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ARTS AND CULTURE

St Patrick's Ballarat

  • 13 February 2017

 

Selected poems

 

St Patrick's Ballarat

 

Outside

on the steel railings

the coloured ribbons

tied with love and hate,

flap listlessly in the light

summer breeze, images

of regret and loss,

brightness and hope.

 

At the rear on

the deserted bitumen

alleys and parkways,

between the retired priests'

caves, with blinds drawn,

the young boys

ride their clever scooters

up and down the slopes,

with cries of exultation,

as they explore

the silence

with the energy of

uncomplicated

innocent

childhood.

 

 

Ballarat Kiddywinks

 

It is a struggle

to find the most

appropriate image.

 

I had thought of

a smooth round

partly submerged

in the earth,

granite dome,

some lichen,

glows in the

winter sun,

comforting.

 

Men come with

crow-bars

dig at the edges,

pieces of granite

shear off, revealing

little. More men, more

crow-bars, more chips,

more frustration.

Rock looking

worse for wear,

ambience now

slightly damaged.

Move on to

the next rock

say some.

 

Then the 'dozer, D9 or

similar, the rock shudders

then gives way, is

upended and all of

the worms, cockroaches

and other crawling

things are revealed

in the damp oozing earth.

The crowd looks on,

faces of disappointment,

strained expressions,

their dreams and their

beliefs now questioned and —

anyway, whose idea was it

to disturb the rock?

 

The gold in Ballarat

has long gone.

 

Another simple image

comes from boyhood

when fireworks were for

sale and the main currency,

'best bang for your buck',

was the 'penny bunger'.

 

Placed in the appropriate

moist cow pat, it would

blow shit everywhere in

a bright green circle.

Those in the know ran

quickly and with a sense

of timing, and the ridiculous

mixed with some irony,

and luck to be in the right

place at the right time.

Should that be the wrong

place at the wrong time?

 

Don't choke on the clichés,

beware the cutting edge of satire.

 

The truth lies buried

in a hole somewhere.

 

 

Gap in the fence

 

Ivy hedges are interrupted by

a gap toothed grey wooden

interlude where light is let

through and a limited narrative

presents itself in the afternoon

light, leaning this way and

that. Bees are busy in the ivy

and the timber looks precarious

at best, and an excuse at worst.

The chimneys of various shapes

and sizes on the priest's houses

next door, have not spumed

since the winter, and in and

around St Patrick's things like

that might seem symbolic. Will

fires ever be lit there again — lest

the people speak — the ribbons

spliced up and down the wrought

iron railings, rattle in the brisk

autumn breeze, telling stories of

love, suffering and endless

disharmony, broken trust, send

messages to those in the passing

traffic, paused only for the traffic

lights — better the devil you don't

know, smiling faces dancing on

dark graves in winter, old men

stirring coffee in neighbourhood

cafes, remembering when — for

two shillings, or an ice cream,

innocence and silence could be

traded, children with one arm

up behind their back, smiling —

a grimace become a learned smile —

would give frightened assent through

clenched teeth — and the earth

never paused on its axis and the