tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40846070380493077882024-03-19T15:04:03.221+11:00RIVOWRITERDavid Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.comBlogger388125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-90435716194081324672024-03-19T15:03:00.000+11:002024-03-19T15:03:32.357+11:00LOCKDOWN<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghoQ7tMFmF-WDkIBgLXH-_izbhEMjyPrNVPWqzGYqmkPJ9-RKfpOUdNMW6FuwpfnPVPt0nGZJR1nGjmQj_rF9_Ke3MamqJUqkp_OQvZBLr5TE0X3l4ize8KDpXrniPIj0SgEEjWIR9VVrdi-uPMFgSMOxESv1ijAv9ZlT9AhpSE-2-ehm5eUL5hhiwVyYS/s1255/lockdown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1255" data-original-width="1047" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghoQ7tMFmF-WDkIBgLXH-_izbhEMjyPrNVPWqzGYqmkPJ9-RKfpOUdNMW6FuwpfnPVPt0nGZJR1nGjmQj_rF9_Ke3MamqJUqkp_OQvZBLr5TE0X3l4ize8KDpXrniPIj0SgEEjWIR9VVrdi-uPMFgSMOxESv1ijAv9ZlT9AhpSE-2-ehm5eUL5hhiwVyYS/w158-h285/lockdown.jpeg" width="158" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Down here at the bottom of a deep </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">pit —</span><div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Hollowed out like a tunnel in a mine —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I see no light but I know my prison,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Where disloyal darkness admits no time.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The stones or metals once found here have gone —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Precious or base in crumbling ochre rocks.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I wait, abandoned, barred, disgraced, closed off —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">No one will teach me how to breach the locks.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Noises — scrapes and scratches like guilt and shame —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Perhaps a vile creature or another judged soul —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Bring me reminders of loss and sorrow —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Contagious ageless plagues in this foul hole.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">You say that I should think myself lucky,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And all bad things must pass before too long,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Snap out of it and be a man, you urge,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There are no fears when you have done no wrong.
</span></div><div><br /></div></div>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-77851303950972916372024-02-29T18:01:00.002+11:002024-03-12T14:13:51.209+11:00HUDDERSTONE WASH-UP<p><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin8kViqYU6wtHWbQQJBtefg7F9nURqAC5hBrw_4PJ2atRtlbqO2RYX6p7_-rv88rBiDNfXFt0FFDmNnR5cQeKTkCiLXVKy0X51h9PcUE-nmZ5Y0vj0amJlLVNvp0GHwrcvjh49Nlgky6runrKjQAh6wVzVFcox8mRyOdZWpXH7k7jkIfhcxKcKPnNpS7tv/s2040/HuddoCoverB.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2040" data-original-width="1400" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin8kViqYU6wtHWbQQJBtefg7F9nURqAC5hBrw_4PJ2atRtlbqO2RYX6p7_-rv88rBiDNfXFt0FFDmNnR5cQeKTkCiLXVKy0X51h9PcUE-nmZ5Y0vj0amJlLVNvp0GHwrcvjh49Nlgky6runrKjQAh6wVzVFcox8mRyOdZWpXH7k7jkIfhcxKcKPnNpS7tv/w275-h400/HuddoCoverB.jpeg" width="275" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The paperback edition of David Morisset's newest novel can be purchased at Amazon and eBook versions are available at Kindle, Amazon, Apple Books, Smashwords, and other online retailers.</span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The novel is a coming-of-age story about Daniel Anstiss, who is is a battler from a meatworks town on the outskirts of Sydney, Australia’s oldest city. After setbacks during his early school years, he eventually excels at his tertiary studies and joins Australia’s diplomatic service. Despite his commitment to his vocation, it gradually becomes clear to Daniel that he is an outsider with little hope of navigating Canberra’s pathways of privilege and networks of influence on the basis of merit alone.</span></span></p><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;">“Hudderstone Wash-Up” begins during the 1950s in a fibro cottage on a flood-prone dirt road next to a railway line on which steam trains transport doomed livestock to nearby slaughter yards. An eyewitness tracks Daniel Anstiss’s formative years and depicts his resolute drive towards academic success at the Australian National University in the early 1970s. Then, through ad hoc recollections, a colleague provides eccentric descriptions of the political upheavals and bureaucratic expediencies that threaten to derail Daniel’s foreign service career.</span></span>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-8921269189704451412024-02-27T15:05:00.001+11:002024-02-29T18:06:25.331+11:00OUTER SPACE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitwlQBUDsUVDlicL-3_9lhENISkhUIcOWpx9HEq1em9k2oOVfi6_BNghKiUaoQudlkLTqKSm_QBAW7V0Vg5pvWz_FMUouq5DZnWqHpbI_qMOqo6ez-TVwtW3kl2itLIAN56cYYzTukhUD8S3XhNH4BXqmI-ptdPkVMHEHAQCuGAEEiNgzl6ZB7r1oODW-i/s1536/rivmtns.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="905" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitwlQBUDsUVDlicL-3_9lhENISkhUIcOWpx9HEq1em9k2oOVfi6_BNghKiUaoQudlkLTqKSm_QBAW7V0Vg5pvWz_FMUouq5DZnWqHpbI_qMOqo6ez-TVwtW3kl2itLIAN56cYYzTukhUD8S3XhNH4BXqmI-ptdPkVMHEHAQCuGAEEiNgzl6ZB7r1oODW-i/w189-h320/rivmtns.jpeg" width="189" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Their city should surely be almost nought</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Except for harbour shores stolen and bought</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">For the great and good and their acolytes —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Ornaments to vocations of cutpurse.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">They dub it a star of the universe —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Its inner suburbs lucky satellites</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Destined to orbits of adoration,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Blessed by blistered tarmac burned by parades</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And asphalt alleys and squalid arcades,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Where wealth sneers at the rest of the nation.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Out on the fringes, where livestock trains steamed,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There’s light so fiery it seems it was dreamed</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">To be doused by summer’s stormy raindrops</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Amidst croaking frogs’ joyful jamborees.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Here it is that winter brings frost and freeze</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And pallid suns blush foggy blue hilltops.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There are trundling fields and forever yards,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Space for madcap games and children’s follies.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Gardens bloom and shops stock chips and lollies</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">On streets of strive lined with homes of diehards.
