this was my entry in the Newcastle Poetry Prize a few years ago

MY BEAT

(with apologies to Bruce Cockburn)

i. MONDAY TO FRIDAY

Hard grind.

600 metres to the top

Gradient: One in ten? Feels like it

Much less though.

And then swing right and then left across Dudley Road avoiding cars both ways

(What traffic laws?)

To the pedestrian crossing,

then left and down the hill

Make sure you miss the gouged out holes near the top (two broken ribs 4 years ago)

and it’s onto the track.

The track.

Twenty years ago it was….

◊

◊

Bitumen. Even, Flat,

Measured conformity,

punctuated by

darkened, patchwork, patch work.

Past familiar faces.

No names. Just faces.

Each out for their morning constitutionals.

Greetings.

on the run.

Same each morning:

“’Morning”

“G’day”

Seasonal acknowledgements:

“Cold this morning.”

“Merry Christmas.”

My online on track community: old, young, men women, Christians, Muslims, Calathumpians, multiculturalism in motion.

Anonymous. Familiar.

Occasionally a fleeting additional intimacy as regulars partner up:

The women in a pair walk dutifully ten paces behind their husbands:

“Have they got boy germs this morning?”

Followed by a laugh and a wave.

◊

◊

4 kilometres and I’m gone.

The serenity of the track behind me as I confront

The daily dodge of traffic.

My senses assaulted by fumes and noise and movement.

City Road. Impersonal.

Wait for the red light at Brunker Rd to temporarily halt the traffic flow into town

before crossing to the right (LEFT) side.

Down the hill and on into the city.

The only pleasantries exchanged during the next 6 kilometres

are with the newspaper seller outside the Civic Hotel in Hunter St.

We wave.

Silently

ii. SUNDAY

Summer.

Dry. Parching

Strength sapping Humidity.

Sunday,

And I’m alone.

With my thoughts.

Glenrock rises up to meet me as I leave Fernleigh.

Tracks!!

A multitude of tracks weave their way.

Worn. Weathered Beaten.

By Europeans?

Or much older, wiser steps?

By people who knew their place

in this

PLACE.

In tune. In synch. In essence with

At one with….

I am on a track.

But on track?

A path wends its way before me

But I seem to have

lost

my

way.

◊

◊

Cicadas. Deafening

as I pass through a glade of Angophera.

Angophera

Is there a more beautiful word?

Say it. Ang - gof - ra.

Silkily sliding off the tongue and lips.

The hard “g” transformed as the smoothness of every other sound elides

Across... Around... And

over it

borrowing.. capturing... stealing... invoking

their softness...

ANGOPHERA: Red gum.

Bark as smooth as its name.

Each branch twisted, gnarled,

Bifurcating Into its own Mandelbrotic beauty

gravity-defying, Down, then up in their reaching for…

what?

Sunlight?

Moisture?

Immortality?

As with us all.

As I stop to admire

I get a fleeting, half sensed notion of

Trees…

Breathing...

I can almost ….

touch it.

Touch it.

Touch…

Inhale/exhale

Touch…

Touch…

Is this what they feel?

Is this what it means?

Is this the key?

To being at one with the land?

Is this what we lack?
The gap?

In our lived experience?

Experience beyond just existence?

Being rather than subsisting?

Is this why we feel unfulfilled

Strangers in our own land?

Strangers

In

A

Familiar landscape

Familiar strangers?

Because we…

I …

can’t……

Quite…

Get…

To….

I stall, Mr Ramsay–like....

Reaching... grasping... yearning

for insight,

for the letter “R”

“Q!”

“Q!!”

“R!!!!!”

It’s there

There!

THERE!

To the lighthouse

on the hill

it…

The moment passes.

The sea, the ocean opens up to me, magnificent in its blueness and clarity.

To my left

The telltale signature of the sewerage works wafts across the landscape

Like a Protective veil.

Ironic, the symbiotic interaction

Between sewerage and recreational open space.

There but for the grace of shit goes

GLENROCK MEADOWS:

EXPERIENCE YOUR OWN LITTLE PIECE OF COUNTRY.

RIGHT NEXT TO THE SEA

PERFECT FOR MODERN FAMILY LIFE

JUST 3 KILOMETRES

FROM THE CENTRE OF

NEWCASTLE.

SELLING FAST

III. INTERLUDE

This morning I fail to acknowledge a number of regulars

This morning I am distracted.

Yesterday I received a letter in the mail.

