People and Society

The Party

Tightly bunched, two hundred upstanding 
Drinks-in-hand chatterers.
Waiters alone can pass through the throng.
A band plays, the din is confounding
But it’s too tight to dance.
Most, indeed, are too old to want to.
They’re celebrating the life-event 
Of warm-welcoming hosts
Sadly unattuned to their welfare.

Who was alerted to cucumber
Sandwiches and nibbles
At a time when dinner’s expected?
Agéd hips, knees, backs, and sparse seating
Mean there’s pain in the room.
But gentility rules: no-one leaves.
At long dawdling last, come the speeches 
And required homely film.

These, though no less boastful than usual, 
Are abnormally entertaining
And witty, yet fail to  
Outweigh all encircling discomforts. 
So as the laughter dies and the claps
Dribble into silence,
A shuffling begins and one thought looms: 
Now we can go!

Parallel

 (December 2008)

My herd of steers act in sodden concord.

They graze and drink and sit down together,

Ever yielding to the rites of the horde –

So like bikies and Xavier students.

Of Frugaldonia

I don’t fancy life among Frugals
(Though not necessarily mean)
Even if they hail thrift with bugles
And their streets are tidy and clean.  

Because in the land of the Frugals,
It is monetary cravings 
That count; and the ultimate measure
Of worth is assets and savings.

Wonderland
 

The great homes of Toorak,
Very solemnly planned,
Each aping a palace,
And so grotesquely grand:
Could be built by Alice
Or her Mad Hatter friend.

The Guardian Problem
 
There are people who are
Seriously disturbed
And really need doctors.
Disturbingly, some of
Them are also doctors. 

     

Grand Final, 2010
 

The day is calm and fine.
A multitude surges
Through parkland trees towards
Beguiling gates, entry
To the charmed arena,
All hearts replete with joy.

Little girls and boys beam
And skip, and wave bright flags.
Colours rampant, burly
Males and dainty ladies
Gaily proclaim their faith,
Their fond and current dream.

Once inside, life stands still.
The game is classic, hard.
First half owned by my team;
Second owned by your team.
A draw: maybe justice,
Though some would question that.

A stunned void follows; then
As thousands think to ebb,
The heavens turn sour and
Match the mood with sudden
Icy winds and seeming
Tears of rain hard-driven.

The multitude streams out
Into a darkened park.
No winners, no triumph,
No smiles; just grumpy kids,
Drooping flags, and glum talk.
All gaiety has fled.

 

Heath Shaw’s Smother
 

A rare, blazing moment early
In the Grand Final Replay when
You understood the gods, for once,
Were entirely in your corner.

The ball spears clean down to Riewoldt,
Cleverly alone in the square,
Scarcely a pace from the goal line;
He swivels then quick to the kick.

Shaw, against all hope sprinting in
From afar, leaps like an arrow
And fingers the ball on the boot!
Divinity was in that dive.

Funeral Games

 
Few speak the truth at funerals;
Most wrap their talk in cotton wool,
Bandaging person and past in 
Homage to any true grievers.
But all share one thought: ‘It’s not me.’  

Gresham’s Law
 
Once was a new priest,
Clean-shaven young chap,
Who true-told old tales
That, while often blithe
And exuberant
To start, ended in
Death and disaster.

Before very long, 
His flock had most fled
Across the road to
A ginger-bearded, 
Street-smart old pastor
Who told the same tales  
With happy endings.





At the Minyan
 
A bearded fat man stole my chair,
Slipping stealthily behind me.
I dropped into his flabby lap 
When the service allowed us sit.

Crowded room, a close-by rabbi,
A sagging couch the one recourse. 
Plunging deep into it hoisted
Damaged knees high above my ears. 

Summoned to be upright once more,
I flopped as though a landed fish.
The rabbi, reading, glanced my way
And quietly commanded, ‘Sit!’

