

They brush the faces of eroded rocks
The tortured squiggly trunks of gnarled old trees
The sad streams where fish are no more
And the soil, yellow and unforgiving.

Spectres whisper of battles ‘tween man and beast
Between man and the land
Rock and shovel
Windlass and bucket
Pick and stone
Man and man
Man and wife…

And the elements.

II. Geoffrey Marshall and his Ancestors
In the cool of the evening Geoff Marshall
Great great grandson of John Ross, miner,
Strolled the hill of Reef Street
Past Bleak House to the tip
Of Hawkins Hill
And stood there, quiet.

The zephyr stirred giant white gums,
And strengthening,
Whistled into yawning scars of old mines
With their foul air and memories.
Pausing where his forebears searched for gold in ‘72
Geoff Marshall mused, connecting with the past.

Pick pick clink clink
Metal on rock…
A ghostly chorus of yelling and clamour,
Hollers and shouts and bellows and yelps.
Muscles and hearts straining, hurting,
Incessant toil…
Wearing away bodies and hope.

Rumbling barrows and creaking windlass,
Horses’ whinny and machinery’s roar.
Rubble and ore, mud and dust
And rich quartz gleaming.

Split Rock and Broken Back,
Boogong, Turon and Kissing Point.
Golden Quarter Mile and Nuggety Gully,
Deep Creek, Broad Ridge and Eaglehawk.
Stars of Peace and Hope,
Paxton’s and Rampant Lion.
Hickson, Creighton, Beard, and Cock,
Walpole and Dwyer,
Krohmann, Carroll, Beard and Rapp
Holtermann and Ross.
All names melding in a hullabolloo
Of haunting recollection.

III. Jill O’Trades
Beneath unerring gaze of faces long gone
Staring down from timbers of the old Royal Hall
In Tambaroora Road
Jill O’Trades scrapes uneaten bits of wedding cake
From the floor beneath the seats
And gobs of sick, trodden in by dancing feets
And tosses dead beer bottles into the bin
Along with cardboard plates
And sauce smeared paper tablecloths.

She sweeps and dusts for hours until
The stern Salvation faces of Georgina and Major Sam
Relax in approval.
Then Jill O’Trades pauses to spy her handywork
And make peace with ghosts in the hall.

In trance, she hears sounds
Of ancient meetings of townsfolk,
Of celebrations and wakes
The time-worn rituals of Oddfellows Lodge,
Haranguing politicians of early days
Lamington drives and CWA,
School concerts and brass bands.
The scrape of fiddle and thump and jiggle
Of the lagerphone with its bottletops gone mad with a tune.

Jill turns, locks the door.
Away to her next job
Where she hands out posters and prints and pamphlets
To tourists invading the town.
Gold dishes and shovels,
Destined to retain their shine.
Books and trinkets and souvenirs
And jars filled
With chunks of fools gold.
She smiles and chats, a credit to her uniform
And talks of characters of the town.
“A lovely girl,” they say and: “How helpful.”

At night, for Jill, it’s to the pub
Where, as chef, she mingles with
ghosts again.
But, like the beer, ghosts are watered down
With today’s live phantoms.
In the tarted up beergarden she serves
Soup de poisson, pate maison
Sauteed frogs legs, omelettes,
Topped off with crème parisienne.

Where’s the damper and cocky’s joy?

IV. The Royal Hotel
The Royal Hotel built in ‘72
Iron lace and swinging sign
Period dressers and cedar
And Bernard Holtermann lauding it in the bar.
The Royal – a connecting link ‘tween early town
And remnants there today.
Where people have always gathered,
Held captive by the strangeness of this place.
They swap lies and sustain hopes
With the bandages, braces and props
Of friendship.

Ah, Hill End.
Yellow soil
Dust in the dry. Glue when wet.
It sticks and bogs and penetrates.
In a bluster, it invades your crutch
And assails your senses,
Fills your nose and colours your hair.
Drifts and cloys, pollutes and defiles.
A shroud for our world, and
Life blood of the town.
For this is the dust where golden treasure lies hid,
Nourishing those dreams.

Today yellow dust is on the wing,
And Digger Spade is queazy with battling the odds.
Short wirey man in dirty grey felt hat,
U-bend in his right leg,
Rolls across the road and into the Royal
To share a beer with his cobbers.
‘Any show today Dig?’
‘Na. Bloody heat’d fry a rabbit though.
Termorrow’s another day…’

Digger sets to with his schooner,
Then another tosses off.
Anxious to lay the dust
Before his missus, Ivy,
Settles her ample bum on the stool next door.