</span></div><div><br /></div>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-2363167110677932722023-03-28T18:55:00.007+11:002023-07-06T15:24:56.641+10:00UNMELLOW YELLOW<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf-gJQYF2Up_qpbr0Xop8Tu34kVqos5-jMmyot3jdTFnK4QB5KNwv1wC48PG9vD4qxkDhaBRWnHPw3k7dxxJ7eN5OR2ADpiqeuMaehID65mHNBSx4CoFLb2XPnWiB9who7ThQUpj95g_5MVHGbzbpAFo6XaOq6h1eW1qzgzlPv7IHQpREk2L2L-_pgUg/s1544/pai200223ww%20(1).jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1544" data-original-width="1055" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf-gJQYF2Up_qpbr0Xop8Tu34kVqos5-jMmyot3jdTFnK4QB5KNwv1wC48PG9vD4qxkDhaBRWnHPw3k7dxxJ7eN5OR2ADpiqeuMaehID65mHNBSx4CoFLb2XPnWiB9who7ThQUpj95g_5MVHGbzbpAFo6XaOq6h1eW1qzgzlPv7IHQpREk2L2L-_pgUg/s320/pai200223ww%20(1).jpeg" width="219" /></a></div>The sky is getting greyer by the day and</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In parts, towards the horizon, it is almost glaucous.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Experts on online media lament —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Chiang Mai’s air quality indicators a</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">re unhealthy,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Approaching hazardous zones.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But pollution appears to ignore</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;"> local parks and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Gardens and u</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">nkempt vacant lots and,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Now the cool nights of December and January are gone,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It is almost like the instant advent</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Of a temperate climate's Spring.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Tips of new growth are evident</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">On evergreen trees —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">A resplendent cinnabar,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Reminiscent of the tops of eucalypts</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In my own country.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Frangipanis are beginning to bloom and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The pristine whiteness of the petals</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Makes such a stark contrast with the dark green leaves</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">That one’s eyes almost pass over</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The sulphur splashed hearts of the corollas.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Thais refer to frangipanis as <i>leelawadee</i> —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">A name f</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">or resorts and restaurants and cafes.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It means something like</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Beautiful in a delicate way.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The golden shower trees —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Thailand’s national flower —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Stand by streets I walk along.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Unmellow yellow petals and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Orpine green foliage</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Remind me of Australia’s acacias,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Although, apart from the colours, there are few other parallels and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It is the impression gained at a distance</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">That brings wattle to my mind.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There are also stringy bushes with starry flowers</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Gathering l</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">ike vivid violet constellations</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Layered over pastel replications that cascade</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Like movies of mauve waterfalls.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I am told that they are known as </span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Thailand's wisteria</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Or, in the local language, as </span><i style="font-family: helvetica;">puang kraam</i><span style="font-family: helvetica;">,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Picturesquely t</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">ranslated as purple wreath.</span></div>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-43205041039114426032023-03-24T17:10:00.002+11:002023-04-13T22:37:36.468+10:00STUBBORNLY SUBURBAN<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIPO5bXm60Wq96VKCmk160H2jnpxzNDae1KdYn_mV5SHbcjhDWhlQRMJuVV2FahEXaYQijBuLu5MmKli_afQ5oi90PrkBy5ISRdyUGVzcCoQGlD-YeJMlcU9yeRKVDTKFrBPSBFW6YFBS-SeTEGGZ4LAq2tpZsEsL5DffrDrYdkn3uRJ6keEPBJJR4Zg/s1298/suburban%20(1).jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1298" data-original-width="1159" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIPO5bXm60Wq96VKCmk160H2jnpxzNDae1KdYn_mV5SHbcjhDWhlQRMJuVV2FahEXaYQijBuLu5MmKli_afQ5oi90PrkBy5ISRdyUGVzcCoQGlD-YeJMlcU9yeRKVDTKFrBPSBFW6YFBS-SeTEGGZ4LAq2tpZsEsL5DffrDrYdkn3uRJ6keEPBJJR4Zg/s320/suburban%20(1).jpeg" width="286" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As I walk,</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The scenery is stubbornly suburban.</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The sublime chedis of timeworn temples and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The ancient walls and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The historic moat of</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The old city are almost fifteen kilometres</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Away to the south.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Around here,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There are modern two-storey houses —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Some in gated estates — and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Occasional apartment blocks —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Mostly on the main streets.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There are pockets of older housing but</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Few structures approach the grandeur of</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The majestic teak dwellings that one associates with</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Traditional Thai architecture.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It is an area that attracts teachers and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Students of the nearby university.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Like the rest of Mueang Chiang Mai,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Restaurants and bars pop up in regular clumps,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Even in the most unlikely places where</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Parking is inadequate and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Almost always claimed first</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">By greasy motor bikes and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Glossy streamlined scooters.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The scale of these businesses is typically small and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The modest fare varies.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Emerald green advertisements for Chang beer</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Outnumber the crimson posters</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Singing the praises of Leo and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There is little promotional evidence of</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The availability of Singha and Heineken</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Despite the presence of their bottles and cans</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In glacial glass-fronted refrigerators.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Mini-supermarkets vie for the best positions on</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The busiest corners and,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Close to the university,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Bank branches and specialty shops</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Line the busy road that eventually runs</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">North to Tilokarat's town of Phrao.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Some of the minor roads are dangerously narrow and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">They wind through sunken paddy fields and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Vacant land that is no longer cultivated and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Probably awaits the arrival of truckloads of migrant labourers and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Thai engineers with their construction machinery.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Footpaths are apparently an extravagance and,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Where they exist,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">They suffer from lack of maintenance or</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">They are blocked by the ever-present motor scooters.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There are also several food markets —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">That most Thai of amenities — and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">More novel innovations like a</span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">utomated laundrettes and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Cafes with their baseball-capped baristas.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Service stations and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Repair shops abound,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Catering for the scooters, motor bikes and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Cars, of which pick-ups and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Sports utility vehicles predominate,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Most of them made or assembled in Thai factories</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Despite their Japanese labels.
