Song of The Mallee.


As the sunrise upon the morning,

So sunrise on the mallee dawning,

Upon The Mallee brightly shining,

We hear crow announce its calling,

Calling, calling, rousting crrrarking!

Carrakkkk, carrrarking treetop calling,

The crow to its family warning.

Hear the butcher bird chortle,

Hear the honeyeater sparkle,

The magpie and the wagtail squabble,

Galahs and the cockatoos scraying

The kangaroo with joey in the stubble.

Wombat and possum trumble.

We hear the wanton, woeful die ,

Of the bush stone curlew cry.

So we begin our story telling,

Our story of our ancestors telling

That came from afar seas a-sailing,

That came afar with their families sailing,

That came many to a land so willing,

A land willing tho’ crops a failing,

Walked to the lower Flinders Rangers,

With their ploughs and animals trailing

To farm there that treacherous climate,

The rain follows the plough

They believed.

But it didn’t.

And their farms died,

And their animals died,

And their dreams died,

And their children died there.

So were the Sorbs again driven,

Driven from their German valleys homeland,

Driven by the King’s armies attacking.

The Silesian weavers and their offspring,

Came with strength and courage unfailing.

That came the Selisians and the Posens,

That came the Wends and the Sorbians

I will tell you of their stories,

Of their travail and trying stories.

I can tell you of their stories,

Because I have been watching,

I am the watcher always watching,

From the rim of a far horizon.

Came with them their families and friends,

Came with them their Pastors and their religion,

Came with them their trades and skills,

The farriers, saddlers and horsemen skilled,

The farmers, bakers and carpenters too,

Came the music came the songs,

Came the singing from far along.

That came from afar seas a sailing,

Came the Irish,

Came the Italians,

Came the Cornish to mine hills and valleys.

All of them come and bring their cultures,

All of them come and bring their families,

Come and come so many singing,

All of them come and bring their cooking,

Food exotic and tastes of heaven,

Work as hard as any draughthorse,

Work as long as work was willing.

Work always there for the tilling.

Women bearing so many children,

Bearing also many still-born children,

Graveyards with young women filling

With both mother and in-birth child a dying.

The ground awash with tears a falling.

Sheoaks around graveyards sighing,

Whispering names of dead and departed.

Only the Sheoaks now left lamenting.

Let me tell you of their story,

It will be telling of the last story,

This epic will be their last story,

This poem will be the last of that era,

This time has gone and so far ended,

This time has so far gone and passed

As have all those players passed

As have all their done deeds passed,

As have their guilt and innocence passed,

Their work and building and lived lives passed,

All the farmers, their wives and children,

Gone, gone to the history past,

Gone like yesterday’s sunset past,

Gone like youth’s wild laughter past,

Like the brown leaves of Autumn fallen…

Like empty husks of Summer seeds fallen,

The summer crops pouring their seeds

Onto the Earth and onto the stone,

A heart of stone the world has become,

A new world rising of stone and cinder,

Where hope is but a one minute wonder

Where love is but a speculative opportunity.

This is why we will not survive,

This is why we will not survive,

This is why we will not survive.

Through war and plague we did thrive,

Disease and disaster we did survive,

Small tribes wandering water to water

We did survive,

We did thrive,

Hunting ground to hunting ground wander,

We did survive and thrive there under.

Shelter to shelter, hut to stone,

We did wander..we did thrive.

We did live..we did survive..

Alive for one primary desire,

Desire for one other’s life..

Desire for that loved one special..

Special loved for that one desire..

A certain one within the tribal clan,

A special one within the tribal group.

Within the shelter of the tribal clan.

Protected by the shelter of the tribe,

The one who shared our likes and dreams,

The liking for particular fruits and seeds,

The liking for a singular woven cloth,

A place of refuge,

A place of resting over others.

In times more conducive grow,

Within the heart grow to love.

Within the tribe grow to love,

But can such a thing be allowed to grow,

If not in the interest of the culture,

If not in the interest of the tribe.

What the custom where the culture,

If not of the interest for the tribe,

If not of the interest for the lovers.

And of the class and of the creed,

Can love form outside of these?

Outside of station in the culture,

Outside of position in the status.

Yet regardless if ever consummated,

Regardless of such station born,

Still will embryonic desire grow,

Still will the beginnings always show

Of that need for imagination show

Of those hidden senses and know

That the heart will hold the tender fruit

And the senses in conspiracy stored,

For those who are loved and adored.