Ivy Spade
As plentiful as Digger is spare.
Steely grey eyes and sagging, mean mouth,
She stands ‘neath pub verandah railing
A solid hold in huge slippered feet
As much part of the landscape as the hills.
Grey hair thick with grease,
T shirt reveals one big breast,
And stretches over pads of fat
On hips and buttocks
Which move out of synch with the rest.

Digger clears the froth from his third
And steels himself against his missus
Just as
Black Jack Ellis downs his fourth.

Physog as rutted as the land he tills,
And as wiley as a dingo
It’s said Jack has bags of gold hid
Somewhere in his shack.
He’s a knowin’ old coot
Been ‘round town since birth and knows the mines
Like the cracked nails of his hands.
Henry Lawson’s mate, they say…
The bard’s poem attests to this.
‘Twill serve as Jack’s epitaph later..
Dead at 74.

‘But times have altered since those old days
And the times have changed the men
Ah well! There’s little to blame or praise.
Jack Ellis and I have tramped long ways
On different tracks since then.’ * *

V. How about some Culture?
A balding man spectacled and spare
Sat mid street, easel and palette in position
As shadows cast their eerie shapes.
What is this man in this place
Who would earn his crust by brush
Instead of pick and shovel?
Lightning fast his hand moves
Sketching skinny figures
Of Hill End kids Ted and Roy
As they fashion their game of
Broomstick bat, apple cum ball
And towering house biggest wicket in the world.
Tass’ lens captures
The moment of ball’s release, evening sky, skimped trees and
Barren soil
Creating one of his nation’s icons…

John and Rebecca Ross
were called ‘clannish’.
They dared enjoy poetry and music and
Difficult English novels,
Even calling their cottage Bleak House.
They had respect though, that’s for sure,
And when across the bridle track they imported
The first phonograph in the town
Everyone gathered around to hear
Played over and over
Billy Williams, vaudeville artist, singing:
‘When father papered the parlour
You couldn’t see pa for paint
Dabbin’ it here
Dabbin’ it there
There was paint and paper everywhere
Mother was stuck to the ceiling
And the kids were stuck to the floor
You never saw such a bloomin’ family
So stuck up before.’ * * *

VI. The Big Find
In ’51, not far north of Tambaroora,
A bare month after Hargreaves found gold at Ophir
And long before Holtermann,
Young Aborigines Dan, Jemmy and Tom
Tinkered with a tomahawk
On interesting looking rocks.
They’d seen how white man went mad
With thoughts of the yellow stuff.
They noted deals could be done.
They also
Knew their land.

So when Daniel’s blade bared sparkling crystals
They weren’t too shocked.
The gold meant little in their culture, so
They showed Doc Kerr what they’d found…
But not exactly where.

And sure ‘nough Doc went mad with joy,
And showed the world
What he’d found.
They broke it up to see what was inside…
‘A hundredweight of gold,’ they yelled.
Doc got fame and fortune
And Dan, Jemmy and Tom
Got bullocks, sheep and a dray,
Rode around dressed in style
And gave their mates a share.

The story spread and soon
Where Dan told the Doc he’d found his prize
There grew a village…
Hargreaves by name.
Seekers came from everywhere
Wielding shovels and picks.
They dug and sweated,
Cursed and damned
And found nothing.

Meanwhile,
Astride their new mounts
Dan, Jemmy and Tom
Lived the good life…
And shared a knowin’ grin.

VII. Shades East and West
Geoff Marshall braves the rutted road to Tambaroora
To visit the shades
Eddying around crumbling tombstones
In the Protestant cemetery.
There, roughly fenced, the parched plots
Lie in soundless recollection of
Hill End residents.

In loving memory of
our dear great grandfather James Ross
died 10th May 1897 age 85 years.

Geoff’s grandpa lived a full life.

Not so Thomas William Anderson:
Accidentally killed in Rawsthorne’s mine
Hawkins Hill 1874.
Age 22 years.

And the children. Wee graves for dead children.
Jack Anderson one year.
Samuel, son of Frances,
Fourteen days.

Shadows from the sentinel gums diffuse now,
Geoff shivers in the sudden chill
As phantoms, will-o’-the-wisps and restless spectres
Flit among the graves
Their gossamer breath a misty mantle,
Cloaking sorrows.