</span></div><div><br /></div></div>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-35941951977759550692023-03-22T17:38:00.001+11:002023-04-13T22:46:27.769+10:00SLASH AND BURN<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBXCAW2hCQ9Vnmc3bBH6SeCsYgjUH1lGVT2j0_WMUuTduSvnU_3_Q5B9gAS1OeSmczdTXP7lI6DCVRHrqvEBj7aWyI1Q-9VYuwbqYgF_SmNL0zR7GNahmPYV9Ed9DSyJ-I4QCyV9BdbSjgr7U7wnGwyOCTeR0Ao99m5O71MVEPPRD3iZGSBmrekZ7Z-w/s1160/maejo250223a%20(1).jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1160" data-original-width="1011" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBXCAW2hCQ9Vnmc3bBH6SeCsYgjUH1lGVT2j0_WMUuTduSvnU_3_Q5B9gAS1OeSmczdTXP7lI6DCVRHrqvEBj7aWyI1Q-9VYuwbqYgF_SmNL0zR7GNahmPYV9Ed9DSyJ-I4QCyV9BdbSjgr7U7wnGwyOCTeR0Ao99m5O71MVEPPRD3iZGSBmrekZ7Z-w/s320/maejo250223a%20(1).jpeg" width="279" /></a></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It is early March and</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The dry season has several weeks left to run and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The fires of slash and burn farmers are still burning and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So the skies above Chiang Mai are stained pearl grey.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Also, the mild weather of December and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">January is a distant memory and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The tropical heat is becoming oppressive again even though</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The sun seems to struggle to penetrate the hazy air.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Despite the heat and smoke,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When the mercury falls into the low thirties</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">During the final daylight hour before sunset,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I stick to my (almost) daily routine</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Of walking two kilometres or</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Sometimes slightly more.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As I walk I can see the blurry sun</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Floating like a fat marigold balloon</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">That is somehow resisting</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The gravitational pull of the mountains in the west</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">While sooty particles in the thick air</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Irritate my throat and my nostrils and</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The heat makes me sweat</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Enough to make me believe</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">That the exercise is doing me good.
</span></div><div><br /></div>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-71419976523230844452023-02-06T17:32:00.004+11:002023-04-13T22:42:57.598+10:00OVER THERE<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrX1G7-Lhjr3csPt7DPjVGJlUDiLBmm_Hvjbtn5Q0bmbFx6HHYanOz1_g8b7bZ-VjN-TFWNw_1LeuhwRB_lUUq9OPYFgFMI-nJI3k_XyBbxYYA13o1DsPgrubYOWnwQ6ibvgQUcev8mU2BRexBd5CuLGFwi4hnqf_RDWkl1imr_Nb74BdCjxvuHKgptg/s2048/funeral.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1315" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrX1G7-Lhjr3csPt7DPjVGJlUDiLBmm_Hvjbtn5Q0bmbFx6HHYanOz1_g8b7bZ-VjN-TFWNw_1LeuhwRB_lUUq9OPYFgFMI-nJI3k_XyBbxYYA13o1DsPgrubYOWnwQ6ibvgQUcev8mU2BRexBd5CuLGFwi4hnqf_RDWkl1imr_Nb74BdCjxvuHKgptg/s320/funeral.jpeg" width="205" /></a></div>The last time it happened</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I was drinking Swan Lager</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Slouched on a modular lounge</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In an archaic colonial house</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And through the louvres</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I could hear the sea breeze</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Brushing bougainvillea petals</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And nudging sun-curled leaves</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">On fruit-laden tropical trees</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">While waves washed the shore</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And the passing parade</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Of Africans spoke in sounds</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">That made me afraid</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And I felt strange and foreign.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Tonight I sip cheap scotch</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And I am horizontal</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">On an old man’s recliner</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In a modern dwelling</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Not far from rice paddies</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And there are golden shower flowers</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Lining the lanes winding</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Towards markets and temples</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And beyond wide open windows</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The neighbours converse</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As if in infinite song</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Up and down
Asia’s tonal scales</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">While blanched lemongrass</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And scorched chillies season the air</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Below the smoky crown</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Of a still starless hot sky</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">That masks mountains nearby</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And I am an alien and an outsider.</span></div><div><br /></div>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-25656336830846619972022-10-29T15:18:00.005+11:002022-12-05T17:54:09.305+11:00MEKONG<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjat6SSAwMVWeENDel6_5RoiDcmIIBf2zwpJ64hbT51Msnm3qwJPgr644VB0uCsTTeP0hakjKVEn_d6db_6VSF03J5RpRtpa6rAIVs0Vc1iCdDSrh8m7uWrn7pOFEwBNcJcA6540OkVxjv3Yv86C-0KZp_X74fZ0C2uspwP2Q4WYaY09QETGdzHziCH1g/s1532/gt161022gz.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1532" data-original-width="1234" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjat6SSAwMVWeENDel6_5RoiDcmIIBf2zwpJ64hbT51Msnm3qwJPgr644VB0uCsTTeP0hakjKVEn_d6db_6VSF03J5RpRtpa6rAIVs0Vc1iCdDSrh8m7uWrn7pOFEwBNcJcA6540OkVxjv3Yv86C-0KZp_X74fZ0C2uspwP2Q4WYaY09QETGdzHziCH1g/s320/gt161022gz.jpeg" width="258" /></a></div>It was the colour of the earth —</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Clay to be specific —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Not at all like the rivers of home</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">On their run down to the Pacific —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Except when they’re in horrid flood</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And spoiled with cruelty and mud.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">On the Thai side was Gotoma,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Statuesque, all gold and ethereal.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Across in Laos was another world —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Sky-scraping palaces of the material.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">A shard of green wilderness</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Splintered out of Myanmar,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As if the land itself sought to escape</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But was blocked, unable to get too far.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">From the embankment on Thailand’s shore,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I watched the long tail boats propel,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">While I thought of days of purple haze and fiery hell,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When this dragon, this mother water, was poisoned by war.
</span></div>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-79308975148845711812022-10-27T17:52:00.001+11:002022-10-27T17:54:33.982+11:00THE END OF SCHOOL<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuhyrV0kSNtpfNXjvrF_bnIdWVtRR4BmKHO9Tt7E8W7saoUVOuIQJqNP-0M4KsuSWn2FS5fcdlkV3NlBzi4zLOJr19l-2qA95_V8F2I_OD53LS_NkqdtxZowoWRxwC6VoPXEc-3uV0bezddjKas7nqA5i1TqYTDQORdye9Lra2U3hrk2Jxa5aAgaqBBg/s1330/hcmOct22K.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1281" data-original-width="1330" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuhyrV0kSNtpfNXjvrF_bnIdWVtRR4BmKHO9Tt7E8W7saoUVOuIQJqNP-0M4KsuSWn2FS5fcdlkV3NlBzi4zLOJr19l-2qA95_V8F2I_OD53LS_NkqdtxZowoWRxwC6VoPXEc-3uV0bezddjKas7nqA5i1TqYTDQORdye9Lra2U3hrk2Jxa5aAgaqBBg/s320/hcmOct22K.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>Was it really fifty-two years ago?</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It was a morning so balmy</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">That we dressed for endless summer.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In our warmth, we celebrated like a conquering army.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The future we foresaw was a jolly jumble —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">One part projections out of a bleary past,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">One part prophecies inspired by hope —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">A vision that was only a rough forecast.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">That distant day was over and gone</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Well before we had time to think</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">About the betrayals and failures</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Lurking behind the next blink.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">For a moment we were young and beautiful</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And beyond the reach of ugly blame</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">For mistakes awaiting us in a broken world.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It was later that we learned to look back in shame.