These are the people my story tells,

Unknown people my story tells,

Neither brave nor heroes be,

Neither great lover like in history

There are no heroes in my story,

No heroes and no Gods in this story.

No Gods to steer or to control,

So let this story epic unfold,

This story that so needs be told,

I will make this story unfold,

For I am one of those families old,

That lived and thrived in this country,

Family that lived and died in this country.

That gave all they had to this country,

I AM the story of this country.

(Nb. This is a “work in progress” and a larger body of work is to follow….there may be adjustments and corrections as I go.)

Aphrodite’s Lock.

Reclining Magdelena.

Now it came to pass in days of ancient renown,

Aphrodite in a whimsy sent a message cryptic down,

To the wise men in Academy of old Athens Town.

The messenger was a woman neither young nor old,

But somewhere in between..

No ravishing beauty, not a Siren bold.

… But somewhere in between..

The message promised an ecstasy of splendor,

That men have rarely seen..if only..

They could pick..the lock of Aphrodite,

And the woman there before them knew the key.

“Beneath the mount, above the sea,

Under the lip, before the cavern that light will rarely see,

Behold that lock that can be opened best with a key

That argues the loquaciousness of great debate,

That speaks the speech of history!”

Well…..those great minds of Athens Town,

Scratched and rubbed their pates up and down,

Consulted tomes of great wisdom too.

Poured over the messenger’s person who

Held a hint of where this great key.

But nothing on her person nor her history,

Could shed any clue to solve such mystery…

So there it stood after many months

Of arguments and vented spleens

No loquacious speech,

No philosophic dreams,

No search of hill or dale could give hint of that key..

Till one day a wily carpenter came,

To strengthen those benches upon wise men declaim,

Neither young and bold nor old and decrepit,

… But somewhere in between.

He puzzled upon that vast gathering,

That caused him to question why the scene.

And upon being told the clue cryptic, his eyes they lit,

And his chin he stroked and he spoke there a bit;…….

“Good Sirs…I think I know the solution to this..

Would the woman a little while with me be remiss?

And with her assistance I can solve the mystery

Of Aphrodite’s lock and so end your misery.”

He then led the woman sent by Aphrodite,

To a boudoir away just from the scene,

And there stripped of her silken garments,

Stood Aphrodite herself, naked and she beamed

At this carpenter tradesman so keen,

Who with a cheeky grin, applied his tongue

To the “lock” where men will forever descend,

“Beneath the Mount of Venus,

Above the sublime “sea” of tranquility,

Under the hood, above the cavern

That light has rarely seen…..”

And the wise men crowding outside closed door,

Were astonished to hear the sighs and moans,

Of the woman messenger in that boudoir,

Taken there by this carpenter poor…

Now written down in history famous

For revealing to men the bleeding obvious,

That has taken them so long to see..:

The treasures priceless that women hold

Are themselves key to a man’s ecstasy.

Proverb / parable.

Woman and man at the well.

Proverb: “A cottage of your own is better than a palace shared with others.”

Parable:  Along The Appian Way, between the town of Benevento and Apulia, in the Apennines of Italy, there was a small village. In this village there lived a widow who owned the best well with the sweetest water in the district..Travellers on The Via Appia could drink from this well for the price of a sou left in the “honesty box” at the well-head. The widow, sitting at a window in view of the well, at her sewing or making her meals, could see those who drank from the well and if they left a coin after.

Many men would drink from this well..and with a gesture and a smile to the widow sitting at the window, would tip a sou coin into the box and the widow would smile encouragement to them.

One very hot day in the height of Summer, a beggar-man stopped at the well..he had no money at all to pay for a drink..yet he was very thirsty..he looked to the widow sitting at the window and his sorry state told her the tale..but she was a kindly woman even though quite poor she nodded her head to the beggar to help himself to drink from her well.

He took a long draught as he was very thirsty, and putting the vessel down, he picked up a piece of soft stone from the road and wrote something on the wall of the well..then nodded his thanks to the widow at the window and went on his way.

Curious as to what the beggar had written, she made her way to the well and there read the following words..:

“In thine eyes,

A spirit fine.

In your gift,

A loving kind.”

