'The Park' is a free verse work written in 2013. It is important to consider 'The Park' in context of a particular socio-political climate. In a world racked with terrorism, schisms in churches, a worsening political climate, and threats ranging from climate change to a worsening economy.
In this context, it is clear that the author is showing the various stages of a single lifespan in this poem. Analysed stanza by stanza, the descriptions are clear.
Stanza three, "The child cries... he reaches up into the sky". This is the early stage of any life, where there is a great need to be rescued. The mother figure provides comfort, provides rescue, and then sends the young child on his way again. Such is the beginning of any life.
It is also a part of a lifespan where there is a perceived need for rescue. This may occur at any age, and is characterised by an absolution of personal responsibility and desire for a greater force to be responsible (whether this is a parent, partner, economy, government, or something more exotic). The intent is clear, to be in this state is to be a child, free of responsibility but also unable to engage fully with the world.
Stanza two, "The young girl runs alongside the path... Wishing she could see what the balloon sees". Both a description of youth and an allegory for a consumer-driven culture. The young girl is running along, pulling a balloon filled with helium behind her. Yet even as she is delighted to be running with her balloon, she is also filled with longing for a different perspective.
It is clear that the balloon represents consumerism, that preoccupation with items and objects being dragged along, slowing us as we move through society and through our lives. The desire to see from a different perspective is a clear demonstration of the need for people to move to a post-consumer society, where there is freedom to move as the wind takes us, not encumbered by a desire for more and more possessions and status.
Stanzas four and five are closely related, both providing an example of someone who has isolated themselves from the rest of society. "The woman sits under a tree... Immersed in her book". It becomes apparent that this woman represents a time in the life when there is a desire and need for solitude, often this is the case when a person first moves out of the 'nest' of their parent's home and support. "The lovers relax... To themselves they are alone" is another clear example of the desire for solitude, even if it is with another person. In this case, the life stage demonstrated is the first relationship where only the partner matters, and all else can be safely ignored. While it may or may not be the case that it is safe to ignore all else, both of these stanzas represent the desire for solitude.
Stanza six takes solitude to the logical conclusion. "The dog runs... Not heeding distant shouts... Freedom, for a moment". The quest for freedom may be achieved for a moment, but the consequences, the "distant shouts", may be severe when they must be faced. In life, regardless of aims or achievements, there is no true freedom without consequence.
Stanza seven describes the end of a lifespan, as well as a situation in life where there is no progress. "The old women laugh... Sharing stories of youth... Only existing in memories". While the women are sharing stories, over and over again, they are not creating any new stories or memories. This clearly describes the scenario of someone who is stuck in their life, whether career, relationship, or another measure, unable to progress and only capable of repeating the same stories over and over again.
Throughout this analysis the old man has been ignored so far. The old man appears in stanza one with "The old man sits and smiles... Throwing bread to the ducks" and in stanza eight "The old man sits and smiles... sharing secrets with his ducks". There is a great deal of dispute concerning the role of the old man in this work. A cursory examination of the text would suggest that he provides the end of a life's journey, perhaps demonstrating dementia as a consequence of old age. However, the ducks "worshipping the giant bringing them manna" suggests that he is to be construed as more than simply a man, but perhaps a divine being. There is also the line "Knowing all that passes in his domain", which strongly suggests that the old man possess omniscience within his "domain", a trait commonly possessed by deities. Regardless, the old man also serves to bookend the work.
There is also significant debate surrounding the significance of the ducks. Some authors believe that the ducks signify a particular socio-political discourse, others feel that they represent others who have impact on our lives. This essay shall leave their significance as an exercise for the reader.
Overall, 'The Park' is an important work in the collection of social commentary produced during such a troubled time in Australia.