</span></div><div><br /></div>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-61073754660075253332022-09-08T21:56:00.002+10:002022-09-15T14:10:09.293+10:00WAT PHRA THAT DOI KHAM<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc7mGpZpx6zmRXOIo0F2Z6_DbMk0rX6PTXPNyCBcG3DgghAzJgsgol7GNu7aFKMJ19otxoQQxxLUjGSUE1ohv5dNbekMlgp9ZmTCoZO0P62YcU6d3KgpJ4t3oubz1xnEeJXdgOWKZU65kksZHSFrA4ECfFrA-4JTrFFl4uqqh6zzc8hh-nWALOkRXCHQ/s1729/cm170822w.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1729" data-original-width="898" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc7mGpZpx6zmRXOIo0F2Z6_DbMk0rX6PTXPNyCBcG3DgghAzJgsgol7GNu7aFKMJ19otxoQQxxLUjGSUE1ohv5dNbekMlgp9ZmTCoZO0P62YcU6d3KgpJ4t3oubz1xnEeJXdgOWKZU65kksZHSFrA4ECfFrA-4JTrFFl4uqqh6zzc8hh-nWALOkRXCHQ/s320/cm170822w.jpeg" width="166" /></a></div>From the ring-roads it was invisible,</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Lost in Chiang Mai’s monsoonal green</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In a season that flattered the hills</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And made them seem pristine.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Suddenly we saw more than steep bluffs —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The cliff was ablaze with strafes of light,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As if flames were scorching the tree tops,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And distant gold plate seemed set to ignite.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">We stopped to buy white garlands</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">From vendors waiting in the shade,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Before the road hair-pin-bended</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Its way to the heart of a sacred glade.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The place was the home of dragons rampant and snakes</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Coiled before a reclining idol — a countenance so serene</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">That I almost understood the pilgrims’ trust</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In merit gleaned from offerings seen and faith unseen.
</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-92047951594878900832022-09-02T16:28:00.001+10:002022-09-02T16:30:48.671+10:00THE BRIDGE<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgII4dUq3LlopAyVqN0X61I7TxJ_gAjbEiIOTq29oLoQll3iGvF5j-rDi-0ORAzgfbHciaH4xaVUEio5XKxZo-d3VysvTJ1iBsbLTzrhRdIvVQwIZFZHTt99uuEzKDZXYSrFCydWO2Zvhz4kbYhdCgAMgnCk9eu-gOCnKOBKoS_eWGwAi-42W5axsZaxw/s844/paulcaleobridge%20(1).jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="844" data-original-width="613" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgII4dUq3LlopAyVqN0X61I7TxJ_gAjbEiIOTq29oLoQll3iGvF5j-rDi-0ORAzgfbHciaH4xaVUEio5XKxZo-d3VysvTJ1iBsbLTzrhRdIvVQwIZFZHTt99uuEzKDZXYSrFCydWO2Zvhz4kbYhdCgAMgnCk9eu-gOCnKOBKoS_eWGwAi-42W5axsZaxw/s320/paulcaleobridge%20(1).jpeg" width="232" /></a></div>All that remains is a memory of a bridge,</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Spanning a river that, in its prehistory,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Churned through cliff-sided valleys</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And then flooded ample plains, now stretched out</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Beside rolling hills, now backdropped by blue mountains,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And left the clammy slime crammed with cradles of life.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When the ‘Oxbra’ was first named and tamed</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The colony was fed and the famine was finished.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Forsaken refugees, sent to a land they did not know</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">By governments that, it must be said,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Would surely have preferred them dead,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Turned the lowlands into fields of fruitful triumphs —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Hard labour of outcasts,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Their sullied hearts washed clean on the muddy river flats.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">New wealth mustered free men,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Keen to make super-profits from the land —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">A certainty once the early work was done.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">First nations were vanquished,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Convict settlers’ farms were looted,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As the shrines of capital were built</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">By the raiders and the traders,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The merchants and their confidants —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Men unaware of their own guilt,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Indemnified against risk and chance.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">If you go there you can watch the pageants —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">New generations stroll on mean pavements</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Laid recklessly along the falsified embankments,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Unwittingly untutored by tangible remembrance.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">If we, who will soon be out of time,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Try to tell them about a lawful crime —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">A monument’s misappropriation —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Will they will hear a memory of a bridge?
</span></div><div><br /></div><div><i><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;">The photograph </span></i><i><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;">was taken by Paul Caleo and published on Facebook in 2021. It </span></i><i><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;">shows the old Windsor bridge in the final stages of its demolition.</span></i></div>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-15036840567018223592022-04-16T16:07:00.000+10:002022-04-16T16:07:36.181+10:00PARADISE<span style="font-family: georgia;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNt8UKmzeUT3P3Eepob616iF5LXh3cNGRgiMEpHDDltcZFz8LgTZh9SaT7nDs8ZtmdW9s6XN7PMbC3g5GmjytiX1NTPpqYH1q5nb9r52VSRMMftB3CtPp_IsqFN6CEEr_P0q8CqhWhs3C-8Ehd5QRqI1EisIcsx_L2RlaodMygPrClgjdVxE_1WEc-ww/s948/nothing.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="948" data-original-width="756" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNt8UKmzeUT3P3Eepob616iF5LXh3cNGRgiMEpHDDltcZFz8LgTZh9SaT7nDs8ZtmdW9s6XN7PMbC3g5GmjytiX1NTPpqYH1q5nb9r52VSRMMftB3CtPp_IsqFN6CEEr_P0q8CqhWhs3C-8Ehd5QRqI1EisIcsx_L2RlaodMygPrClgjdVxE_1WEc-ww/w255-h372/nothing.jpeg" width="255" /></a></div></i></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>“And Jesus said unto him, Verily I say unto thee, </i></span><i style="font-family: georgia;">Today shalt thou be with me in paradise.” </i><i style="font-family: georgia;">(Luke 23 : 43 KJV) </i></p><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There is no garden scenery —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">No trees with their dangling greenery</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Arrayed around still waters and a silver stream.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">No sun sparkles like a yellow lantern</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And the moon and the stars do not gleam.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">There is, in fact, nothing we could realise</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And nothing our minds might recognise.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">For, in the simplicity of eternity,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">What sustains us other than Him?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Have you not seen?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Have you not heard?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When we are empty,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So we are nothing</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And we possess nothing,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Then we can rest in Him.
