Under The Mallee Bough

  A Cultural Revolution. Mao’s cultural revolution. This article was first posted in 2016.. in light of the points raised by the Russian philospher; Aleksandr Dugin when interviewed by Tucker Carlson just recently https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GIULmTprQ6o , we have to interrupt their doom and gloom prognostications about the decline and fall of The West, by drawing their attention to the “elephant in the room” that was not mentioned but overcame just such national and social denigration and has now risen to be the best managed and operational nation in the world…of course, we are talking about China..and it obtained this achievement solely because it dealt most thouroughly with the malignant disease we in The West will neither recognise, nor confront…I am talking about the destructive managerial disease of the entrepreneurial, speculative middle-classes, whose only loyalty is to the stock exchange and whose only obligation is to their own insatiable gr

The problem with romantic poetry. A while back, I went through a period when I was enthralled with the writing of romantic poetry..not so much about earth, fire or water, I mean not about my natural surroundings, nor about pastoral subjects, but purely about women..or Ladies (with a capital "L") that both intrigued me and captured my admiration...for either their beauty or their fiesty behaviour. As a male, I cannot think of anything more captivating as subject matter than idly observing those personal delights. Most of the women I wrote about were in no way closely connected to myself, but they were in my sphere of movement, so I had occasion to mark down certain idiosyncracies that I found interesting. Of course, then there are the memories of youthful love affairs..good or not so good that I have reflected upon and drawn conclusion about and wrote about..and sometimes just the pure beauty of an historical person was enough. But the strange thing is that these times do not

  Just to say. . . Wagga’s black cat, “Satan”. Hello, followers and readers, I have not been busy posting things here on my WordPress blog because I have been busy doing editing and re-writes for my post; “Songs of the Murray Mallee”, as it is being serialised in a hard-copy community magazine. This has been going since March and is now in the third part of a (hopefully) long-running serial that comes out in the monthly editions of the magazine. The original post of “Songs of…” was a one long continous epic poem in 4 parts, but I have decided to add certain prose pieces to the epic so as to create a mythological storyline alongside the poem. This was done to give dual depth to the piece..ie; to allow myself to write in poetry of the trials and tribulations of the early pioneers and their families from their first arriving and settling the country alongside the indigenous people here already, and to concentrate on the later threads of post The Great

  Bitter and Twisted.. “Eyeless in Gaza at the Mill with slaves, Himself in bonds under Philistian yoke.” Bitter and Twisted! Betrayal. “Betrayed”.. Mathew Dorabiala. A Betrayal. It’s a terrible realisation, a sense of betrayal, When someone special, in whom you had feelings, Reveals to you their other face, and in disgrace, You cannot but turn away, shamed that you once embraced, To your heart..their heart, in encompassing compact, In whom you whispered and shared sensitive secrets, To then see them evolve into another person, who, Now appears more inline with a group you eschew, Being part of the swollen, swirling morass of “the mob view”. “The mob view”..where nothing is sacred, save bigoted opinion, Never to bestow on a lesser minion what is best kept, As revered text and public view one’s own personal bias pet, While the other side of argument is granted little respect, And the whole

  A Book of Serenades and Regrets.    Mary Magdaline in Ecstacy….by Caravaggio. With the colours of Venus’ palette. With the palette of Venus I would paint the skies, Pastel colours gentle for the rising dawn, That reflect the soft, pearling ivory of her brow. Wild flowing yellows and bright blue of high noon, Best describe her vivacious moods! But of the reserved evening I save my best portrait, Working with soft, ombre shades of dusky slate, Would with love’s vigour, brush night’s encroaching skies, Bestowing a temptress’s grace to her dark, disquiet eyes…. * We are Born to Love. If we were born, To never love, nor feel pain, From bruised flesh, broken heart, All in vain. We would be born, With blood cold as stone, Beauty never to be known, And an exterior skeleton. A fate predetermined from our birth, Toward an undesirable death.. In short..it would be hell on earth.