Bio Note:
I’ve always loved poetry, easily memorized lots it and flattered myself that I was good at teaching it, or, maybe more accurately, at encouraging my students to find pleasure in it. I also flattered myself that I had some poetry in me. I wrote a little as a young man but thankfully kept it to myself. Over the years I wrote for my wife and occasionally a little for pleasure. But if there was an itch, I’d ignored it for so long that it was left, by and large, unscratched. In 2012, when I was 64, I had an urge to write. I had almost immediate success, with a couple of poems selected for an anthology called “The Second Genesis: An Anthology of Contemporary World Poetry”. That was a thrill but after that I found it harder. At some point I became friends with Laura Kaminski and we conversed a little. I expressed my frustration about the difficulties of getting published. She gave me some pretty good advice which led me to Verse-Virtual, the wonderful Firestone Feinberg and a fantastic community of poets. That community has gifted me such friendship, something for which I am so filled with gratitude that I feel, like that ancient poet, that “my cup runneth over”. Sometimes it all seems like a dream. In 2019 Praxis Mag Online digitally published my first book, “Earth Music”. That was rapidly followed by four hard copy books: “Loving Leah” (Kelsay 2020); “Awakening” (Cyberwit 2020); “Rock Dreaming (Kelsay 2021); “Morteza” (Kelsay 2022). Poetry has given me so much pleasure, firstly, as a young person in school, then as a teacher introducing its wonder and beauty to my students, and now, finally, as a writer. I still feel that I have things to say so I’m more and more scratching that itch. I am an Australian. I was a teacher. I have been married to Diana for 49 years. We have four children and six grandchildren. For 46 years we have lived on a small rural property outside the historical village of Wilberforce, 60 kms northwest of Sydney CBD. We have an extensive garden, a little orchard, a vegetable patch, hens and once I even kept bees. It’s not the Lake Isle of Innisfree. There is no lake. Only the temperamental Hawkesbury River, which has flooded three times in 2022.
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For a year or so I have been chronicling Colquhoun’s adventures, which began when he had a vision of his daughter, Miriam, as a victim of domestic abuse, or coercive control. We have finished with Colquhoun for the moment and we turn our attention to Miriam. For her, I choose to write haibun, a form new to me but which seems to suit her narrative. Here are the first four parts of Miriam’s story.
Stranger
I wander our island. I hate it. I am jealous of it. The sea rolls in and kisses the sand. The wind moves over the water and caresses the land. Birds sing morning anthems, each to each. Fields fill with the murmur of bees. Streams rush to meet the sea. Schools of fish in unison turn in silver flash. Light dissolves in the clear water or touches leaves in sun-drenched sparkle.
But I am alone.
All I see are the ancient, doddery couple who work for my parents, the old man who brings supplies by boat and the middle aged guests who come to the B & B, gushing about “paradise”. I hate them too. I hate their age. I hate their stout greyness. I hate their tepid lives, their terrible clothes, their faux happiness.
I am seventeen.
I want to scream. I want to fly. I want to fling myself headlong into life. I want to escape this island, my prison.
Then he comes across the sea, young, tanned and muscular. I see him and catch my breath. He’s coarse. His speech is limited. He’s not at all like my father. I love all of that.
I notice him looking at me. Flattery and desire lift me and sweep me along. I sing with joy. I skip when I hear him approaching. He is funny, laughs a lot, makes jokes, brings me flowers. I can’t stop thinking about him. I surrender to him, completely.
But he has seen my neediness and lusts to exploit it.
hidden in lush grass
beneath the perfumed flowers,
the serpent’s tongue flicks
****
The First Small Step
I am happy. I have escaped. A sensual world is opening. I feel passion and delight. I feel loved. I feel secure. Tony has a home, a productive farm and more than enough money. To make my happiness complete, I would like a job, money of my own and friends.
I tell him how I have long dreamt of friendship and independence.
“You don’t need money,” he says, “and you don’t need a job. Let me know when you need money and I will give it to you. And, you know, my friends are your friends. It’ll take a while but you’ll fit in.”
I smile and embrace him. I do not demure. His tone has told me that this is not for discussion.
“You are so good to me,” I say, but the nagging disappointment I feel brings my first questioning. I struggle to shake it off. Is this what love is? More dependency? More control?
With effort, I let it go. I tell myself he loves me and his idea of love is old-fashioned. He wants to look after me, protect me and remove me from care.
It is the first small step, so small I only dimly sense what is wrong.
the bird, seeing only
sun-filled, rich and yellow grain
flutters in the trap
****
Embrace
He comes from the field. His clothes and hands are dirty but he smells of the earth and that is good. He embraces me. His days are long and he is tired and hungry. He is wants to eat almost straightaway. I serve the food I have prepared for him. I wait for his approval. I love to watch him eat.
like bright shards of joy
morning sun diamond sparkles
on still, fragile dew
****
Degree by Degree
It doesn’t happen overnight. It shifts, degree by degree, as he gains more confidence in his control. Always, though, there are the moments that stand out.
One day when he comes home, he doesn’t embrace me. He barely speaks. He avoids my eyes. He runs his forefinger over an architrave, looks at it and grunts. He walks to the pantry and opens the door. He is silent, looking around. Then he turns to me.
“Geez, it’s a fucken pigsty in here. Doan’cha ever fucken clean?”
I catch my breath. My mouth opens. I taste my fear. Have I seen this coming?
I am his canvas
he owns the brushes and paint
and splashes where he wills
****