</span></div><div><br /></div>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-63811873405921262082022-03-30T16:23:00.000+11:002022-03-30T16:23:11.013+11:00TODAY'S NEWS<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs3770eMSDdK8LjuDkkNGB2NORLjCdEwplxKPENpJQkym1Y9XpebSzaz4I0aJaJNwURnWv7boVtjF_q3oLi1ax1T-GNsRU5_zu2xxamah1H0P5DvfTjEldfUjy_I9qVGPnSJ05J51b6e5hO7wzN0aVK1Gi7c1RLEvYFAmKwvmQEb4pflxHvKLGeWs5DA/s2448/newsflower.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="1740" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs3770eMSDdK8LjuDkkNGB2NORLjCdEwplxKPENpJQkym1Y9XpebSzaz4I0aJaJNwURnWv7boVtjF_q3oLi1ax1T-GNsRU5_zu2xxamah1H0P5DvfTjEldfUjy_I9qVGPnSJ05J51b6e5hO7wzN0aVK1Gi7c1RLEvYFAmKwvmQEb4pflxHvKLGeWs5DA/s320/newsflower.jpeg" width="227" /></a></div>Where will we go after the rain?</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Will we have strength enough to remain</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Here on a grisly shore that pulses with pain</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">As storm surf spits waste on a plagued coastal plain?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Where will we go after the drought?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Will we again know what trust was about?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Can we ever rebuild the faith we outgrew;</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Or will we be refilled
by pride in our virtue?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Another war rages across bleeding stages</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Described in pages copied from dark ages.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The rich count money bequeathed in belief</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Support can be bought and funded by grief.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Useful idiots holler so loudly that all must hear;</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But no one listens and fewer understand.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Profanity so grand emits visions and glistens;</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But no one sees
and fewer perceive.
</span></div><div><br /></div>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-42115244194690608102022-03-27T12:52:00.001+11:002022-03-27T13:03:40.432+11:00MY LA NIÑA SUMMER<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib43bnLoNDAngZbMLxn9GYxKPFbD5EN5PVlyiYu9TweJd2wHYD7fPHAOIC1IA3WMms6RkIMvKxUUkznzVvPbHQMdFu6J1nAI-MTzaiEk31NRzWciZJ0FT2rRVaokhWQPN9iNXbXXfHa-UQbvhDYXP1_AfQGh99DEQGebfO9h0G6sCkd4KO7DdUNsg16Q/s492/flood1961a.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="492" data-original-width="413" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib43bnLoNDAngZbMLxn9GYxKPFbD5EN5PVlyiYu9TweJd2wHYD7fPHAOIC1IA3WMms6RkIMvKxUUkznzVvPbHQMdFu6J1nAI-MTzaiEk31NRzWciZJ0FT2rRVaokhWQPN9iNXbXXfHa-UQbvhDYXP1_AfQGh99DEQGebfO9h0G6sCkd4KO7DdUNsg16Q/s320/flood1961a.jpeg" width="269" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The sky is always grey,</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Pallid, like ashes.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It’s just another day</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Of this, my <i>La Niña</i> summer.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And the rain on the roof</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Patters, it seems, as chary proof</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Of an untested chapter of truth.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">No one really cares</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">About faraway floods</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And their remote victims —</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">They are, they say, mere symptoms.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And, yet, I could relish the rain —<br />The sumptuous sound of it</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">On my corrugated canopy;</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But, I cannot.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">For my life is a despised irrelevance.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">So I can only lament</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The demise of my culture</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And the desert of hostility</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">That burgeons all around me</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">In this, my <i>La Niña</i> summer.
</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>The photograph of the 1961 Hawkesbury flood<br />is part of the Riverstone Historical Society's collection.</i></span></div>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-20788356065228897502022-02-27T10:52:00.000+11:002022-02-27T10:52:15.075+11:00REVIVIFICATION<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi5WlDHiEnp5QJFFWb1YVymW-eEynZKXq5LsoXylmZnP1g5r2fOdCIKqlko7g_zCZxjRIVAW9MF1nOnZX6K53Shtub2r5KeThJoLoyeuK38Vjbz1h9FXBxv2u8ogMw3z0epib3neZLUKjdAVw8PwSHd_NoeULF1d5vvibunt8HkNWCG5wTs93O3Vorx4A=s2679" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2448" data-original-width="2679" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi5WlDHiEnp5QJFFWb1YVymW-eEynZKXq5LsoXylmZnP1g5r2fOdCIKqlko7g_zCZxjRIVAW9MF1nOnZX6K53Shtub2r5KeThJoLoyeuK38Vjbz1h9FXBxv2u8ogMw3z0epib3neZLUKjdAVw8PwSHd_NoeULF1d5vvibunt8HkNWCG5wTs93O3Vorx4A=s320" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When I saw the shadow of death<br />I had not realised I was in a valley.<br />Yet all around me were savage mountains<br />And a river of curses coursed the lowest plain.<br /><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">But, I hear you say, valleys teem with life,<br />While mountains are soaring wonders<br />From which the rains run down<br />To fill rivers with bounty.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">All that you say, I know.<br />So a menacing shadow did not scare me.<br />Instead I was afraid of what would survive<br />What was required to keep me alive.</span></p>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-40076658125873518502022-02-12T17:39:00.000+11:002022-02-12T17:39:54.597+11:00ARCADIA<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgbOYqxfOmpZd9hEqkdbxZX0OzIWttbmA7mFhNwxUYdTuk-vyYvMCysW8EDcwGU7qevuIu7_IRApUnrHlod4zVefLsCRwSR_DTNZ-nvwtYxJbh_kAsJ7aRBxAkgFc6W4TYSpucfsFE6At0Co-fSLxtpXB-Awm_s3jPKB2v5A449Gx5RM3oey0RFByNzxg=s3168" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3168" data-original-width="2366" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgbOYqxfOmpZd9hEqkdbxZX0OzIWttbmA7mFhNwxUYdTuk-vyYvMCysW8EDcwGU7qevuIu7_IRApUnrHlod4zVefLsCRwSR_DTNZ-nvwtYxJbh_kAsJ7aRBxAkgFc6W4TYSpucfsFE6At0Co-fSLxtpXB-Awm_s3jPKB2v5A449Gx5RM3oey0RFByNzxg=s320" width="239" /></a></div>Uncomplicated childhood games,<br />Climbing the mulberry tree on summer days,<br />Reaching the ripest fruit,<br />Careless consumption — the crimson juice<br />Staining bare arms and dripping<br />On to shirts and dresses.<br /><br />Fibro and weatherboard houses —<br />Proud behind picket fences and flaking paint —<br />Fronted a dusty road<br />With edges of powdered clay<br />Bordering a grassy strip<br />Dotted with clover, paspalum,<br />Dandelions and daisies.<br />We shaped miniature highways in the dirt,<br />Racing our replica cars<br />And arguing which was the fastest.<br />Sometimes the girls would make mud pies<br />And offer murky water from plastic teapots.