The widow was so touched by these words, she rushed down the Via Appia to offer the beggar man a place at her table, food on his plate..and a bed for the night..and in the morning he worked his keep and by all accounts, stayed in the company of that kindly widow.


Veiled beauty…

In the writing of a recent story, I stumbled upon the realisation of this “place of beauty”, not quite of the heart or the soul…a place neither of love or soul, but rather of the “felt emotion” of a connection between a man and a woman of such power and intensity of want it becomes a hunger supreme for both a ”spiritually joined “desire and a sexual desire…the character in the story says: “…it was at that moment we touched…not physically, you understand, Stephan..nor of the heart or soul as they say…but another place, another part..a part of ourselves that has no name…but beauty…an un-named beauty that is so pure between a man and a woman…” ….For I believe these are the “gates” that open to this beauty…a pure beauty “beyond good and evil”…The ancient Greeks knew of this place and is why the mythical Ulysses had himself tied to the mast and his crew’s ears blocked with wax so they could not hear the ”songs of the Sirens” as they sailed past the Isle, for they knew such a lure to that beauty would drive men mad…they named it ; “Agape”….and I am of the opinion that the mystery of this place of beauty that could be neither located in the soul or heart drove the ancient scholars to try to intellectualise it to prove their legitimacy of learned theory…and so was born “God”…the universal answer to all mysteries..


Between the soul and the Divine,

Between that love you seek and the love you find,

Is a place of absolute beauty,

Is a place concealed and undefined.

You may not physically touch this place,

Like you may not touch the divine..

Only worship the possibility,

When there is no possibility..; only desire.

You cannot intellectualise this place,

Like you cannot intellectualise grace.

And like grace..once you think you have it,

You’ve lost it.

It is an avalanche of ecstasy so nice,

It is a want of devotion, comes at a price.

You can never find this on the cheap rack,

You can never keep this with a half-filled cup.

And you ask ; do I desire thee?

What can I say to you..does the eagle the sky?

And you wonder; will I touch thee?

I say yes..yes, there, I will touch thy..

In that place with no name, no shame..

In that place where unfeigned lovers go,

Between love and the soul, between the soul and the divine,

Not of your body..but that subtle beauty in you..

Not of this world, but where pure delight is held.

not your body..but that subtle beauty within you…

not your body..but that subtle beauty concealed within you…

Where there is no name, no shame..

Only the Concealed.

That instant when one “touches” the secreted beauty in another person,

So a thrill overwhelming…a desire fulfilled..

So ecstatic I weep with the pleasure…

The pure…

I touch tender thou mons Venus pubis, with the touch of a lover’s breath..would I be guilty of hubris if such thoughts were made public…but no…it’s a thought too private for that…It’s MY thought…for me and thee..Only me…and thee. But there..guilt is the other thing…knowing “genteel society” expects us to not have these erotic feelings, So do we suppress them…deep and long…..far too long..far too deep…So we hide such feelings inside.. keep them safe from corruption…feelings too pure of thought…too innocent for slander or destruction..


I am stealing you for my own selfish wants….

Rapere : To steal….rapio : I steal you away..

Though you may not feel it…I “touch” you now…

In my thoughts..I am imagining you and touching you…

Not only your body..but that subtle beauty within you…

I often wake in the morning hours with a “Glory”…unable to satisfy, bursting within, a pulsating thrust of force unsympathetic..unabating , I touch and feel its satin-skin undulations, it is of you I am thinking..I place a pillow over myself to imagine I have hold of your woman’s hips, you lay on me and we are……But no..I just lay there…not moving but I imagine us fucking..I re-create that moment and feeling, When I am so hard..I can feel it entering and touching the confines of your vagina…I re-create that moment …that sensitive feeling..To enter and lay a surge of semen to your woman’s yielding.

A sexual pleasure overwhelming…

Somewhere between love and the soul,

Somewhere between man and the divine,

Somewhere, once, in the passage of time…

When it couldn’t be named, that beauty unknown,

And in their intellect, in their “vast” renown,

Those wily philosophers and theology drones,

In fear of erotic sexuality..called it sacred,

Named it; “God”…

Then owned it…removed it from our everyday,

And placed His sterile kingdom at the edge of forever,

So was born God impotent..placed in His heaven above,

So was born religion to explain the unknown,

So was born “duty” to replace the fickleness of love..

But you and I only, know of that place of beauty…..

We ventured to such a place…behind the face of love.