Tuesday, 31 December 2013
The Island
Sitting in the failing light
Listening to the gentle roar of the ocean
Hungry
Wanting
Seeking to devour the land
Striving with each breaking wave
And then retreating again
A cold wind blows
Pushing the waves further onto the beach
Brining the taste of salt inland
Moulding the trees into strange shapes
Bent and twisted
The Island
Close to the shore
Seemingly close enough to touch
Yet far distant
Silent and immobile
Challenging all to seek it out
Or remain lesser
Unfinished
Unable to meet the challenge
To meet that challenge then
Remains the sole task
Slide slowly into the water
Brave the pull of the tide
The roar of the waves
Traverse the depths of blue
Reach the final goal
So close, yet
Astonishingly far
And to fail?
To fail yet try
A worthy ambition
To surrender to the gentle caress
Not an abhorrent fate
Slide into the depths
Allow the surrender
The peace
Away from the noise and sound of a world gone mad
A final rest
A worthy goal
Listening to the gentle roar of the ocean
Hungry
Wanting
Seeking to devour the land
Striving with each breaking wave
And then retreating again
A cold wind blows
Pushing the waves further onto the beach
Brining the taste of salt inland
Moulding the trees into strange shapes
Bent and twisted
The Island
Close to the shore
Seemingly close enough to touch
Yet far distant
Silent and immobile
Challenging all to seek it out
Or remain lesser
Unfinished
Unable to meet the challenge
To meet that challenge then
Remains the sole task
Slide slowly into the water
Brave the pull of the tide
The roar of the waves
Traverse the depths of blue
Reach the final goal
So close, yet
Astonishingly far
And to fail?
To fail yet try
A worthy ambition
To surrender to the gentle caress
Not an abhorrent fate
Slide into the depths
Allow the surrender
The peace
Away from the noise and sound of a world gone mad
A final rest
A worthy goal
Natural Fibres
The rope is rough in my hands, thick. Small spikes dig into my skin. The pain a gentle reminder. Always natural ropes, fibres. They always work the best. Gloves would have helped, but no matter now. It's just a gentle prick.
"It's just a gentle prick." Lies, as usual. A sharp pain, then the spread of dull ache as the injection was forced into my gum. Waiting for the numbness that never fully came. A lie, that gentle prick, as much of a lie as any words from their mouths. The sound of the drill, the noise and vibration. The pain building. "Raise your hand," he had said, "raise your hand if it hurts too much." A fist clenched hard, holding on. Being strong. Eventually raised as it became unbearable. But nothing. No relief. Nothing but lies, constant lies leading to searing agony. A litany of lies that never ended.
Rolling the rope in my fingers. Carefully measuring against my hands, just so. It's important to have the right length. Folding over itself, wrapping around. Important, but you can always start over, and keep going until it is right. That's the key, really, keep on going until you get it right.
"Pull it apart, start again, and keep going until you get it right." The words brusque but not unkind. Shere Khan moved onto the next station, scouts all involved in different knots and rope activities. I pulled apart my attempt at lashing in disgust and threw the pieces to the ground. Then I sighed and picked them up again. Practice, persistence, and keep going until you get it right. I tugged on the rope, but it wouldn't come. A quick slap from Jamie and the wood was on the ground again as well.
"Loser!" he said, kicking the pieces out of my reach.
"Tosser," said another scout. Familiar taunts, but losing none of their virulence in familiarity. As I bent to pick up the wood, I felt a push on my back and I sprawled forward. Laughter and other boots greeted my attempts to rise until I stayed still, face in the dirt. Finally boring of their game, they moved away. I picked up the pieces of wood and the rope. I had to keep on going until I got it right.
A quick swing. A miss. Using the weight of the knot to my advantage, I try again. Another miss, but closer. I pull more of the rope into my hand and throw again. After an agonising moment lasting for centuries, the rope slides over the rafter. Without a ladder, I make do by letting the weight pull the rope to the right length and then tying the tail tightly to a side post. A quick test of the knot proves it to be secure. Testing the other end makes sure it won't slip. There will be no mistakes.
"What the hell have you done this time? Moron!" I stood shivering and dripping water onto the deck. I knew better than to try to go inside this wet. No matter what I might face here, that would be worse. Much worse. And if I had lost the boat? Let it drift down the river? My supposedly secure knot had slid undone, slick synthetic rope letting the knot work loose under the influence of tide and wind. The swim had been cold, the return trip exhausted me. I had been lucky that I had noticed quickly. Not quickly enough.