David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-38065373395146275022022-01-08T16:48:00.002+11:002022-05-30T11:11:49.701+10:00BACKGAMMON<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi7p-vDOYih5ga36G_I8x2RQ0Nakwum88fq-9GbsCPZGzymXKVQkwwxZIeXBhcMETGoCIfhwrpoouco_T9Rm9IielxXGAsGcDBLjgFLnrycCH9yrVKd-JIPqn5OerUa9z3ay-c4DGFO_xswGGEzDvhrMZ0iDD4eqm6dB1Lc3GtM_zrPMYne-NvqdPO5-A=s1164" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1164" data-original-width="788" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi7p-vDOYih5ga36G_I8x2RQ0Nakwum88fq-9GbsCPZGzymXKVQkwwxZIeXBhcMETGoCIfhwrpoouco_T9Rm9IielxXGAsGcDBLjgFLnrycCH9yrVKd-JIPqn5OerUa9z3ay-c4DGFO_xswGGEzDvhrMZ0iDD4eqm6dB1Lc3GtM_zrPMYne-NvqdPO5-A=s320" width="217" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />Here are the dregs of summer days<br />Locked away like solitaire,<br />Euchre, chess, and backgammon,<br />In a mind<br />That’s trying to recall<br />The bluff of someone blind.<br /><br />Walking, writing, reading, strumming —<br />All the windows' strobing lights<br />Irradiate the crisis coming<br />And set us all up in their sights.<br /><br />Sunsets run away in glum greys<br />Rendered clear by humid air,<br />Water colours drip on architraves<br />Of true views<br />That appeal to us<br />To turn off the lying TV news.<br /><br />Trending, surging, bursting, swelling —<br />All the numbers make a wave<br />That never crashes, all impelling<br />Like a madcap’s laughing rave.<br /><br />And when did the dream go up in smoke?<br />And why didn’t I get the joke?<br /><br /></span><p></p><p><i><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: x-small;">(With acknowledgements to the music and lyrics of Syd Barrett)</span></i></p>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-47654306660427780412021-12-13T16:46:00.003+11:002021-12-13T16:59:12.315+11:00THE OMICRON RIDE<i><span style="font-family: georgia;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXeZwhO8D7Tt2W8OsMKndVCFf2oRrNO2kqEI-BC3xmk8Bp35bYLKVLfJQJsbFEd7eEKjgVwRp7EjfgopYI9J3htkFI7GprPh4ACalxltOlY7Bu-U2UuyE4FXUrYt_U0oxRNSqweYKlfm1hxEPpOATbSElBxxoH8yIA6wyJwzWWdfzSuPXrXCpqtHqZVA=s2048" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1569" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjXeZwhO8D7Tt2W8OsMKndVCFf2oRrNO2kqEI-BC3xmk8Bp35bYLKVLfJQJsbFEd7eEKjgVwRp7EjfgopYI9J3htkFI7GprPh4ACalxltOlY7Bu-U2UuyE4FXUrYt_U0oxRNSqweYKlfm1hxEPpOATbSElBxxoH8yIA6wyJwzWWdfzSuPXrXCpqtHqZVA=w306-h400" width="306" /></a></div>“I am Alpha and Omega,<br />the beginning and the end,<br />the first and the last.”<br />(Revelation 22 : 13 KJV)</span></i><br /><br /><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Trip to<br />Heave and ho<br />Up down<br />To and fro<br />Mask and hide<br />For the omicron ride.<br />QR code<br />Smart phone upload<br />Check in<br />Check out<br />We know where<br />You’re all about<br />We will fine you<br />If you flout.<br />Trip to<br />Heave and ho<br />Up down<br />To and fro</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Mask and hide<br />For the omicron ride.<br />Casual contact<br />Legal contract</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Endless testing<br />Much less resting<br />You’ll get it right</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Mandarins' delight<br />We’ll let you out<br />Don’t hang about<br />Trip to<br />Heave and ho<br />Up down<br />To and fro</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Mask and hide<br />For the omicron ride.<br />Variants<br />Experts’ rants<br />Tidal waves<br />Leaders’ raves<br />Slippery wet<br />Worst kind of threat<br />Close the borders</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Sack the porters<br />Repel them<br />Expel them<br />Trip to<br />Heave and ho<br />Up down<br />To and fro<br />Mask and hide<br />For the omicron ride.</span><br /><br /><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">With acknowledgements to ‘Octopus’,<br />a song by the immortal Syd Barrett.</span></i></div>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-12375230765574908442021-11-22T15:47:00.001+11:002021-11-22T19:27:13.509+11:00ONE OF THOSE<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kNh9xpHebwA/YZsgbGdH1bI/AAAAAAAADxg/cE5vDzD1CkYho8aAHqTzw2ZyA61L0NAagCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/thosedays.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1986" data-original-width="2048" height="310" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kNh9xpHebwA/YZsgbGdH1bI/AAAAAAAADxg/cE5vDzD1CkYho8aAHqTzw2ZyA61L0NAagCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/thosedays.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br />It’s one of those days<br />That comes for no reason,<br />No matter what the season,<br />When the tears come,<br />And come, and then some.<br />It’s one of those days<br />When the pallor stays<br />From the night’s slow creep<br />Through hours of no sleep<br />In the dark’s baffling maze<br />Lit only by a bitter blaze<br />Fuelled by pages of regret and shame<br />And dossiers of failure and blame.
