Bang!

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Big Bang Theory, Creation of the Universe, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Singularity, sonnet, Universe

It starts – the birth of matter, time and space,
As silently, expanding gases roar.
Towards a far infinity they race.
From just a speck, a tiny point, they pour
White hot – the cosmic building blocks, the raw
Materials that swirl and then condense
To blazing suns and planets. And from core
To crust, each body, tiny or immense,
Each boiling ball of rock or gas so dense –
All came, each one, from just a single place;
From there they came, or nowhere, in a sense;
Yet now these wonders would the Heavens grace.
The Universe was made in such a way,
And too, its laws – and these it must obey.

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About “A” & “B”

Tags

Australian poet, Formal poetry, modernist poetry, poem, poetry, postmodern poetry, satire, vers libre

Without a complaint and without a delay
They’ve published my postmodern poem called “A”.
I got the great news from the postman today –
They’re simply adoring my poem called “A”.
It’s daring, progressive, insightful they say;
A poetry gem is my masterpiece “A”.
A singular capital letter essay;
You’ll love it to pieces – to use a cliché.
They say for more poems they’re willing to pay,
So since I’ve composed this magnificent “A”,
I’ll harness my brainpower and try hard and see
If I can compose a new classic called “B”.

I promised to write a new poem called “B”;
It turned out quite perfect, I hope you’ll agree.
It’s much like my “A” for it’s just one removed;
Its shape is more rounded so somewhat improved,
And clearly recited, read softly or sung,
However you say it, it rolls off the tongue.
Of course formal poets will pick it to pieces –
Say such innovation, the art’s worth decreases,
But I take no notice of dinosaur turds;
They’re stuck in the past – they are still writing words.
Post modernists surely will drown it in praise;
It sums up vers libre in so many ways.
They’ll say that this poem will add to my fame,
And 24 more will establish my name.

The Great Spirit Contemplates

Tags

Atheism, Australian poet, Big Bang Theory, Big Crunch, Collapsing Universe, Dark matter, Formal poetry, limerick, Limerick poem, Limerick poetry, Nihilism, poem, poetry

I Demand Reasonable Proof!

“My reasoning’s sound. I refuse
To have such beliefs. You sir, lose! –
My convictions are strong!”
“You’ve just proved yourself wrong –
The proof’s in the reason you use.”

The Great Spirit Contemplates

Fifteen billion years – really? Has it been that long? I’m getting a little tired of this particular universe and all of its petty galaxies, stars, planets and moons, not to mention asteroids, comets and dark matter – mustn’t forget the dark matter. This game is simply dragging on too long and I have all those other universes to supervise – all in various stages of expansion or contraction. I create these damned monstrous things – make just one planet out of all the billions capable of supporting life, I plant the seed, and then see how long it takes for intelligent life – human life as they call it, to evolve, and then the fun starts.

It’s simple really – just figure it out! That’s the point of the game. But these humans? Good god! They reach a point where I begin to have some hope, and then backwards they go! Their technology reaches a stage where they put a man on the moon – oh joy! Soon they will be seriously striking out for the stars! And I don’t mean just launching the odd piddling probe past Pluto, but really getting serious about exploring the universe – and beyond! Maybe soon they will be finally starting to figure it out! And then I may even give them a clue for being so damned smart. But then what happens? They stop – that’s what happens. They turn inward and embrace doubt. They become pessimistic and nihilistic – their cup is not half full, it is damned near empty. Or they go all Eastern Mysticism on me and contemplate their belly-buttons, or go full atheist and just get bloody-minded and angry.

It’s the same pattern over and over again – each universe I create finishes up in the same depressing state – that’s why I send them into reverse – into contraction. Liked the big bang? Then see how you like the BIG CRUNCH you stupid humans! Oh god – mustn’t be like that – must stay in control. After all I am the one in total control, aren’t I?