Fragile fleeting apparitions
Stealing time to remember
Join hands with family
Long dead.

Across the road and in the bushland,
Near deep scarred ravine,
Mid pockmarked hills, and
Hard to find,
A tell-tale heap of stone and mortar
Inscribed with eastern hieroglyphs.

Hill End’s Chinese miners… gone now.
Bones returned to their ancient land,
So spirits may finally rest.
Laid down first in alien soil,
But restless and lost despite
Ceremonies of
Fire crackers and gongs,
Wafting sweet smelling incense, prayer,
Rice wine and cakes.

Stone, mortar and hieroglyphs
Concrete remains of a community
Assiduous, clever and patient.
Hints bring dim visions of
Tents in neat lines, joss houses and shacks,
Odours of opium… and fear.
This foreign land took its toll with
Severed pigtails, stabbings and broken hearts.

Hear the clatter and rattle of bleached old bones
Excised from yellow soil and sent
Over the ocean to a mystical land
And repose.

VIII. The Legacy
Hill End.
Tortured battleground of combat
‘Twixt man and man, and
man and nature.
Each taking its toll of the other.

Today government cows
And drunken hand hewn fences
Of yesteryear
Roam the ruins.
But memories lurk at
Every street corner,
In every pile of rubble,
Amid the mine tailings,
And in the hearts of women and men.

An enigma, this town…
In ambush for your soul.
*

Bibliography
Eliot, T S (1922) ‘The Waste Land’ in Leonard, J (1996) Seven Centuries of Poetry in English 3rd edition South Melbourne: Oxford University Press.
* * Unknown poem credited to Henry Lawson, inscribed on the gravestone of Black Jack Ellis (1874-1948) in Tambaroora Cemetery.
* * * Early vaudeville song, heard played on the Ross phonograph by June Saville’s uncle Bill Carroll, when he was a child.


©June Saville 2008. Not to be reproduced without express written permission of the author.

Blood Sport – A Story About a Very Special Robot

The sound of whirring machinery welcomed me to the new day. As scheduled, the dryer hummed sending my business shirt into a spin, the washer buzzed and the kettle sang.

A juicer screamed and the network of automatic vacuum suction pipes was doing its work throughout my home. The aroma of coffee drifted in from the kitchen, and the shower was just building up steam, awaiting my arrival.

I dried myself with a fluffy towel set just so on the airing rack, and by the time I got back to my bedroom the shirt was laid out, crisply ironed, alongside a clean suit and gleaming shoes. The cloth crackled as it fell into place around my shoulders.

A soft bubbling sound behind me. My female-style robot butler Drac Ula glided across the ceramic floor, its heart visible in a transparent chest, blood pumping rhythmically.

‘Juice, bacon and emu eggs, coffee and just warm bagels,’ she announced in singsong style.

‘Very well,’ I mumbled, settled myself at the table and fifteen minutes later I was on my way for the day.
*
In my busy executive existence, Drac is a godsend. Despite my senior position in an electronics company, inside myself I am a Luddite. I hate learning even the basics of everyday technology. I tell myself and everyone else that machines are beneath me, but to be truthful, even setting the HD television to record ahead of time has always been a bugbear.

At the office I let the little ladies take care of such details. They battle with intricacies of photocopier and fax, computer and blackberry while I get on with what interests me.

That works fine during business hours, but I must say that until recently so far as I was concerned, applying myself to home technology was like an itch that wouldn’t be scratched.

My expensive condominium was a refuse tip with the debris of my life scattered through every room, even though technology was supposed to remove these concerns from my existence. To manage society’s fashionable contrivances was beyond me. I lurched from one electro-generated crisis to the next, and escaped from my home whenever I could.

Now though, thank God for Drac. Unobtrusive, adept and utterly dependable Drac. I can live my life unimpeded, on a path she smoothes for me day in, day out. And the robot doesn’t talk back.

Some of my acquaintances solve their gadget problems by tying themselves to women who have a knack with household technology. To women, computerised shopping systems and cybernetic circuitry seem a doddle.

Now and then I have thoughts about getting a partner. My older relatives used to say there was joy in coming home to a household of sparkling clean and well behaved children, with meals on tap. I have day-dreamed about what it would be like to have intimate quiet times with a particular someone. Family life sounds cool, but it’s mighty out of date now.

In my experience reality doesn’t have such a shine. Women solve some problems, and create others. My acquaintances who do have a partner inevitably complain that their lives are not their own.