</span>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-21891233261077067182021-11-14T13:08:00.001+11:002021-12-24T17:53:36.157+11:00LOCKDOWN<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VdZ5o13tbhA/YZBuNgfaslI/AAAAAAAADxU/HWtMtEKiLxEMcpn3cAAu1xSwXG9LIm0tQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1080/160916K.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VdZ5o13tbhA/YZBuNgfaslI/AAAAAAAADxU/HWtMtEKiLxEMcpn3cAAu1xSwXG9LIm0tQCLcBGAsYHQ/w320-h320/160916K.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>Perhaps, when we were young,<br />There was far too much sun.
<br />It was there almost every day —<br />Until a metallic sky trickled rain<br />And stiff breezes pleated a briny bay.<br />In childhood, it seemed, we never knew pain.<br />There were freedoms then —<br />Some people had fought for them<br />(Or so we were assured)<br />And discarded their swords.<br />Then, laughter was our wordless friend,<br />Before we were targets for faraway blames.<br />That all came later — an unimaginable end,<br />Beyond the sidelines of our youthful games.<br /><br />Confined to the roads<br />Of a tedious neighbourhood,<br />Away from the exceptional sea<br />And the wild windblown heath,<br />I walk the wearisome streets<br />And look at the humdrum houses,<br />Wishing that I owned one<br />Or two —<br />I’d rent one out<br />To someone poor<br />Like me.<br /><br />I have known cold.<br />No, much more than cold —<br />Chilly days,<br />Glacial nights,<br />And icy hindsight.<br /><br />Now we are old, under skies unkind.<br />We squint behind our eyeglasses<br />So we can see the sugary sun shine<br />And the mulberry moon gleam as it passes.<br />Somewhere, mad waves still roll with a roar<br />Across shivering sands on an uncertain shore.<br />But the main events have all been concluded,<br />With the awards allocated to the somewhat able.<br />Luckless others lost their lives or mistook their way,<br />Like bankrupts who found they could never pay.<br />Jinxed paupers weren’t ever invited to the table<br />Where the spoils were eaten by those who colluded.<br /><br /><p></p>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-66016903759931731902021-10-25T14:42:00.005+11:002021-11-03T19:28:10.269+11:00A LAND THAT YOU DO NOT KNOW<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TGkULfhO3YI/YXYm_TO7nmI/AAAAAAAADxM/HzXCXaUwMLAxyIA-WTSEC-D53EUSBeMCQCLcBGAsYHQ/s437/CoverKnowA.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="437" data-original-width="292" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-TGkULfhO3YI/YXYm_TO7nmI/AAAAAAAADxM/HzXCXaUwMLAxyIA-WTSEC-D53EUSBeMCQCLcBGAsYHQ/s16000/CoverKnowA.jpg" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /><span face=""Trebuchet MS", Trebuchet, sans-serif" style="background-color: white;">Paperback versions of David Morisset's newest novel are available via Amazon in Australia and overseas. Various eBook editions can be purchased through Kindle, iBooks and other online retailers.</span><br /></span><p></p><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Many of Australia’s first European settlers were convicts transported across the seas from the British Isles. There were also free immigrants. They included entrepreneurs, farmers, soldiers, mariners, miners, and clerical and industrial workers. While online databases have made it possible for today’s Australians of European descent to trace their ancestry and acquire an understanding of the outline of their family trees, amateur genealogists usually confront baffling questions. What events led to criminal transgressions that deserved exile in a distant penal colony? How did convicts win their freedom and earn an ostensibly honest living in unfamiliar surroundings? Why did men and women leave urban slums and industrial occupations for rural lives on the other side of the world? How did their progeny — the sons and daughters of convicts and free settlers alike — fare as the decades unfolded?</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Partly inspired by Patrick White’s ‘The Tree of Man’, David Morisset’s novel, ‘A Land that You do not Know’, imagines the lives and times of Hugh Wadkin, an English convict, and Maggie Kintyre, a Scottish free settler. Both became residents of the Hawkesbury District on the outskirts of Sydney — although Maggie arrived seventy years after Hugh had first trudged along the Windsor Road on his way to the foothills of the Blue Mountains. Their circumstances were dramatically different. They brought with them sharply contrasting expectations. Eventually, their Australian family trees would intertwine.</span></div>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-65709224314179763862021-07-15T18:16:00.004+10:002021-08-17T20:08:50.788+10:00THE TRAVEL BAN<span style="font-family: helvetica;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Dc_MyMUOyfg/YO_tKHcDTUI/AAAAAAAADwY/eqEZRJtlLXkKkoSYe0xfMvkZh1UciONMQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/080721c.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1537" data-original-width="2048" height="365" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Dc_MyMUOyfg/YO_tKHcDTUI/AAAAAAAADwY/eqEZRJtlLXkKkoSYe0xfMvkZh1UciONMQCLcBGAsYHQ/w333-h365/080721c.jpeg" width="333" /></a></div>It’s two years now since I held your soft hand</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Beside the lake, while the sun set so red</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It almost set the long jetty aflame.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Two years of wasted time and stabbing dread</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">That our days — our moments — are passing by,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Bringing us nearer to the night we die.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The lake is cold in this viral winter.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Sunsets are diminished, and never warm,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">And the jetty is twisted and broken</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">After the havoc of the last freak storm.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Each night at dinner I cry, unstable,</span></div><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">I can’t see your face across the table.