Well of course I am! So how much longer do I give this poor pathetic universe? This universe where live the Earth humans who have lost their way. Is it beyond saving? Will they snap out of their phone, tablet, computer, self-inflicted, godless lethargy? What! Godless? Self promotion you say? Moi? No, no, no – I don’t mean that they have to worship me as God! But for Christ’s sake at least acknowledge my presence! At least give me some credit – a bit of gratitude? Is that too much to ask? “Show yourself!” they say. Show myself! What do they wish to see? I don’t hide! Open your eyes and look around! I show myself everyday! (And every night for that matter.) Where do they think all these brazillions of tons of matter came from? Where do they think these precise mathematical rules came from? Where do they think the miracle that is life came from? – thin air? Oh sure, from the singularity and the Big Bang – well where did the singularity come from, and who triggered the Big Bang? I’ll give them singularity! I’ll give them a Big Bang!

No, no, I’ll give them a little more time – I’ll calm down. Got to get my ichor-pressure down. Maybe they’ll snap out of it. Maybe they will resume their positive path to the stars and enlightenment, instead of just making god-awful movies about it. Maybe finally after all my tries humans will win the game – maybe even these Earth humans; But realistically (and I’m obviously a realist) it doesn’t look good. If finally I do have to reach for that “Reverse” button then – well, all I can say is……..Heaven help them.

This Day

Tags

ANZAC Day, Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

The soldiers, those who’ve died, moulder away
Beneath their gravestones – flesh and bones don’t last.
Their souls perhaps look down upon this day
And see the flags that flutter at half-mast;
The thinning ranks so proudly marching past –
With many from the rear, now at the fore.
The souls of all the soldiers who have passed
Away – just yesterday, and all before:
The dead who died at home, and those at war.
Perhaps they all gaze on – each mother’s son,
Remembering the smoke, the cannon’s roar,
The corpses in the trenches overrun.
They won our freedom, and they bore the cost;
And none know better – how it can be lost.

Divided

Tags

Ancient Roman law, Ancient Rome, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Republican Rome, The Twelve Tables

That rascal Titus now has paid.
(As time and Titus have expired.)
Divided neatly with a blade –
Distributed – the flesh required.

The law dictated our decision;
It is writ that rogues must pay.
Proportional precise division
Of remains – the fairest way.

Those owed debts of substantial size
Got choicest portions – legs, arms, heart.
My share? But two bits I would prize,
Contained within one wrinkled part.

The parcel came by slave this morning;
Neither severed head nor guts,
For I had given him fair warning:
Titus knew I’d have his nuts.

Drought & Flood

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Bush Poetry, drought, Flood, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

Drought

The paddocks bake to brown in summer heat.
The river shrinks to holes where lungfish dwell.
The grass remaining cracks beneath one’s feet.
The water level drops deep in the well,
And everywhere is death, and death the smell,
For scattered on the ground the rotting dead.
A blasted vision of an earthly hell,
Where walk the living with their limbs like lead,
Beneath a sky bloodshot at dusk with red.
The wind stirs dust; the tree limbs crack and fall.
The ants and maggots thrive – they are well-fed.
A crow upon a carcass sounds its call.
The land is dying – drying is its blood;
Its thirst will not be quenched – until the flood.

Flood

The land has languished in the drought’s foul grip,
But now the clouds roll in and soon the rain
Falls lightly, and the downpipes start to drip.
Then steadier, like an approaching train
it’s heavier, that welcome sweet refrain
As gutters gurgle and tanks overflow,
And raindrops drum against the window pane.
The rain turns to torrential – warm winds blow.
The fresh creeps higher in the stream below.
The river’s banks are broken, comes the flood.
Across the flats the surging waters flow
To wash away drought’s sacrificial blood.
The gods appeased – the cycle is complete.
Now throbs the land once more to its slow beat.

Lost Paradise

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Border control, Border walls, Culture clashes, Fifth Column, Formal poetry, Infiltration, Obama's open door immigration policy, Paradise - a walled garden, poem, poetry, Strong borders, Uncontrolled immigration

Their land was wrecked; so said a seer:
“There is a paradise quite near.
It is a garden lush but walled.
“The Promised Land”, this place is called.”

And so they ventured quickly there.
They craved a place, verdant and fair,
And soon they saw the high ramparts;
Outside the walls, halted their carts.