This I did with such vast relief
And deep-welling gratitude that 
(The only goy in that cramped room) 
I suddenly felt quite Jewish. 

If the Truth be Known

 
She married him for money;
He for a trophy wife.

They filled their family quota, 
And were respectable.

They quarrelled incessantly, 
And drove the children off.

A fulsome rabbi said nought
Of this at her funeral.
 

At the ‘Wallan Outbound’

Beside the Hume Highway, 

An hour out from Melbourne,

Stop for a weekly treat:

Sweet hot chocolate with

A sultana scroll or

An apricot Danish.

Others choose chips, rolls, Coke,

Hamburgers, shakes, coffee.

We sit at clean tables

Companionably 

Munching, drinking, in

Clear common enjoyment. 

Crowded, cheerful scene, yet

Somehow faintly troubling: 

So many plump teens and

Truly obese adults -

Though ever redeemed by 

Small ones, lithe, blithe, bounding.

 

A Curmudgeonly View of a Popular Practice,Barbecues:

 
Smoke-reeking, 
Flies flocking,
Sweat dripping,
Beef cooking - 
Overdone.  

Gut Fear

You live a middle-class

Life behind locked doors

And social certainties.

Never have you known the

Kind of fear that threatens 

To empty your bowels.

Your incomplete wisdom

Permits you to briskly

Condemn those young soldiers

And policemen who kill

At the fraught instant they

Think their life is at stake. 

The Modern University

Disowning ‘elite’,

No longer aloof,  

Run as a business;

Just witnessed a proof

That stunned these old eyes:

Finest of teaching

And learning advised 

On the side of a tram!

An Old Man’s Lament

My university:

Of it from its founding,

I have respected it

Over forty summers.

But in latter days, signs

Of decaying values

And perverse purposes

Have accumulated.

… As when it spruiks its wares

On the sides of tramcars.

… When it gloats of awards

For ‘marketing’ itself.

… When it places weight on 

‘Refreshing’ its ‘Brandmark’.

… When ‘Staff Office’ transmutes 

To ‘People and Culture’.

… When front-line teachers are 

Increasingly pressed for 

Time-greedy writings that 

Who-knows anyone reads.

… When decent employees,

Facing radical change,

Are ignored and bullied 

By spiteful mandarins.

… When good and clever folk,

Devoted to their craft,

Look to working elsewhere

Or early retirement.

It is heart-breaking to

Admit, in these lines, that

My university

Is changing for the worse.

The New Astrologers

Predictions by surveyed

Economists of bank

Rates, employment and such,

Figure high in our news.

Success seems quite random:

Rarely, all get it right;

Mostly, some get it right;

Sometimes none of them do.

Yet the magic they weave

Is potent enough to

Earn them respect, readers,

And a steady income.

 
















The Murderous Professions

Each year, thousands die doing their jobs,  
From soldiers, policemen on duty,
To construction workers and miners.

Overwhelmingly, these are random
Deaths, not deliberate killings of
Known, targeted individuals.  

But murder, for just two professions,
Has long been in certain countries a 
Constant occupational hazard.

Each year, journalists by the dozen,  
Trade-union leaders by the score, are
Gunned down by dedicated killers.

Jailing, torture are the frequent lot
Of many more in these brave callings.   
One can only marvel at their courage. 

A Well-bred New-born’s Reflection on Visitors

Oh, here come the mouths,

As usual too close,

Cooing and blowing 

Their bad smells at me.

Much nicer when eyes

Take over, with blinks

And glitter: why some

More so than others?

Touching is doubtful:

Sloppy wet kisses

And clumsy tickles

Amuse them, not me.

I try to be civil:

Not always easy 

When some treat one as 

Cheap entertainment.

How should I play it

With this latest lot:

Chortling, coolish or

Turn on a grumble? 

Oh, here comes a poo!

Great, now I can call

On the milky one, 

Without disrespect.