You can’t even expect these men to make a decision for themselves. Oh no. Instead, they wait to ask permission of the little woman when she gets home from work. Impossible to make it to the gym today, they say. Fun things we used to take for granted now seem forever out of reach, even though their daily lives run like electronic clocks. These former mates grow old before their time. They’re on a treadmill of routine and regrets.

Not for me, that trap. I’ve made my decision. So far as women go, I dip into the local pool of females when I feel a need. This yuppie chappie dabbles and throws back at will. No complications. That’s my credo.

Meanwhile it is incessant chaos at home. So a few months ago when a digital employment agent came knocking at my door waving a contract in its hand, I jumped at the chance it offered. I signed on the dotted line before you could say ‘cyberjunk’.

The deal is that I could have a fully automated home robot for seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day, on payment of just half a litre of blood every couple of months. A bargain. I don’t even have to see the plasma seep out of me and into its receptor. This all happens in the darkest of night, while I sleep.

The robot would come with a lifetime guarantee, backed up by a document of 40 pages in fine print.
*
Like I said, Drac Ula is a godsend. She has been my right hand for months now. The flawless employee. We are enmeshed together forever, bound by the contract.

I know who’s got the best end of this deal. My fancies are met at every turn. I go home each night to comfort and order. The robot hums softly as she drifts from room to room, bringing peace and predictability. She plays music at my whim and nods agreement when I speak.

And she does seem to listen. Often, I find myself going on about the latest crisis in the office, or I repeat a bit of gossip I’ve heard and she does seem to listen. When this happens she stops what she’s doing and stands, head on one side, looking attentive.

With Drac Ula’s help I am able to give my full attention to my career. No more drudgery. Every ounce of energy spent in productive and enjoyable ways. My boss has noticed the difference and keeps throwing additional easy responsibilities my way. There is talk of promotion and a big rise in salary to go with it, and no technological worries anywhere.

Now, after hours, there is time left over for play. It’s the gym for me three times a week, and my mirror tells me I’m decidedly trim and terrific. I walk down the street with an occasional accidental flexing of my new muscles, and the heads turn.

I click my finger and thumb often, and the ladies come running.

In the mean time I receive an email from the employment agent. My contract is updated, as is compulsory, and Drac is awarded a rise in salary. She has been with me for six months.

The detail is in the small print - my blood donation has increased from one every two months to just one each month. A small price to pay, I think. No sweat.
*
Bozey Carmichael is the undisputed glamour woman of my office building. For most, a date with Bozey is like winning a gold medal in the Olympics. Any escort of Bozey’s is bathed in her reflected brilliance. And these days I can have her at will. My status soars.

Most weeks Bozey and I mosey along to a disco. We drop a few yippee beans and the night takes off. We rock away the hours, and in the early morning drift back to Bozey’s pad with a couple of her friends for a little team cream.

No worries. No guilt about apron strings at home. My life is full.
*
Tonight Drac serves me a meal you couldn’t better anywhere. I’m finishing off with a little angel, feet up in my personal easy lounge, inbuilt computer console purring away nicely in front of me.

This morning I signed a big contract which will set me up for the next ten years. I have bagged an order to supply a million transporters to the Chinese army, and I sense the angel taking over as I ponder my success.

Subconsciously, I’m watching Drac move around the room. She’s obviously a machine, but they did make a pretence of a small shapely bust when they designed her. And the traditional slim waist and comely hips. I enjoy that.

I begin imagining what it would be like to be with my robot. She’d do whatever I wanted … whenever I wanted. We could be experimenting with all sorts of kinky things together. She’s not unattractive, although she doesn’t smile. She doesn’t have any facial expressions at all, but there is a certain charm I can’t explain.

Drac is moving towards the long narrow hallway leading to the rear of the condominium. I rise and, in the narrow space, wait for her to return. She’s moving close now, humming some electronic tune, and oblivious to my presence. I take a step in her direction and, as though by accident, I brush against her body.

It’s hard cold plastic, and my desire takes wing.
*
A week later I’m logging in for my mail. The precis of each message right there in front of me. A bill from the wind energy people; junk mail trying to sell me a trip to Mars; a love letter from my cyber mate in Brazil.

Then, a message from Drac Ula’s agent … Let’s see. Nicely presented, as usual, with flashing graphics and music to go, it’s a demand for another pay rise.

Another pay rise!

‘ … The plasma donation to begin at weekly intervals at full moon, increasing to twice weekly in three months.’