They spied the watchers in the towers.
Saw through the iron-barred gates the flowers,
The fountains, and the towering trees,
And then as one fell to their knees;

Beseeched the guards to let them in;
Convinced them ‘twas a wicked sin
To not with all God’s creatures share
The riches they had gathered there.

And so the gates were opened wide
And surged the travellers inside.
Each guard turned to his friend and said:
“They must be housed, and clothed and fed,

So strip the gardens of their fruit;
The game that roam the pastures shoot;
Cut down the trees and gather wood;
We must treat them as good men should.

Though their home they’ve abused and spoiled,
And though for ours our forebears toiled,
We must to these poor travellers give
Our goods and homes so they might live.

Our God, our kindness He will see,
And bless us, as each refugee,
Though foreign, lends a helping hand
To build a better Promised Land.“

There was a paradise quite near,
But should you travel there I fear
You’ll find but fields of barren land,
The ruins of once ramparts grand,

Some shattered fountains, clogged and dry,
No flowers, once pleasing to the eye,
And trees? But stumps like rotten teeth,
Atop the bones that lie beneath.

Let me count the ways

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Donald Trump, Formal poetry, poem, poetry

I like Trump for the way he blurts things out –
Things that he’s thinking. What he’s thought about
For quite some time and really thinks is true;
I like the way he uses satire too.
I like his clear distain for beta males.
I like his tweets – his wins, and too his fails.
I like him for his forthrightness and wit.
I like the way he takes from fools no shit.
I like his clear love for the U.S.A.,
And all the things that he’s not scared to say.
But mainly what I like about the guy
Is how he doesn’t quite know how to lie.

[After reading How He Is at Flammeus Gladius]

Australia Day

Tags

Australia Day, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, First fleet 1788, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

Australia Day! Come on! Let’s celebrate
Our liberty, our fairness, rule of law.
The qualities that made Australia great:
The sacrifice in theatres of war;
The mateship that is at our nation’s core.
Turn deaf ears to the ones who would divide.
These weak but wily worriers – ignore.
They’ll crawl under the nearest rock and hide,
And from their lair cheer on the darker side;
Just leave them to their wild imaginings.
We love this land that stretches far and wide.
We benefit from all that progress brings.
Had not those ships sailed in in ’88,
Would such success have been this island’s fate?

Gotcha!

Tags

Australian poet, Cathy Newman, Cathy Newman Jordan Peterson interview, Disastrous interviews, Formal poetry, Gotcha!, Jordan B Peterson, limerick, Limerick poem, Limerick poetry, poem, poetry, Prose, Youtube videos

Gotcha!

If you haven’t seen this then you oughta.
This girl needed a lesson – he taught her.
She stumbles – just watch her.
The coup de grâce – “Gotcha!”
Poor Cathy – a lamb to the slaughter.

Jordan Peterson – Cathy Newman interview

Why exactly are so many smart men people coming out of Canada? Is there something in the water? The latest (well the latest to hit the headlines) is Jordan B. Peterson, the Toronto University professor and Clinical Psychologist. Sure, Peterson has had his lectures on Youtube for some time, but it was his refusal to use the new enforced gender pronouns (they are now enshrined in Canadian law) that shot him to Youtube stardom. Peterson would simply not give in to this State-imposed tyranny and was consequently pilloried by the media and the intelligentsia. And of course, because the conclusions that Peterson comes to after his exhaustive and unbiased analysis do not fit the leftist view, then he is labelled with the usual far right, alt right etc. tags, despite the fact that any reasonable person, having watched a number of his videos, interviews etc., would have to come to the conclusion that he has no axe to grind, he is no ideologue, no right-wing looney – just a very intelligent guy searching for the truth; but then postmodernists don’t think truth exists – do they?