The Golden Age of Australian Universities
To think a rank old Tory,
Robert Menzies, deployed it;
And a so-called Progressive,
Young John Dawkins, destroyed it!

A Collingwood Farewell To a Favourite Son
     
Alan Didak, belovèd
Larrikin, aging champion,
Back after long injury:
Brought on late, deep forward. 

The ball flies down to Dane Swan,
Slyly alone in the square.
He spurns the easy score, and  
Hand-passes to the pocket.

Didak honours the gesture,
Steers through a last clever goal.
His team-mates sprint from centre  
And back-lines to embrace him. 

 

The Real Winners at the Spring Racing Carnival

’Twas none of the upfront
lot: not fleet horses, nor
Fair ladies parading
Chic outfits, nor haughty
Celebs in lush marquees.

No, it was the backroom
Milliners who fashioned
All those gaudy, strutting,
Whimsical hints of hats
That sneered at gravity!

 

 

Gayle and Len

 
Him, dead artist, I never met.
She, an aging tigress, holds court
In superlative style: charming,  
Witty, silkily controlling.
The puzzle of a painting clears. 

Moaning man sits hunched on a rock,
Almost foetal; hard-faced woman,  
Towering behind, stares past him.
Len entitled this chilling work,
‘Conversation with the Hermit’:

A Glimpse of Caring

2014

Busy city footpath,
Small very old couple,  
Too warmly dressed for a
Sun-bright autumnal day.

They stop of a sudden, 
Oblivious of crowd.
He turns and tenderly
Unbuttons her jacket.

She looks blankly ahead.
He takes her hand and they
Move off, close together,
Like very young lovers. 

A Moment of Grace
2014

The day Nicky Winmar
Passed into Aussie Rules
Legend, I was seated
Behind the Collingwood 
‘Cheer squad’ at old Vic Park.

The Saints won well, Winmar
Their finest, his ‘brother’
McAdam the second.   
Both had endured racist
Taunts from some in the squad.

At game’s end, Winmar ran
From the centre to face
The squad: he said nothing, 
Simply raised his jumper, 
Pointed to his brown chest
With dignity and pride
And a steely contempt.

 A Gendered Take on Breakfast

2014

Of countless business breakfasts:
Mostly uniformed males with
Dark suits, pale shirts, sober ties,
Gleaming shoes, eager eyes for
The occasional woman.

But later, why on earth do
They (hunks apart) expect her
To have perfect recall of
Every boiled potato   
Sitting on top of those suits?  

The Taintons’ Temple

2015

 
In the fair town of Yea,
Deep in Murrindindi, 
There’s a Temple to meat
Standing tall in High Street.

Its High Priests two brothers 
(Sage Gary, wise Wayne) who
Share the proud Tainton name,
Revered by so many. 

Neophytes: Marsh brothers, 
Big Rhett and wiry Kyle,
With heedful Al Tait as 
Saturday’s Acolyte,  

All wield knives sacred to  
The creed that the Taintons
Ardent preach and proclaim, 
The right source of their fame.

So great their piety, 
They even do slaughter,  
On their blood-stained altar,
Beloved kine of their own.

And more virtue acquire 
By laughter resounding,
Like a heavenly choir,
Through each Temple service.

So, always (choice meats in
Hand, in ears cheery quips),
The faithful leave Temple   
With broad smiles on their lips!

The Mangan Ordeal

2015

For nine long, anguished years,
In the fair town of Yea,
Deep in Murrindindi,
Ron served, nay, slaved in the
Taintons’ Temple as their
Saturday Acolyte.

’Twas a painful penance:
His reward a pittance,  
His burden, constant jeers
From Blues and Tigers (and
Another Blue at home!)
Which tested him full sore.

But he endured the slings
And arrows, rebuffed all
Blandishments, and remained
Throughout resolute and
Steadfast, as befits a
A true-blue Magpie man!

The Bris

2015

Ancient prescription:
Mohel, bearded, black garbed;
Jewish man-child, pink,
Tiny, ten days old.