Blood suckers. That’s some rise!

Where did I put that contract?
*

©June Saville 2008. Not to be reproduced without express written permission of the author.

Ecovillage Currumbin Australia - living there!

Exciting things are happening in Currumbin Valley where the World’s Best Environmental Residential Development is being established.


(photo Ecovillage Currumbin)

This picture indicates the site of the Currumbin Ecovillage just seven minutes drive from a beach on Queensland's Gold Coast.

My daughter Lynne and her husband John will soon be part of this brilliant community as their new rammed earth home is almost at lock-up stage and they hope to move in within a couple of months. It's a thrilling time when they visit to see what's happening on site.



The title ‘World’s Best’ is not just kite flying. The Currumbin Ecovillage was awarded the prestigious International Real Estate Federation (FIABCI) Award for World's Best Environmental Development in Amsterdam this June.

The village already had been recognised as Queensland's Best Small Residential Subdivision for the past two years, and as Best Ecologically Sustainable Development by the Urban Development Institute of Australia in 2007. It has also gained another nineteen awards at local, state and national levels.

Why?

The Ecovillage, located at the entrance to the Currumbin Valley on Queensland's southern Gold Coast, is established as a quality residential community comprising 144 eco-homes with community facilities, including a Village Centre.

Eighty per cent of the 110 hectare site will be open space and the project has already received full six category accreditation with the scientifically-based industry branding system, EnviroDevelopment.

Accreditation rewards commitment in the areas of eco-systems, waste management, energy, building materials, water and development of community.

For those who will live there all of this means being part of a sustainable community nestled in a beautiful largely unspoiled valley only 7km from the beach.

Lynne and John will be living in a cluster of just eight homes called a hamlet, lying within metres of the crystal clear Currumbin Creek – a great swimming place.



It will mean living alongside real kangaroos and echidnas who know the place is theirs every bit as much as it is the human beings'. It is rare in Australia to see wild life so much a part of a residential area.



There will be some fun while they all learn to respect each others rights as veggie gardens are being established!



The building in the background is a sewage and water treatment works. The village is off the normal supply and the recycled water will be available to all residents for their gardens and used to help produce forests of food trees and even a rice paddy on the open space lands. There are also many dams on site to collect water run-off, and tanks are used extensively.

Solar panels are used and allow residents to supplement the general power supply.



Here the kangaroos are on land designated for recreation and sports grounds and the area just this side of Lynne and John's house (in the background) will be their own private garden patch that was additional to the house block in their purchase package.



This Ecovillage chook shed is portable, allowing the owners to shift the animals around to new grass each day, providing fresh food and incidentally fertilising the lawn! The plump birds roam around during daylight, going home at night for protection against foxes.

Lynne and John plan to have a chook shed on their garden plot.



John snapped mother and daughter enjoying a cuppa at a picnic shelter near their new house.




This is part of the pedestrian and bicycle path that wends its way throughout the village, from hamlet to hamlet. It is mandatory for kitchen areas of the houses to face this path, encouraging community.

I will do another post later about the Ecovillage building code that makes the village so community- and eco-friendly, with long term savings in terms of energy, water, garbage collection and other bills.



Villagers have decorated the paths using plants to make stencils for their art work. Even though only a fraction of the residents have moved in, the community spirit is already in evidence.



In fact, this path inscription(below) seems to capture some of the spirit of the place.






These community facilities are under way, with some completed and in use.



The fine community hall, now boasting a large commercial kitchen and outdoor entertainment areas, was launched on Australia Day in January this year. The Co-Founder of the village Chris Walton (green shirt) was in the thick of the bush dance held on the day. He and his partner Kerry Shepherd have devoted their lives to the Ecovillage project for many years.



The barbecue lunch was a hit ...



As were the various forms of energy efficient transport ruled as mandatory for the day. Have you ever seen a happier group of swaggies?



The staff pressed their office chairs into service.



And Martin rode a unicycle ...

Highlight was the official opening of the beautiful Ridgey Didge Bridge - a $A1 million connection across the Currumbin Creek from the Creek Eco Hamlets to the two other sections of the village - the Terraces and the Highlands Hamlets.



Below is the view from the bridge ...



and into the burgeoning Terraces hamlets ...



As was fitting on Australia Day, across the newly opened bridge the villagers walked ...



Pulling together towards a sustainable future!

PARTNERS – A short story with a surprise in store

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