Slipping over my head. A little tighter. There, resting gently around my neck. Not too tight, but not loose. It mustn't be too loose.
"It mustn't be too loose. Nor should it be so tight it wrinkles your collar. Let me see now." His voice was soft to match his face, but this was one teacher who was always impeccably dressed. Long pants and tie every day, regardless of weather. The students spoke of him sleeping in a tie, not knowing they were carrying on a tradition of decades. The ordeal all the boys were going through was in preparation for Graduation. A momentous day, a time of celebration. For most. For me, a joyous time in a different way. Not a celebration with friends, but a celebration at leaving a pit of destructive ruin. I carefully adjusted my tie until it was perfect. It felt good.
It is time. All the preparation is done with. Only one task remains. I take a single step forward, and gasp despite myself as the rope tightens. All the knots hold, as they should. A darkness comes slowly, warm and welcoming. I am done here, gladly I accept the embrace that is offered. I close my eyes as the rope stretches and twists, spinning gently. I am content as the darkness pulls at me gently. It is over.
"It's just a gentle prick." Lies, as usual. A sharp pain, then the spread of dull ache as the injection was forced into my gum. Waiting for the numbness that never fully came. A lie, that gentle prick, as much of a lie as any words from their mouths. The sound of the drill, the noise and vibration. The pain building. "Raise your hand," he had said, "raise your hand if it hurts too much." A fist clenched hard, holding on. Being strong. Eventually raised as it became unbearable. But nothing. No relief. Nothing but lies, constant lies leading to searing agony. A litany of lies that never ended.
Rolling the rope in my fingers. Carefully measuring against my hands, just so. It's important to have the right length. Folding over itself, wrapping around. Important, but you can always start over, and keep going until it is right. That's the key, really, keep on going until you get it right.
"Pull it apart, start again, and keep going until you get it right." The words brusque but not unkind. Shere Khan moved onto the next station, scouts all involved in different knots and rope activities. I pulled apart my attempt at lashing in disgust and threw the pieces to the ground. Then I sighed and picked them up again. Practice, persistence, and keep going until you get it right. I tugged on the rope, but it wouldn't come. A quick slap from Jamie and the wood was on the ground again as well.
"Loser!" he said, kicking the pieces out of my reach.
"Tosser," said another scout. Familiar taunts, but losing none of their virulence in familiarity. As I bent to pick up the wood, I felt a push on my back and I sprawled forward. Laughter and other boots greeted my attempts to rise until I stayed still, face in the dirt. Finally boring of their game, they moved away. I picked up the pieces of wood and the rope. I had to keep on going until I got it right.
A quick swing. A miss. Using the weight of the knot to my advantage, I try again. Another miss, but closer. I pull more of the rope into my hand and throw again. After an agonising moment lasting for centuries, the rope slides over the rafter. Without a ladder, I make do by letting the weight pull the rope to the right length and then tying the tail tightly to a side post. A quick test of the knot proves it to be secure. Testing the other end makes sure it won't slip. There will be no mistakes.
"What the hell have you done this time? Moron!" I stood shivering and dripping water onto the deck. I knew better than to try to go inside this wet. No matter what I might face here, that would be worse. Much worse. And if I had lost the boat? Let it drift down the river? My supposedly secure knot had slid undone, slick synthetic rope letting the knot work loose under the influence of tide and wind. The swim had been cold, the return trip exhausted me. I had been lucky that I had noticed quickly. Not quickly enough.
Slipping over my head. A little tighter. There, resting gently around my neck. Not too tight, but not loose. It mustn't be too loose.
"It mustn't be too loose. Nor should it be so tight it wrinkles your collar. Let me see now." His voice was soft to match his face, but this was one teacher who was always impeccably dressed. Long pants and tie every day, regardless of weather. The students spoke of him sleeping in a tie, not knowing they were carrying on a tradition of decades. The ordeal all the boys were going through was in preparation for Graduation. A momentous day, a time of celebration. For most. For me, a joyous time in a different way. Not a celebration with friends, but a celebration at leaving a pit of destructive ruin. I carefully adjusted my tie until it was perfect. It felt good.