Mohel cuts, quickly done,
Baby wails: some blood,
Bandage and soothing
Comfort of mothers.

Time then for bagels,
Coffee and chat while
Mutilated babe
Sobs in a backroom.

Astounding that such
A primitive rite
Is maintained by such
Cultivated folk!

… Along with Congo
Tribesmen and desert
Aborigines;
And, of course, Muslims.

From Bullocking to Ballet:
    An Impartial Comparison of Rugby League,
     Rugby Union, and Good Old Aussie Rules

2015

The season of real football 
Draws close after the usual
Dreary summer of cricket,
Tennis, golf, and faux soccer.
So now’s the time for careful
Appraisal of the main codes.
        

 1.Body-types tell a lot of the story
League, all tank-like, designed for 
Perpetual collision;
Union, forwards much the same,
Backs a bit lighter for speed; 
Rules, all mostly leaner and
Lither, mostly swifter too. 
 

2.Ball-flight tells much of the rest
Captive to ‘off-side’, League and
Union must mostly slow grind
Forward to goal-ground the ball.
Rules’ raking high kicks allow
Goals scored fast from afar, and
Speedy reversals of play.
 

3.But, most telling, the thrill-factor 
The thrills fans reap from simple
Goals, straight wins are amplified
By see-sawing scores, by come-  
From-behind gritty upsets - 
Both of which, as it happens,  
Are least uncommon in Rules.

But the most profound thrills come 
From rare moments when one man
So far exceeds the norm that
You gasp in awe, and (whether
Friend or foe) wildly applaud 
And later treasure in mind.

Without a doubt, it is Rules
(With its peculiar stress 
On leaps, high kicks, evasion) 
That best fosters heaven-blessed
Marks, uncanny goals, dainty  
Dances through tight, snarling packs!

QED

(click here for more proof)

  A Reflection as the First Sods
         Thud on His Coffin

2015

An eloquent man,
Wielded words like swords,
Frequent witty but
Too often graceless.

By the end, he had
Grievously wounded
All who had ever
Loved or cared for him.

Eloquent too was
His widow’s farewell;
But everyone
Knew she was lying.

Respect for the Cloth

2015

In nineteen-forty, when Stalin thought
Hitler was his best friend, my father
(On his behalf) publicly condemned 
The war against Germany, and was
Jailed for ‘seditious utterances’.  

As a Presbyterian parson,
He had for years been a regular    
Visitor to the local prison. 
As a convict, he continued to 
Be addressed by the warders as ‘sir’!

Of Dignity

2015

Treasured cleaning-lady,
Shy and self-effacing,
Limited English, at
A time of misfortune.

Gropes for words to explain
Her abrupt ‘No, no, no!’
To the offer of a
Sympathetic pay-rise.

Finally, the words come.
‘I am proud,’ she says.
 

The Sickness in Australian Academe:

A Case Study

2015
       
Not so long ago, my university
Was run by a Vice-Chancellor, Registrar,  
Manager, Staff Officer and a few Deans,
All on relatively modest salaries.

Now it boasts a ‘VC and President’, a 
Senior Deputy VC, Deputy 
VC, two Vice-Presidents, a Chief of Staff,
Seven Pro-VCs,[1] a tail of Assistant 
Pro-VCs and some lesser pomposities.   

Like the titles, salaries at the top have
Inflated, even to corporate levels. 
But worse, and most revealing, is the verbal 
Inflation afflicting the terms in which the
‘Senior Leadership Group’ talks to the led.     

Messages to staff are preoccupied with 
‘Plans,’ ‘visions,’ ‘missions’, ‘new’ things and ‘strategies’ 
(The latter entailing an admin post with 
The distinctly enigmatic title of
Manager of Strategic Initiatives).  

Thus, after long prior fanfare, a Future
Ready Strategy is at last bedded down.
But then, with odd haste, the SLG launches
An ‘FRS Refresh’ project involving
A ‘new vision … a new strategic focus.’