It begins

“YOU ARE A TRAITOR TO THE CAUCASIAN RACE”

and was signed

REALISTIC RACIST

Last week I wrote a letter to the editor defending African young people against people who call themselves

“NATIONALISTS”

Someone sent a response

To my home address.

My home address.

Home

HOME!

As I ride to work this morning I find myself consumed by this missive.

Pre-occupied, deep in thought. The letter reminded, scolded me:

SEAGULLS DO NOT FLY AROUND WITH CROWS…..

THE SEWERS OF THE WORLD ARE NOW EMPTYING INTO THIS COUNTRY.

And, most vile:

IMPORTING KAFFIRS.

And then,

Fearful that I would not be aware of the meaning of a word which

oozes, drips, spits, spews,

colonialism

and

racism

and

hatred

and

insult

in Africa,

they provided me with the following helpful bracketed definition

KAFFIRS (AFRICAN NEGROS)

As if this knowledge was only available to the chosen few,

Who alone are aware of its iconic status

as the invective of choice

Of white supremacists.

The last vestige of Apartheid.

I respond with equal parts anger and fear.

My daughter is shaken by the experience

“They know where we live Dad.”

And my sin? I wrote a letter.

A letter!

I wrote a letter!

I want to expose this ignorance.

My mind darts about with ideas:

An open letter to the REALISTIC RACIST, an op ed piece for the Herald

Wiser heads prevail.

Ignore. Don’t provide oxygen.

Don’t expose your family to any further……….

I compromise and report it to the police.

iv. HISTORY

1988

My first mountain bike

It was like re-discovering myself

At 12 years of age.

My first job: riding my bike

Delivering Chemist prescriptions. ₤1/10s per week.

Forced at 5.30 every night to ride up the Loftus Hill.

Getting off and walking at the halfway point.

And then……

A 25 year hiatus.

◊

◊

GEARS!!!!

My mountain bike has gears!

No more getting off and walking

No more Loftus hills

I am liberated.

Free to explore

To become

An explorer

And I ride the old Fernleigh rail line

Overgrown, grown over

All the way to Belmont.

Back then It is rough.

Sleepers-exposed

Rutted.

Each sleeper separated by up to 8 inch trenches

Deadly for the front wheels of unwary travellers.

lured,

tempted

by the false certainty

of the notion

of a pathway through

the bush

resulting in uncontrolled

somersaulting,

cartwheeling

 over handlebars

ending up lying spreadeagled on the track.

◊

◊

I ride every track in Jewells swamp until each gradually fades and disappears

into a sandy nether area

Inhabited only by brown snakes

And unseen frogs

◊

◊

I discover Glenrock

With its myriad tracks

And hidden treasures

Nooks

Glades

Gullies,

Retreats

Creeks

Waterfalls

And fauna!

The most unusual

a pair of metre long goannas

Copulating

Spooning

Rutting

Silently

Not more that a metre in front of me

As I climb a stepped track.

Distracted by their friction-motivated activity,

They ignore me

As I stand transfixed

By this display of reptilian sensuality.

How many people would have seen such an act?

How many would want to?

v. IMPRESSIONS

Cloudburst prompts me to

shelter at Souths Leagues in a

forlorn hope of sun

◊

◊

Winter track at night

Can be five degrees colder

Headlamp shows the way

◊

◊

Tunnel funnels wind

as you negotiate the

arc of the Cov’ring

◊

◊

Frill-necked lizards bask

In summer swelter until

Startled, they scamper

◊

◊

Nine pm stillness

Disturbed by overhead swoop

Of a startled owl

◊

◊

Thirty five trees Down

Fence slipped, smashed. Devastation

samaritan clears.

Vi. MY BEAT

Riding was my crutch.

In my serotonin-deprived previous life.

It offered a haven,

A retreat

From the black cloud

As it weaved its way

From the back of my brain

To the front

I would push

Harder

Faster

Sweat-induced

Exertion

Suppressing

Repressing

Depressing :)

The wave of….

Fear

And

Loathing,

Self-loathing

Self-flagellating

Of the

Chemically imbalanced

Interactive higher order organism

That was …….

Me.

◊

◊

That was then

This is now.

◊

◊

It’s Friday 29^th June.

Deadline. Closing date.

This poem requires an ending.

A neat, pithy, bicycle themed ending

Which ties together its multiple themes in a succinct manner.

Because this poem is about product,

 not process.

Excellence

And……..

But…

What about the journey?