It is time. All the preparation is done with. Only one task remains. I take a single step forward, and gasp despite myself as the rope tightens. All the knots hold, as they should. A darkness comes slowly, warm and welcoming. I am done here, gladly I accept the embrace that is offered. I close my eyes as the rope stretches and twists, spinning gently. I am content as the darkness pulls at me gently. It is over.
The Swim
Slide a toe in The water cool
Yet calming on heat of exertion
Slowly pull sweat-soaked clothes away from skin
Leave folded neatly
No need to be untidy
No need for mess
A small pyramid left
Watch and glasses on top
Now nothing between skin
And the night-time air
Small goosebumps appear
As vestigal hairs attempt to rise
Doomed to failure
Once again
Stride in
Feel the sand beneath feet
Waves pushing against skin gently
Slowly going deeper
Dive forward
Under the wave
Under the water
Ignore the shock
Feel the freedom
As sand underfoot turns to water
And waves to a gentle rise
And fall
Sink down below
Watch the sky slowly fade
Covered with deep darkness
Then rise again
Breach the surface
With desperate gasp
And enjoy life-giving air
Then see on horizon
The dark shape
The goal
The island so close
Within reach of a desperate grasp
So swim
Slowly and surely
Following the soft silver glow of the moon
Towards the island
Rising and falling with the swell
Losing sight but not hope
Each time sinking down
Only to rise again
Yet the island stays
Distant and tempting
Unwilling to move
Traced in shades of dark
As the swim continues
Feel the cold seep in slowly
Seductively
Cooling the fires of passion
Slowly drawing away strength
Subtle
Unseen
Unfelt
The cold hands of every wave pull
Each time a little deeper
Sinking
Drifting
Watching the moon slowly fade
The island feels close now
Just a moment away
A moment
Yet calming on heat of exertion
Slowly pull sweat-soaked clothes away from skin
Leave folded neatly
No need to be untidy
No need for mess
A small pyramid left
Watch and glasses on top
Now nothing between skin
And the night-time air
Small goosebumps appear
As vestigal hairs attempt to rise
Doomed to failure
Once again
Stride in
Feel the sand beneath feet
Waves pushing against skin gently
Slowly going deeper
Dive forward
Under the wave
Under the water
Ignore the shock
Feel the freedom
As sand underfoot turns to water
And waves to a gentle rise
And fall
Sink down below
Watch the sky slowly fade
Covered with deep darkness
Then rise again
Breach the surface
With desperate gasp
And enjoy life-giving air
Then see on horizon
The dark shape
The goal
The island so close
Within reach of a desperate grasp
So swim
Slowly and surely
Following the soft silver glow of the moon
Towards the island
Rising and falling with the swell
Losing sight but not hope
Each time sinking down
Only to rise again
Yet the island stays
Distant and tempting
Unwilling to move
Traced in shades of dark
As the swim continues
Feel the cold seep in slowly
Seductively
Cooling the fires of passion
Slowly drawing away strength
Subtle
Unseen
Unfelt
The cold hands of every wave pull
Each time a little deeper
Sinking
Drifting
Watching the moon slowly fade
The island feels close now
Just a moment away
A moment
The Park
The old man sits and smiles
Throwing bread to the ducks
Who gather at his feet
Worshipping the giant bringing them manna
And sharing with all who attend
He laughs and tells them secrets
The young girl runs alongside the path
String trailing behind her
Balloon shifting in the wind
She cries out in delight
Wishing she could see what the balloon sees
The child cries
Fallen and hurting, he reaches up into the sky
His mother holds him
Comforts him
He runs again, dodging between seats
The woman sits under a tree
Immersed in her book
In her mind she is in space
Lasers blasting
Shields failing
She turns a page
The lovers relax
Spread on their rug
Stomachs full of food
Eyes full of each other
To themselves they are alone
The dog runs
Not heeding distant shouts
Losing herself in scents and excitement