Staff ‘consultations’ on such things are frequent
And lauded - as in the ‘exciting research’ 
(To quote the SDVC) which invites each 
Staff member to state in writing what makes their
Employer-university ‘distinctive.’  

On teaching, the VC defines ‘three vital
Areas of learning’ that are ‘central’, he
Says, ‘to all our undergraduate courses.’
These areas? ‘Entrepreneurship, global
Citizenship, and sustainability.’

Playing the same flighty game, the SLG 
(In its Refresh message) claims a ‘new’ focus 
On ‘outstanding student experience, student 
Employability, research excellence,’
And something it describes as ‘brilliant basics.’

Meanwhile, at the coal-face (where the teaching and
Real research happens) drab-titled lecturers
And professors grapple with dubious tasks
Decreed from above, with budget cuts, mounting
Student numbers – and struggle for research-time.

My university was never going 
To be a great seat of learning; but at least 
It managed for forty years to educate
And research well enough, without indulging
In the pretensions of its current overlords.  



[1] Shortly to be increased to eight Pro-VCs, the new one replacing an Executive Officer. 

  

The Mallee Princess:
  An Australian Fairy Tale

2015

The Princess of this dinkum yarn
(Born near Ballarat; Mum soon dead) 
Was raised by Dad and siblings nine  
To ride race-horses, just like them.

Her Prince, proud son of Pentire, from   
Waikato across the ditch, is
Like her a hardy survivor:
He of colic, she of a fall.

As ‘Prince of Penzance’, he makes the 
Melbourne Cup field in distinctly  
Down-beat fashion, trailing feted 
Foreigners and fancied locals.  

Princess has a strapper: little 
Stevie, her Down-syndrome brother. 
He does her proud, winning top place
In the starting-stall lottery, 

Come the hour, the Prince enters the  
Stall, the Princess perched high on his
Shoulder, as a rank outsider 
At odds of one-hundred-to-one.  

Gates snap open: the race is on!
Twenty-four lithe-lovely horses    
(Each bearing a colourful gnome) 
Pour down the track like a torrent. 

Close to the finish, Princess and 
Prince take the bit between their teeth:  
She urges, he surges, clears the 
Pack, drives straight and clean to the line! 

As the Prince saunters in triumph 
To the mounting yard, the Princess
Forsakes the crowd, leans low from the 
Saddle to kiss little Stevie.

Her Cup speech: eloquent and frank, 
Dwells fond on family and friends,
Fiery on racing’s male culture: 
‘Stuff you!’ she (now-famously) snorts.  

And rounding off her day, Princess 
Celebrates at a modest South 
Melbourne pub – in place of the posh 
Crown Casino past winners chose.

               ********            

So ends the tale of Michelle Payne,
The Mallee Princess, and her Prince;
And of the day the doughty twain
Wrecked gendered precepts of their game.  

 

  

             Sixty Years Ago            
At the Melbourne Cricket Ground

2016

I watched lissom Betty 
Cuthbert, with gaping mouth, 
Dance through sunshine and breast
The golden tape three times.  

I watched stocky Kuts, blonde
Forelock bobbing, twice lead 
From start to finish and 
Outlast loping Pirie.

Pictures, still vivid in 
My head, of a Games rich
In events that others
Ranked as high, or higher. 

But today, for me, it’s  
Innocence, not feats, that 
Truly distinguishes   
The Melbourne Olympics.

The athletes’ honour was
Then unquestioned: no thought,   
No whispers of cheating.
How different from Rio!   

Cringe-making

2016

My University,
Once modest, plain-spoken,
And sparingly governed, 
Now suffers from a swarm 
Of garrulous ‘leaders’
(With pompous titles and
A creative approach
To wasting the time of   
Front-line academics) 
Who pen preening statements
Peppered with ‘fantastic’, 
‘Wonderful’ and even
The odd ‘fabulous’! 