But let me get to the point of this essay: Peterson was recently interviewed by Cathy Newman of the UK’s Channel 4. I include a link to the video below. The video has “gone viral” – here is my take on what happened:
Ms Newman must have gone into this interview thinking she held all the cards (the ones with her probing questions written on them) and that this so-called expert on Psychology would soon fall victim to her cunning. She had prepared well, had read his latest book, (well at least the bits she wanted to attack him on) and had the big advantage – she was asking the questions. Well you can’t blame her for that – we’ve all seen it before: the expert with his head crammed full of facts and figures, results of exhaustive studies etc., you know, scientific stuff, who comes on TV to be crucified – ah sorry, interviewed, and is subsequently hacked to pieces by a merciless left-wing journalist with nothing inside his or her skull apart from a passionate agenda; an agenda best served by the annihilation and reduction to a weeping hopeless mess of the above mentioned expert. Needless to say, and much to Cathy’s horror, this didn’t happen with Peterson.

Peterson’s handling of the interview was a master class in how to handle a feminist, emotion and feelings driven, left-indoctrinated, illogical and unreasonable interviewer. Time and again Cathy would fire one of her carefully prepared explosive questions at Jordan; Jordan would think for a second (no kneejerk responses from this guy) and then answer her with his usual clarity and calmness. After all, why shouldn’t he be calm and confident? – His answer was based on scientific study, his many years of experience in the field of psychoanalytical research, and universally accepted conclusions of studies based on empirical data. Cathy’s response, over and over again (for this usually works) was to come back at Peterson with “So you are saying” or variations on this theme. (I lost count of how many times she did this.) Of course Peterson woke to her tactics in a millisecond and would respond with “No, I’m not saying that” or “What I am saying is” etc. and Cathy’s already somewhat crumpled expression would crumple a little more.

Of course the usual subjects were covered: The gender pay gap, which Peterson demolished with his usual tools of reason and logic – Cathy stuck to her heartfelt “feeling” that it was “unfair!”; the pronouns of course, and the difference between the sexes; which Cathy seems to think are non-existent (Perhaps she should look in the mirror.) and others. Cathy puts forward her points with impassioned feeling and heartfelt empathy. Peterson demolishes these one by one with logic and reason. She of course expresses the opinion that one should not offend – that one does not have that right, particularly where the offence may be felt by minorities etc.. Peterson points out that in order to arrive at the truth through discussion and logical argument, offence to either or both parties is almost inevitable. He invites her to offend him as much as she likes. Cathy appears nonplussed.

As the interview wore on Peterson appeared to start to treat Ms Newman as an interesting subject for Psychoanalysis. One got the impression that he was really starting to enjoy the interview. Cathy looked more and more uncomfortable. Much earlier Cathy should have smelled the sickly scent of impending disaster in the air and switched to plan B, but there was no plan B, after all, plan A had always worked before.

Anyways, (as Jordan would say) from there on things just got worse (for Cathy that is). Time was nearly up and Cathy by this time was desperate – her score was still nil and Peterson was looking relaxed and extremely pleased with himself – Cathy blurted out: “What about lobsters? Tell us about the lobsters.” Peterson looked even more pleased and he even laughed in that Kermit the frog’s way that he has. “Well…” said Peterson, and he then proceeded to lay out the various conclusions of the lobster experiment, including how lobsters get depressed or elated and how serotonin influences their behaviour just as it does humans; how lobsters respond positively to antidepressants. Cathy listened quietly right until the end. Then – “So you think we should all live like lobsters then?” said Cathy. (Or something similar.) Peterson patiently explained to Cathy how her brain worked,(more or less) and that despite us humans and the lobsters going our separate ways some 350 million years ago, how in many ways her thinking was similar to a lobster’s. At last Cathy, looking defeated, and with an expression that hinted that perhaps she now rather fancied Peterson, nodded in servile agreement and thanked Jordan for the interview.

Peterson is an extremely rare animal. He is certainly highly intelligent, and he is extremely knowledgeable in his field, but it is his ability to verbalize what is in his head – to articulate his argument in a clear and concise way without becoming confused or flustered when under pressure, that seems to me to set him apart from most. He is also very believable, in that he appears to have no agenda apart from seeking out the truth. This makes him difficult to smear or tarnish. This also makes him very dangerous to the various forces of the left. They will no doubt seek to assassinate his character. But I somehow doubt that Cathy Newman will be the hired assassin.

Jordan Peterson – Cathy Newman interview