I found this old poem amongst some stored notes today. I guess it was written in the late 1990's, yes, last century. It shows the abiding influence of Larkin. And old technology. In its own way, it is a love poem.

interstices

The phone rang, interrupting the 

cathode chatter of TV, sending me

wordless to your voice,

and momentarily, the choice of a forty-five

cent call or nothing reverberated, leaving me

hopeful and somewhat dangling.

So out across the night, a conversation

strung like banners, invading dark suburbs,

pulsing harmlessly in long high-slung wires, past

neat lawns, skewed bins, shouts, dogs, hovering

until the last lamp post.

There, our voices gathered, like

wintering leaves, each unravelling

the other in continual succession,

mending with silences the

confessions of absence; your coins

unused, jangling.

Too much sadness, I think. Young people, out for an innocent night's fun, crushed to death in crowds. All by accident. Too many parents today, mourning the loss. Mourning again and again, for years. Sometimes life seems harder than other times, imposssibly so, when it's the young who suffer.

Because it is hard for to us understand the why, we are left in shock and disbelief. Even despair. I have no pat answers, no-one does really does. But for me personally, solace can only be found in faith.

'Trust in the Lord will all your heart,

and lean not on your own understanding.' Proverbs 3:5

My understanding at these times is limited and confused. I cannot 'lean' upon it. Only by trusting wholeheartedly in God can I gain any hope. I don't have to make sense of things. Hope is an enabler that drives action to help others by whatever means I can.

This is will not satisfy everyone of course. Perhaps very few. But it does bring comfort.

I have used the same Kindle pretty much every night for about 11 years now and have accumulated a large library of books on it. Last night I reached for my trusty e-reader only to find a strange power symbol on the front cover where a diagram or picture would normally be. It would not boot nor would it charge. I fiddled around with it again today but to no avail. I fear that I must accept that the battery has finally died or has become corrupted. I guess 11 years is a good run, given Amazon suggest that 5 or 6 years in the average battery life.

Losing the device is a little like seeing your library burn down. I haven't thought what to do now. A new kindle device will connect to my purchased collection at Amazon but I feel like I need to mourn this little machine first. The books I have read on it! From Dante to Dickens, Basho to Bryson - and so many topics and forms! 

Not everything need to be in such a hurry.

It is thirty years now since I first joined a community choir. As probably related elsewhere (so I will be brief), I had taken some singing workshops in Katoomba, run by Janet Swain. She decided shortly after that she wanted to form a choir and a few weeks later a large band of relative strangers were gathered in her loungroom in Bullaburra for an inaugural night of singing. Thus Crowd Around was formed.

I have also related elsewhere my huge debt of gratitude to Janet for kindling the singing fire in me, for while I had played around with a guitar and sung the odd ditty in private, I had never taken it all that seriously. I still think back with great fondness on that time, which seems so idealistic, naive and energetic to me now.

So it was with some joy that I found a copy of Janet's 'Sing Out', one of the first songs Crowd Around ever performed, and gave it to our MD Suzanne at Moo Choir on Monday night. After thirty years, we will be revisiting the song that got the ball rolling in 1992, an anniversary of sorts, a memory kept alive by the pure exulation that singing can be, when sung together.

I was presenting my fortnightly edition of the Newcastle Herald on Saturday at 2RPH (a broadcast beset by strange technical difficulties) when I came across the face of an old friend amongst its pages.

We had just completed the big end of the paper (news, editorials, sport, opinion pieces) and were about to head into the features section of the 'Weekender', when I stumbled upon a full-page splash about her. I don't want to print her full name - just that she is Lisa - but the article paid homage to her Newcastle origins before launching into an impressive resume of her achievements in the art world.

I often think back to the long conversations we had on the way to work in the 1990's, how much I admired her brilliance and energy and really just close we became. That fell apart as our fortunes took markedly different turns and 'way lead onto way' in a manner that I could not have predicted. I take the blame wholly for the falling away that occurred. It has been a source of deep remorse for me ever since.

When I think of Lisa, everything she has done, it might have been reasonably predicted back then, when she plied her trade in a high school art classroom. She was made for bigger things than that small space could hold and who knows what will come next.

It used to be that the political order in Britain was pretty unshakeable. A crisis did not necessarily mean the end of a government nor the demise of a prime minister. There was a kind of continuity between governments, even if they had distinct policy differences.