 Of Black Madonnas and the Answer of Faith
2016

For over three centuries, the village
Of Lanzo d’Intelvi, overlooking
Lake Como, has hosted a procession
Honouring ‘Our Lady of Loreto’, 
A version of the holy Madonna. 

So, I chanced one moonless night to watch the 
Lady, in the light of hooded candles  
And borne on sturdy shoulders, as she passed
In solemn silence up a Lanzo street.
Stunned, I saw that the Madonna was black!  

The ivory cheeks and simple colours
Of medieval Madonnas had long
Charmed my agnostic eye, but I was then 
Totally unaware of the black cheeks
Worshipped in churches from France to Poland.

Scholars still debate the origins of
The black Madonnas in Western churches.
Not so the faithful: as a questioned priest
Calmly, simply replied, ‘The Madonna
Is black because the Madonna is black.’     
 

 The Benevolence Business
2016

Those who run main charities today     
Clearly think that the more wordy and 
Arty and glossy their brochures (and  
The more often they mail them to us),
The more likely they are to tug at 
Our heart-strings and loosen our purse-strings.

Maybe they’re right; but I must confess
That the obviously mounting cost  
Of their appeals inclines me to muse,
More than before, about the cut of  
My dollar that’s hitting my target!  
 

Give Well

 Hollow Heroes:
  The Case of a Misshapen
    Institutional Memory

2017
   
Recently, a young and worthy
University opted to
Celebrate its foundation by
Glorifying a trio of
Former students who brought fear and
Disruption (I witnessed this as
A senior academic)
To its infant campus. 

It was a time when militant
Marxism dominated student
Politics abroad and at home.
The three skilfully exploited 
The fashion, installed a regime
Of violence (relatively mild),  
Intimidation, invasion
Of lectures, mass occupations
And destruction of records.

‘Student power’ was their slogan.
Their proclaimed aim, student control
Over the university’s
Governing bodies in order 
To liberate them from the weight
Of corrupting ‘capitalism’. 
The Vietnam war (implied now as
Central) was a side-issue.

It was a long time before a
Timid administration at
Last invoked the law, readily
Won injunctions banning the three 
From campus, backed their arrest when
They showily breached the orders.
Their indeterminate jail terms
Were for civil contempt of court;
Nothing to do with Vietnam.

It is these three young thugs whom an
Artless alma mater now hails
As foundation heroes on prime
TV (where they preen at length) and
Then fetes and feasts on campus as
Its most respected alumni.

How Silly can a decent University Get?
        (As told in its own Words)

2017

A university I know has just added 
A dazzling jewel of absurdity to its
Bulging administrative crown in the form of   
A ‘Program Director of Customer Service’.   

The new director, an ‘internationally 
Recognised service champion’, is bringing a  
‘New approach’ to a uni that sadly ‘hasn’t   
Had the best service ratings in more recent times’.  

As champion-defined, ‘customers’ are ‘all people’:
‘Students, Staff, Community, Partners, Visitors’.  
It’s their ‘experience and satisfaction that   
We need to improve across the board’ for success.

The means? A ‘Customer Service Charter’ and a 
‘Universal set of customer service standards’,   
Plus ‘quality measures such as call recording,  
Satisfaction kiosks and mystery shopping.’ 

The task then is ‘to choreograph, streamline our 
People, process, technology and environment 
To provide a service that will set us apart’ -     
But without, at the same time, ‘losing our big heart’. 

So to the daft aim: ‘the combination of head   
And heart, working smarter rather than harder, will  
Help us to achieve our goal to be ranked the best 
[University] in Victoria by 2019’! 

A Puzzle of Sorts
2018

On the same day that the   
Hayne royal commission  
Claimed the lofty scalp of
AMP’s chairman, three   
Sorry letters from my 
Own insurer - with cheques  
For unpaid discounts, and
Promises there would be  
No future ‘oversights’.   