Tongue lolling as she pants
Freedom, for a moment
The old women laugh
Sharing stories of youth
Now long distant
Only existing in memories
To be shared over again
The old man sits and smiles
Knowing all that passes in his domain
Sharing secrets with his ducks
Throwing bread to the ducks
Who gather at his feet
Worshipping the giant bringing them manna
And sharing with all who attend
He laughs and tells them secrets
The young girl runs alongside the path
String trailing behind her
Balloon shifting in the wind
She cries out in delight
Wishing she could see what the balloon sees
The child cries
Fallen and hurting, he reaches up into the sky
His mother holds him
Comforts him
He runs again, dodging between seats
The woman sits under a tree
Immersed in her book
In her mind she is in space
Lasers blasting
Shields failing
She turns a page
The lovers relax
Spread on their rug
Stomachs full of food
Eyes full of each other
To themselves they are alone
The dog runs
Not heeding distant shouts
Losing herself in scents and excitement
Tongue lolling as she pants
Freedom, for a moment
The old women laugh
Sharing stories of youth
Now long distant
Only existing in memories
To be shared over again
The old man sits and smiles
Knowing all that passes in his domain
Sharing secrets with his ducks
Tents
We all live in tents
Of our own devising
Breaking the world into parts
Mine
Not-mine
Us
Them
Good
Evil
In our tents we can decorate as we like
Floors, rugs, paintings
Whatever takes our fancy
Our tent can be big
Large enough to hold many
Or our tent can be small
Just big enough for one
Or maybe two, no more
Our tents can change size
Shrinking and growing to fit
Sometimes by choice, but
Often unbidden
Sometimes unwanted
Outside of the tent is a scary place
Out of control
Unwatched
Unwanted
But safely ignored, with the flaps closed
If our tent is well made nothing can get in
But nothing can get out
Opening the flap means risk
Potential reward
Contamination
Or sharing
No matter how thick the tent though
We can be squashed
Branches falling
Floodwaters rising
Invading our tent
Our sanctuary
Then to rebuild
A smaller tent, safer
Alone
Of our own devising
Breaking the world into parts
Mine
Not-mine
Us
Them
Good
Evil
In our tents we can decorate as we like
Floors, rugs, paintings
Whatever takes our fancy
Our tent can be big
Large enough to hold many
Or our tent can be small
Just big enough for one
Or maybe two, no more
Our tents can change size
Shrinking and growing to fit
Sometimes by choice, but
Often unbidden
Sometimes unwanted
Outside of the tent is a scary place
Out of control
Unwatched
Unwanted
But safely ignored, with the flaps closed
If our tent is well made nothing can get in
But nothing can get out
Opening the flap means risk
Potential reward
Contamination
Or sharing
No matter how thick the tent though
We can be squashed
Branches falling
Floodwaters rising
Invading our tent
Our sanctuary
Then to rebuild
A smaller tent, safer
Alone
Butterflies
My mind is a blank
Thoughts and words fly through
Like butterflies
Only to flutter by
Not leaving a mark beyond delicate footprints
Soft marks on an otherwise blank slate
My mind is numb
Not feeling that which I know I must feel
Not allowing time to progress
Frozen in a state of undying
Unliving
Protection, perhaps, or fear
Of feeling
My mind is empty now
The butterflies have fluttered by
Void of all thought
All emotion
An empty shell
A husk that appears to be
Normal
Okay
Fine
On the outside
But nothing remains inside
Thoughts and words fly through
Like butterflies
Only to flutter by
Not leaving a mark beyond delicate footprints
Soft marks on an otherwise blank slate
My mind is numb
Not feeling that which I know I must feel
Not allowing time to progress
Frozen in a state of undying
Unliving
Protection, perhaps, or fear
Of feeling
My mind is empty now
The butterflies have fluttered by
Void of all thought
All emotion
An empty shell
A husk that appears to be
Normal
Okay
Fine
On the outside
But nothing remains inside
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