That seems to have changed with Brexit. That sharp and somewhat bewildering break with normality ushered in political instability, for though the Labour opposition was already hamstrung by an unelectable leader (one can like Corbyn but still doubt his fitness for Number 10), it was the Conservatives who appeared to lose their minds.

Sure, the unravelling of thousands and thousands of  EU laws and obligations was bound to cause many troubles, as it still is, but the ineptitude, buffoonery and double-thinking that has characterised Tory public discussion and legislative action has been astonishing. When the people who claim to be the establishment drop the ball, or pretend the ball is somewhere else in another game, or on another playing field, well, all bets seem to be off.

The revolving door of Prime Ministers that once plagued Australia appears to have become a part of British political architecture. And that is not a good thing.

I bought the complete poetical works of Christina Rossetti about a month ago for my kindle and most nights I read a few poems. Rossetti is a very interesting person and poet, for though many might baulk at the devotional themes that often characterize her writing, she is really very skillful at her craft. 

Writing in the 19th Century as she did presents some mild challenges for a modern reader, who might find her expression old fashioned and her topic matter outdated. It will come as no surprise to you that I think no such thing. Here is one of her sonnets which illustrates the point I am making. If you would like to know the origins of  her topic, then have a look at Ecclesiastes 1 in the Old Testament.

Vanity of Vanities

Ah, woe is me for pleasure that is vain,
Ah, woe is me for glory that is past.

Pleasure that bringeth sorrow at the last,

Glory that at the last bringeth no gain!

So saith the sinking heart; and so again

It shall say till the mighty angel-blast

Is blown, making the sun and moon aghast

And showering down the stars like sudden rain.

And evermore men shall go fearfully

Bending beneath their weight of heaviness;

And ancient men shall lie down wearily,

And strong men shall rise up in weariness,

Yes, even the young shall answer sighingly

Saying one to another: How vain it is!

The music of the 1960's was an unintended though essential soundtrack to the space race between the USA and the former USSR. The kernel of that race can be seen in the launch of Sputnik 1 in 1957 and the first man in space(orbit) in 1961, both Russian achievements. The race heated up when the Americans set their sights on sending a man to the moon, following the Kennedy speech in May 1961. That event, famously completed by Apollo 11, forms the other book end to the decade in 1969.

I am not really a nostalgic person. I find that we tend to filter in those moments that are pleasant and memorable and filter out the opposite, leaving us rather vulnerable to being harsher in our opinions about the now. I understand it though, particularly since boomers can access so much of the past in the present thanks to technology. It is always a temptation to look back with longing and probably not so bad so long as a perspective is kept.

But I digress. I have submitted a prerecorded show application with 2RPH on the theme of 'space'. There is no shortage of material either from magazines to the daily press to specialized internet sites such as NASA to draw upon for a thousand half hour episodes. But leaping ahead as I do to fill in the big picture, I have been pondering over what short music interludes might fill the space between items. Queue the Sixties.

That may account for the middle paragraph, music being one of the most talked about nostalgic elements. Sometimes I forget the steps of the mental flips I take. I will keep you up to speed on the project and should it come to fruition, the times when you can listen in, if you have a mind to.

My son Tom has been doing his HSC exams this week, which are split over Years 11 and 12. As part of his revision of English, he wanted to watch again the Australian movie 'The Castle' which is a part of the curriculum he has been studying.

I hadn't seen this movie in 20 years at least and retained a very fond memory or it, particularly since it was the brain child of some of my favourite comedians. I had forgotten just how funny it was, not merely in the witty script, but the clever sight gags and many incongruous juxtapositions. A non-Australian audience might find it completely bamboozling and some of a post-modern ilk may find it offensive. Well, dream on. 

I remember when I first saw 'The Castle' at Glenbrook cinema way back in 1997. The audience laughed their way through it and cheered the 'little man' on as he took on the establishment. At the end they rose to their feet and applauded, a rare sight these days.

Funny and with heart. Five stars.

billet

My body is a tent,

Fine to bivouac in

By campgrounds of desire,

In lattitudes of longing,

It is a short-term thing,

Just for temporary hire,

For the stitching is undoing

And the floor is prone to rending,

And the door lets water in-

Which is poor for those aspiring,

To a permanance beyond,

To a sturdier building.

Far past the forests dimming,

Liminal, receding,

Is a fainter chorus singing,

They are walking in the gloaming,

And the ranks are thinning, thinning.