No reason given for
This sudden confession
Of past forgetfulness.  
No mention either of
The royal commission 
And its exposure of  
Rampant chicanery
Among more eminent 
Sister-institutions.

So the question: is the
Timing of the letters
A pure coincidence  
Or could it be that my
Insurer is running scared? 

Nonsense upon Stilts 

2020

The hot news, golly gosh, is that 

‘Alpinism’ has now been put on  

UNESCO’s hallowed ‘ICH list’, 

Which confers the lofty title

Of ‘Intangible Cultural  

Heritage of Humanity’.     

This event is the outcome of  

Ten years of deep discussions in  

A ‘core Pilot group’, followed by

A ‘wider Pilot group’ and, at 

Last, a ‘very broad panel of 

Well or lesser known alpinists’.

The ‘benefits’ of this process? 

‘Description of alpinism as an 

Internationally recognised  

Reference’; and the boon of a 

‘Definition in place’ that will 

Help ‘avoid misuse of the term.’ 

The good news is that, of all the  

World’s national alpine bodies,  

Only the Italian, French and 

Swiss were silly enough to help 

In the ‘demanding work’ behind

UNESCO’s solemn decision.  

 Now, They’re Breeding Like Rabbits!
2020

A brand-new position with the title,
‘Pro Vice-Chancellor (International)’,
Has just been created and filled at a
University I happen to know.
The appointment was formally announced
By an official with the title of
‘Deputy Vice-Chancellor (International)’.

Oddly, the apparent duplication
Is passed over in the announcement made on
Behalf of a seat of learning blessed with
A swelling ‘leadership team’ of pompous
Titles (salaries to suit), lording it
Over a swollen under-class of frontline
Teachers on casual and fixed-term contracts.

A Man Thinks

2023

What If I had been born a woman,

Into this world of physically stronger,

More aggressively cultured men?

I suspect the basic fact is

That I’d have lived a life

Tinged with a fear I’ve never known.

Of Skirts

2023

Oh, where are the skirts of yesteryear

That flounced and bounced, and sometimes twirled,

Always promising the chance of a

Fleeting glance at an elegant ankle

Or a curvaceous calf - whether

Strolling or dancing or jumping for joy?

Instead, we now have a soulless parade

Of male-type pants or an ocean of leggings -

Once slinky shape-changers, noted for daring,

But today caught in a fashionably smothering

River of black that fudges contour in a

Gloomified world and cringes at colour.

The Truth of It

2020

It must be clearly understood that the causes [of family violence] 

do not derive from Aboriginal culture. 

Family violence is not part of Aboriginal culture. 

However, the disadvantage, dispossession 

and attempted destruction of Aboriginal 

cultures since colonisation 

have meant that family violence 

has proliferated in Aboriginal communities.

(Domestic Violence Resource Centre Victoria, 

‘Family Violence in Aboriginal Communities’, 18 January 2016)

Oh, it’s not the culture,

Could never be the culture:

Whatever history and

Insiders impart, the

Culture’s strictly benign!

No, Whitey’s entirely

Responsible for the

Aberrant rates at which

Aboriginal men maim

And murder their women!

Lady Courage

2020

Jacinta Nampijinpa Price:

An unorthodox champion

Of First Nation causes, she

Honours (as a self-proclaimed

Warlpiri-Celtic woman) her

Mixed-race parentage, and homes in

On the most shameful feature of

Aboriginal disadvantage.

Her concern is the exceptional

Scale of male (sugar-coated as

‘Domestic’/‘family’) violence

In Indigenous communities,

An issue her peers tend to skirt

In embarrassed silence - dealing

More comfortably with black deaths

In custody, a ‘voice’, and such.

In the course of pinpointing the

Single issue of male violence,

She has raised a perfect storm by

By arguing its root cause is the

Survival of a massively

Male-favouring culture born in

The time of hunter-gatherers

Dwelling on the rim of disaster.