The journey?

“It’s not the winning, it’s the struggle”

- Ben Chifley

The struggle

From Loftus hill to Glenrock.

As I cycle with my newly acquired

Pharmaceutically-induced balance

Across the highways and byways

I find that my enthusiasm for riding has diminished.

Black cloud has receded

Less of a struggle

but

replaced by…

Ennui

Swings and roundabouts

Aye there’s the rub.

life the universe and everything

Douglas Adam's throw away line has entered the lexicon as a kind of glib summary of all of the important unanswered questions ever asked. When I was a kid I remember my head spinning when i tried to conceptualise infinity. In year 11 or 12 we studied the metaphysical poets who struggled with the nature of who we are, why we're here and what is our purpose. These questions remain universal. And no amount of wordplay or poetic contrivances since have provided any clearer answer.

I saw a show on SBS on sunday night. It re-awakened my confusions. About 20 years ago, on a whim, I started reading everything I could find on quantum physics and chaos theory. I hated science at school and my latent revulsions returned every time I would come across a theory expressed as a mathematical equation. But I found that if I just let my eyes glaze over every time I encountered one, the equations would recede into oblivion and I was able to proceed.
As a result, for a layman, I reckon I know a fair bit when it comes to complexity and uncertainty principles and quarks and even string theory. But a little knowledge is indeed a dangerous thing because more recently the cutting edge science has begun to look a bit like Tony Abbott's climate change solution: If the facts don't fit your world view, produce a solution from out of your bum.
 Apparently for the big bang to hold together, we need something like 90% more matter than is in the universe. Same with energy. So if the facts don't fit, default to your arse.Voila! Enter dark matter and dark energy. We can't see it. We have no evidence that it exists other than if it doesn't exist, our theory and our mathematical equations won't work. Now dark matter and dark energy have been around for a while but the SBS program highlighted cosmology's latest problem: dark flow. 

Today i came across this.  Which brings me back to my initial quandary about infinity and the concept of the universe.

Apparently we know (via mathematics) what the universe looked like a minute fraction of a second after ignition (note the NASA term which i adopted seemlessly). The questions of what was there prior to the BB, and what caused it, are too hard (even for people who write complicated mathematical equations).  But if the BB occurred WHAT did it explode into? Not only do we need to take on trust the (apparent) spontaneous combustion that is the BB but it combusts into a.... something (universe?) that didn't exist prior to the BB. Head spinning yet?

And you want to know the best thing about all this? I accept it. If something is unknowable then you may as well pull an explanation out of your arse if it can be made to work mathematically. (Tony Abbott please note, climate change does not qualify as unknowable)

But when science enters into the world of metaphysics, then you can understand why Masterchef and The Block are so popular. Although maybe some of the more inedible elements of Masterchef may involve some dark flow

to blog or not to

This is my 3rd or 4th attempt to start a blog. I guess the difference with this one (i hope) is that, more recently, i have become dissatisfied with the limitations of platforms like facebook. if you want to put some considered thought to paper (figuratively) then facebook and social media is too limiting. so. here is my first considered posting.
The Prague Spring
On 21st August 1968 the tanks rolled into Prague bringing to an end a social and political experiment which, had it been allowed to continue, might have changed the course of history. Sci Fi is awash with what if scenarios and speculating on what might have been is reduced, at the end of the day, to wishes and fishes. But 1968 was such a pivotal year around the world. Not since 1848 had the world erupted (seemingly spontaneously) into mass demonstrations and calls for an end to the ancien regimes. From Newark to Paris, Rio to Belfast, the youth of the world were on the march.
The Warsaw Pact wasn't immune. Alexander Dubcek came to power in January and set about trying to free up the social and political culture of Czechoslovakia. This Prague spring offered hope that state controlled socialism could find the means within itself to reform itself. Here was the opportunity to "pilot" political reform. Alas the soviet politburo had neither the intelligence nor the flexibility to see Dubcek's reforms as an opportunity, only as a threat.
Twenty two years later the edifice of communism collapsed under the weight of its own inflexibility and its internal contradictions. Unfortunately it was the spivs and the carpetbaggers who stole the family jewels and the end result of 70 years of socialism was a reversion to Czarism with the peasants losing out again.
And in the west? The promise of "68 and its focus on individual liberties degenerated into a kind of "me too" selfishness of rampant consumerism based on a market economy that cannibalises itself on a daily basis until it will eventually disappear up its own materialist avarice.