Chatting to my mother just now brought back a wealth of memories of my late school career. As noted in previous posts, I am forgetful of a lot of things, but it seems my mum is still sharp as a razer when it comes to books and learning.

The conversation was prompted by the fact that my son Tom is doing his HSC English exams tomorrow and Thursday. It is interesting to compare notes on what was studied then and what is studied now, which necessarily must change. 

There are many more novels, poems and plays about than when I sat the HSC in 1976, though some titles will continue to defy the winnowing. Orwell, Shakespeare, Slessor, Shaw, Miller, Donne, Keats and Plath, for example, have survived the cut. Many other fine authors, or composers in the jargon, are represented. I was delighted to see Lawler's Summer of the 17th Doll, included. A blast from the (recent) past, indeed.

I recall answering questions on Hamlet, Coleridge, Keats and 1984. There must have been a couple of others, though I have forgot! I might dig down in my notes from the time, wherever they are, and find out what I actually did study for.

Looking over the English syllabus, there is much to like. If you get past the trendy reworking of key terms, the teaching of the subject looks a whole lot more interesting, and challenging, than it did when I studied it and then subsequently taught it. It is more imaginative and open-ended, whilst at the same time being somewhat more challenging. You have to be able to deal with multiple texts at the same time. That takes practice.

We all have difficult people in our lives, whether they be family, workmates or neighbours. It is easy to fall into an accusative frame of mind when one has been treated badly or unjustly. It is natural, I suppose, to want to lash out - give them a stern telling off - but ultimately such an approach is self-defeating. The difficult person is none the wiser, unlikely to change and you are left stewing in an emotional chaos.

I found a prayer the other day that is made for just such a person - for the two people really - and I reprint it below, which is attributed to St Therese of Lisieux. I find it helps. I understand if you are not at all religious you will find this hard to pray. There are many other affirmation-style ways of doing the same thing that I hope will bring some peace to you.

Dear Heavenly Father

I pray that you show me the way,

for I do not know how to deal

with this difficult person in my life.

I know that you have placed them

here for a reason and I am grateful

for that.

Grant me your Godly Wisdom

so that I may uplift your name!

Give me strength and courage so 

that I can forgive them as

you have forgiven me.

Please guide my thoughts and actions

as I deal with them.

Amen

It is not my idea of fun to write about the parlous times that we seem to be living through. Contrary to previous posts in which I thought that the awfulness was largely a factor of the explosion of information sources, I do honestly think, upon relfection, that there is something to worry about.

As a child of the Cold War, the nuclear arms race, Mutually Assured Destruction and the constant background of a great power war breaking out (even by accident), I had some quiet confidence that things might get better. After all, the 1990's promised a new order of sorts and for a while, the Russians and Americans were getting along. China was rising but fairly quiet.

I cannot rate how serious one V. Putin is about the use of battlefield nuclear weapons, politely called tactical, as if it were a game of chess, nor can I measure the capacity for the West to overestimate or underestimate the threat. I cannot tell whether the Ukrainians will stop at nothing to regain all of their homeland (Crimea?) thus potentially triggering a cataclysmic Russian response.

That is only the half of it, for China will certainly be charting a pathway to regaining Taiwan, by peaceful or other means. Because Australia is tethered to the United States, any conflict in that arena is likely to drag us in. Our political class is simply too scared to defy Washington.

Then there is North Korea. Of all the threats I take this the least seriously, for the wierd and insular regime that governs certainly does not want a war in which it will lose, nuclear weapons or not. Belligerent posturing is its forte.

After the awful football stadium disasters of the past, where large numbers of supporters were either killed or injured in a stampede, one would think that the lessons were well learnt. Don't exceed ground capacity, separate fans of rival sides where necessary, avoid the use of tear gas by police, and so forth.

In the most recent and truly terrible calamity yesterday in Indonesia, some of these fundamentals were broken. One hundred and ninety people are dead, many more injured. Sure, fans from the home side (who lost) invaded the pitch when they shouldn't and it seems that some rioting took place too. Football is a passionate game and when you have a strong rivalry with another club, emotions can boil over. Those emotions must get channelled somewhere.

But many people who did not invade the pitch were caught up in a panicked rush to an exit where they were crushed. What is there to say to the families of the dead, who only a few hours earlier where heading off cheerfully for the big game? There is nothing really, nothing but tears.