Mandala

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Me and I.

Why is it easier to dress other wounds than our own?

Why is it easier to look at other people than the mirror?

Why do we preach love but hold none for ourselves?

It’s just the two of us in here.

I’m the mind and you’re the body.

We are bound to each other for life but we couldn’t be more further apart.

O Where Is My Feast?

O where is my feast?

 Where are my pitchers of wines

Being generously drunk by

Intellectuals and swines?

Where are my bards from far off lands,

And my servants

Awaiting my spit flying commands?

 O where is my feast?

 I grow tried of the roaches

That squirm in my bed,

And the terrible thoughts

That lie in my head.

The cracks in my hands.

The pain in my neck.

The constant demands,

And lack of respect.

 O Where is my feast?

Patriotism

Some might say: “What’s the harm of a little patriotism?” You live in a beautiful country and you should be extremely proud right?

There is nothing wrong in loving the country you live in, but you should love it for the right reasons.

On Australia Day many Australians wear the ‘Southern Cross’ and the classic yellow and green. They get boozed up and parade the streets. It’s a celebration that can (and has quite often) led to disgraceful behaviour. When I was a bit younger, I remember walking with my family down to the foreshore to watch the fireworks. On the walk home a car had hit someone, not fatally but enough to trigger other people climbing aboard the car and banging on the windows.

Only just this year one of my best friends was driving to a party we were at. She was parked at some traffic lights when a group of drunken men started shouting at her and one of them threw a beer bottle straight through her back windshield shattering the glass. She was absolutely petrified and ended up not celebrating that night.

In that respect, I don’t feel proud.

Recently, I was shown a poem written by the great Australian Phillip Adams called ‘I Love This Bloody Country’. It is a sort of parody of Dorothea Mackellar’s poem ‘My Country’ (http://www.dorotheamackellar.com.au/archive/mycountry.htm). Which to me was amazing because only a week earlier I had written something relatively similar. If you aren’t Australian it will be hard to understand a lot of the references, but it’s a well written piece of satire and…well…it speaks a lot of truths:
http://www.theaustralian.com.au/news/features/i-love-this-bloody-country-a-heartfelt-poem/story-e6frg8h6-1227000096302?nk=ef412ad6bd7a689d623f441ce1e3751e

Here is what I had written in the style of a diminished hexaverse. It is nowhere as good as Phillip’s but the content is of the same theme:

The Land of Oz-Straya

Our sunburnt country
Is a sight to see.
Vast empty deserts.
Vibrant rainforests.
Secluded beaches.

Just ignore the
‘Bogan’ pride, slight
Racism, and
Tony Abbott.

Who are we?
Pioneers?
Invaders?

Straya!
G’day,

Mate.

I don’t want to seem like I hate my country. It has a lot of faults but it is my home and it’s not all bad. I will leave you with a link to a Joelistics song (Aussie rapper) which presents Australia in a much more positive way:

His lyrics are fantastic, but the video is what makes this memorable for me. A bunch of Aussies were asked to record snippets of things they thought represented Australia. The result was myriad of images that reminded me of the things I think are beautiful.

So Will I

They’ll die, and so will I.

I don’t believe in heaven or hell.
I believe in the great black nothingness
Where nothing will dwell
And nobody missed.

You’ve been in the black,
Like before you were born.
In sleep, you sometimes go back
But you’ll return when you’re gone.

They’ll die, and so will I.

Parents are failing children.
Politicians are failing people.
The decay always sets in.
The outcome is always lethal.

Is it such a bad concept?
Life is an overload on the senses.
But there is a certainty we can accept
In that death will rid us of all pretenses.

They’ll die, and so will I.

We won’t know of our absence.
Our loved ones won’t either.
You won’t be left in suspense.
You won’t be a survivor.

There is a kind of comfort
That a civilisation of division and war
Will leave with the same escort
And be no more.

The leaves on trees and birds in the sky.
They’ll die, and so will I.

A Night In Wandi

On a night in Wandi
There was a man with crazy hair
And a golden beard
His laugh was a match for the blasting music
I discovered he was twenty-one
Only just a man
With wisdom beyond his years
Although we just met
I felt like I already knew him
Like we were old friends
I was drawn to his ‘tell it like it is’ attitude
He was an open person that exuded honesty
Our birthday’s were only two days apart
Although separated by two years
Everyone was dancing, singing and downing drinks
It distracted us from the extreme cold
When the party settled down we all slept in a mess
On the living room floor
As I shivered in my sleeping bag in the darkness
I couldn’t help but glance his way
As he lay nearby
The next morning he left in a flash
Like the piercing sun on our hungover eyes
Something in me knew I would see him again
Now it’s a year later
And we couldn’t be happier
On that night in Wandi
On the freezing living room floor
He was curiously looking back

(Happy One Year M!)