</span></div><div><br /></div>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-19888695057883063202021-01-11T15:12:00.002+11:002021-01-11T15:51:23.764+11:00THE LOVE SONG OF CHARLES MARLOW*<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mbUyyUO0xz0/X_vO1Il1OdI/AAAAAAAADs4/uX5pv4_YyO0mNi8ECBHh1XWcjGvzOAEwgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2351/gerroa.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2351" data-original-width="825" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mbUyyUO0xz0/X_vO1Il1OdI/AAAAAAAADs4/uX5pv4_YyO0mNi8ECBHh1XWcjGvzOAEwgCLcBGAsYHQ/w224-h640/gerroa.jpeg" width="224" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When did the world become so hostile<br />To everyone but the chosen few -<br />The princesses and the princes<br />Who, either unwittingly or cunningly,<br />Serve the father of lies?<br />It seems to degrade with every passing day,<br />As I grow old and stoop<br />To roll the bottoms of my white flannel trousers<br />And stretch my arms upwards,<br />Guiding my brush and comb<br />To part my hair behind,<br />Before I walk upon the beach<br />To search for silent mermaids<br />Who always swim just out of reach,<br />Eluding the ragged claws<br />And fang-ridden maws<br />That lurk beneath the water,<br />Wind-blown, white and black.<br /><br />Although I am present,<br />I am, seemingly, invisible.<br />And, yet, dogs bark at me,<br />Baring their teeth and growling<br />As if they’ve perceived a ghost.<br />Perhaps they can see me<br />As I was at my top, my biggest, my most,<br />But, then, I would have banished them,<br />Craven curs that they always were,<br />Their harangues would end with a whimper.<br />Or maybe they can see the black mutt<br />That yaps at my heels.<br />Are they dogging me with howling<br />Aimed at my best fiend?<br />For it seems I have no friends<br />To fill my evenings, mornings, afternoons,<br />Beside porcelain and coffee spoons.<br />They have gone, dispersed<br />Like a fog that once lingered by pools,<br />For there is no more time for them and me,<br />No more ancient kindnesses from each to each.<br />So I spend my days inventing scenarios<br />That might approximate the real,<br />Inhabiting a fictional realm as its king,<br />Or, more literally,<br />Its omniscient third person,<br />Fearful that I will be read<br />As a fool, and ridiculed for it,<br />Or, much worse,<br />Derided as a mere attendant lord.<br /><br />Some days I raise my eyes<br />And look beyond the window sash,<br />Wondering whether I dare<br />To reach for that fleece again.<br />But usually the view is fouled by clouds,<br />Gathering just above the marshes<br />That fester in the waste land where I live.<br />So, I consider the case for oblivion<br />And often find it compelling,<br />Until I ponder how it might turn out<br />For a suicidal heart of darkness.<br />When Kurtz, with his last pant,<br />His ivory face intense with despair,<br />Gasped ‘the horror, the horror’,<br />Was he looking back<br />On his vicious existence?<br />Or was he looking ahead<br />At the misery and mistreatment<br />That awaited him in hell?</span><p></p><p><i><span style="font-family: georgia;">* With acknowledgements to TS Eliot and Joseph Conrad.</span></i></p>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-40093165243908500312020-12-30T12:18:00.004+11:002021-06-18T14:46:41.241+10:00GREENOCK circa 1875<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7EFM1-BD9DY/X-vTbbs99eI/AAAAAAAADsg/wcx_Us3ysIUAonJ58ZqiYlWJEhV8caOlgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2027/greenockQuay.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1685" data-original-width="2027" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7EFM1-BD9DY/X-vTbbs99eI/AAAAAAAADsg/wcx_Us3ysIUAonJ58ZqiYlWJEhV8caOlgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/greenockQuay.jpeg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">When the silky white gauze<br />Of eddying fogs<br />And the teeming downpours<br />Of colourless rain<br />Were coincidentally absent,
<br />And there were silent shafts<br />Of feeble sunlight filtering<br />Through the capacious clouds,
<br />Then the bluish green of the pitching hills</span><div><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Above the yawning glens,<br />And the grey swells of the firth<br />That slapped the bows of merchant vessels,<br />Were pleasant enough to enchant<br />First-time travellers<br />Among the thousands of seamen<br />Who crewed the hundreds of ships<br />That sought the dozens of wharves<br />Fronting the town.<br />Had they journeyed<br />During epochs preceding<br />The nineteenth century,<br />They might have been further charmed<br />By the sight of fishing villages<br />And the frayed sails and weathered boats<br />Of earnest seekers of maritime staples.<br />Now, tucked into mellow folds<br />In a patch of earth that was abutted<br />By the uplands to the south<br />And the waters to the north,<br />There were refineries that spewed<br />The sickly bouquet of burning sugar,<br />Textile factories from which listless columns<br />Of steam rose skyward,<br />And squalid tenements where life was hard,<br />Hearts were habitually broken<br />By the hammers of poverty,<br />And people frequently prayed<br />To an old deity<br />For the consolations of another life.<br />On the shoreline,<br />Beside the chaotic array of docks<br />And the impressive façade of the customs house,<br />There were shipyards,<br />In which the technological marvels<br />Of their day were constructed.<br />West of the town centre were neighbourhoods<br />Where the money of commerce<br />Had found opulent homes,<br />Cohabiting snugly<br />With the oblivious recipients<br />Of fortuitous inheritances<br />And the shrewd entrepreneurs<br />Of revolutions inspired<br />By the new gods<br />Of mechanised industry.<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;"><i>The photograph shows Greenock's Custom House Quay in 1878.</i></span><p></p></div>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4084607038049307788.post-57353078011400696532020-12-17T13:11:00.003+11:002020-12-17T14:21:16.146+11:00ISCARIOT<p><span style="font-family: helvetica;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--xl-69EBiUc/X9q8oHY8f1I/AAAAAAAADsU/hGmPPm30s5U5kuNQ1y0g9ucENp9uyCM2wCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/iscariot.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1199" height="345" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/--xl-69EBiUc/X9q8oHY8f1I/AAAAAAAADsU/hGmPPm30s5U5kuNQ1y0g9ucENp9uyCM2wCLcBGAsYHQ/w187-h345/iscariot.jpeg" width="187" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: helvetica;"><br />Recalled at last to my profession,<br />My true calling,<br />Scornfully sacrificed to avarice,<br />I found myself<br />Transported to the place of peace,<br />That jewel in a coastline<br />Supposedly free of cold and horrors,<br />A port of call, a lionised entrepot<br />For slave traders and explorers<br />And the rest of empire's captives, now released.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">It was all but unrecognisable, a shining urban shock,<br />Transformed by new winds of conquest,<br />Tornadoes and hurricanes that no one can block,<br />The storms of hordes that respect no borders.<br />Like the old world, it was a maze of congestions,<br />Answers incapable of asking the right questions,<br />Amidst thoughtless betrayals by expertly misinformed teachers.<br />Streets blistered where flowers had rambled,<br />Shadows of architecture's follies lapped at the beaches,<br />And diesel fumes fouled paths where pedestrians once ambled.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: helvetica;">The colonial house of my irreverent and forgetful bloom<br /></span><span style="font-family: helvetica;">Had long ago been acquired by a criminal of commerce;<br />But it was a short walk from work to my sorry studio room,<br />Furnished with rejects from Bunnings, KMart and worse.<br />When I arrived, home was perched above a sports ground,<br />Its grandstands sculptured by their floodlit surround.<br />There, athletic lads waited, wearing the lolly greens of the capital's teams,<br />Impatient for the coming contest, too young to sense the treachery of dreams.</span></p><p><br /></p><br /><p></p>David Morissethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01023947033842702846noreply@blogger.com0