But doggedly, bravely, under

Constant attack for her rejection

Of a more benign version of

Indigenous culture, she persists

In speaking out about the

Extraordinary suffering

Of Aboriginal women

And girls at the hands of their men.

A Caution Before You Praise the Culture

2022

The old woman

Slumps to the sand.

She can walk no more.

The little band let her be,

And plod on through the

Hungry country behind

Their thin screen of

Load-free warriors.

Time comes for food.

Just some roots and one

Babe-in-arms are left.

Warriors first, as usual.

    A New Apartheid

2023

Remember, last century,   

That long, bitter struggle  

Against South Africa’s  

One law for whites,  

Another for blacks?  

‘Apartheid’, they hailed it.  

But we condemned it,  

Despised it as ‘racist’.  

Now, astonishingly, 

Moves are afoot to entrench 

Race-based privilege in the  

Australian Constitution! 

Sure, the bias is reversed. 

Blacks, not whites. are favoured. 

But the racist result is still there;

And there’s money in it.

  

The Demon at the Heart of the Culture

2023

Part I

Australian Aborigines,   

A people suddenly plucked  

From the edge of starvation   

(Where babies are optional food)  

To halfway urbanites,  

Concerned about Sunday closing.     

Then: 

Male strength the key to life.  

Men revered as protectors 

Against others and hunters 

(So always first and best fed)  

In a world of close-by starvation 

And ever-likely attack.      

Now:

Old male functions have vanished. 

‘Welfare’ mostly provides, protects.  

Men busy squatting, time cheap 

(Grog helps it pass); and still,

In minds scarce touched by the modern,    

Male-reverence ranks tops.  

Part II

So much pussy-footing around

The horrifying social gap 

Between black and white Australians!  

Put aside sickening figures of  

Black women battered, black girls abused,  

Children neglected: just fix on murder.  

Each year in this country, 

Almost one thousand   

Women are murdered. 

Eight out of ten are black;  

And nine out of ten of them  

Have been killed by a black man:      

And in black society, the 

‘Forgiving’ of a male woman-murderer   

Is a matter for public discussion. 

The Wind in Her Hair

2023

The dainty Nepalese lady,  

Satin-dark eyes, fine-woven braid 

Writhing down to her waist,

Absorbs the compliment.     

Then, surprisingly,

Gushes a confession.    

‘Sometimes,’ she said,  

Half-hiding a smile, 

‘I just open my hair, 

And let it fly in the wind!’  

 That Coronation

2023

Oh, those English; such a clever lot!

As a Celt, for so long subjugated,

I must admit to this unhappy truth.

And now this bloody coronation!

The world hangs on it, deluged by TV,

Transfixed by talk of ancient spoons,

Holy words, golden crowns; and the sight

Of a few high-stepping white horses.

         A Brief Account of How an Impudent 

  Swedish Capitalist Changed Western Culture

2023

In mid-Victorian times 

Military honours were hot,  

Royally considered and invented.  

No place for civilians, as Alice sniggered, 

With her ‘all’ winning caucus-race prizes.   

But then, as the century ended,

Alfred Nobel, visionary and rich, 

Smashed through the royal/war fence.

Offered five annual, international prizes 

                   (In the sciences, literature and ‘peace’),                           Each of breathtaking cash value.       

Copy-cats (Australian Archibald and 

Brownlow, American Pulitzer and 

Academy Awards, George V’s

Honours List) were sparse, slow to follow, 

Until Hitler’s war ended and

Peace was once more on the cards. 

The way opened for the avalanche  

That then thundered through

The free societies of the West

With renewable civilian prizes,

For both lofty and humble,

Sprayed about like wedding confetti.

In its wake, it left a vast network of 

Award-giving expectations,

Along with a swarming jungle of 

Organisers, nominees and judges. 

And, still highest on the heap, the Nobels

Celebrated their 122nd year!.