If you don’t live in Australia (and possibly even if you) that’s not too surprising. But to many of us he was an icon, forming a band (The Saints) with a couple of guys he met during school detention and forever thereafter refusing to be bound by convention.
He died a couple of days ago and will be sadly missed.
For anyone who is interested, a quick internet search will provide plenty of details of his better known works (that his songs have been covered by Bruce Springsteen might provide a hint of credibility for you Americans), but, as a small tribute, I offer something that was just a bit of fun, and recorded relatively recently.
Just responding to a prompt from here, requiring inspiration from the concept of ‘unraveling’ ….. but resulting in just more self-indulgent rubbish from me.
What else can I say?
***
He was old now, and tired. He looked down from his position on the summit and saw the great mystery stretched out before him; oceans and islands and rivers and roads and cities and churches and jails and wars and thoughts and dreams of love and hate and sex and murder and colour televisions. Above him moons and planets and stars and solar systems and galaxies. In any direction forever inward or forever outward. Everything seemingly in place for a reason, but in a pattern so complex as to be indecipherable. To unravel it would be to dismantle it. And to dismantle it would be to render it invisible. To ascend to heaven would be to lose sight of hell. But to lose sight of hell would be to be blinded by heaven. The weight of ignorance bears heavily on the old. Gravity has only one direction. He took off his robes and slowly, one painful step after another, began his descent.
It’s best, perhaps, that I give up on the poetry and leave it to the experts. Although, as I suggested yesterday, I’m not really sure who the experts are. And I’m not really sure if they are sure, either …..
Anyway …
For now I’ll just stick to silly verse. Nothing clever, nothing innovative, nothing complicated and …. well …. not a haiku (don’t get me started on that).
I saw a prompt this morning, here or was it here of the word ‘cold’. I don’t know if there were any other rules. I didn’t read that far. And, to be honest, it was the picture and not the word that put ideas into my head ….
Let us explore the great outdoor Let us leave the world behind Let us look where no-one’s looked before And see what we can find
Oh, no, my dear. I can’t I fear There’s nothing I can wear Might our first stop be the dress shop? Can we spend some money there?
Gee, ain’t that funny? I forgot my money! But there’s nought we need to buy No need to stress. No need to dress There’ll be no passers by
You mean, go nude??? Don’t be so rude Respect my modesty For I will know what’s there on show No matter who can see
Please, won’t you play? Let’s seize the day Besides, it’s free admission Come with me, where we’ll be free To shed our inhibition
It might be nice. I like the price But if I should be so bold I’ll have no clothes, and without those I’ll catch my death of cold
It will be fun. We’ll find some sun I’m there to keep you warm Under a tree, where I will be Your shelter from the storm
The sun, you say? Perhaps I may Be interested in that I’ll take a chance and drop my pants If you’ll at least buy me a hat
Anybody who has read much of what I write (hopefully both of you) will be familiar with my struggles to understand poetry. To understand how it differs from prose, to understand what is good, what is bad.
I’m really not getting anywhere with that project, but I stumbled upon something here, referring to paper (the stuff we used to write upon) and that somehow started me on something that became a short poem about a poem (any poem) …. but which, now that I look at it, might just as easily be about any expressed thought.
To explain any further would be to undermine the very notion of what I think poetry, and indeed art itself should be about.
In the end I still don’t know if it says anything or if it is just more little words, neatly lined up in a row.
And it’s probably just more garbage that would assist only (and if only a little bit) to further rape the rainforests of the Amazon, if it were ever to find its way onto a printed page.
***
Pen on paper, thin Lighter than air Here and there A meaning within Weighing less Than ink But is yet My scream My dream. To think, to dare To not forget What is not written cannot be read What is not heard has not been said So let it be That you might see, too Perhaps at night Before the sun One brief moment of light Creeping through Providing sight When there was none
Richmond Road 