Parabola Palabra

The real Elise, the real Suzanne and the real Jeni, c1988,
conquistadoras of the dreaded Maths exam.

I loved maths at school. Just couldn't get the right answers. How about you? When I was in year 8, my school had a Pi-athon for which you raised money based on the number of decimal places to which you could recite this infinite equation. There were also prizes for those who could chant this mathematical mantra the furthest. Believe it or not, at 100 decimal places, my efforts barely scratched the surface of the itch that is memorising infinity. Some kid (no doubt a dork, possibly even dorkier than me) reached into the several hundreds and, as a result of their efforts, also no doubt failed to get a date for the remainder of high school, such was the magnitude of their mathematical dedication.

I didn't either. Get a date after memorising pi. Might be an interesting conversation starter but begins to feel a little repetitive, a tad tedious after a while.

So, when pi failed me as the language of love, what I did do, however, was head in the LOTE direction. That's Languages Other Than English. And that's what this, almost entirely fictional, poem centres on. Suzanne is not fictional. We studied together the night before our year 12 maths exam. I think it was the only time we ever studied for maths. And she doesn't even remember it, so it's obviously too distressing a memory for her contemplation.

Now, for those of you desiring enlightement, a little Babelfish helped me out with the following translations for your reading pleasure:

1. Je voudrais les Pommes frites – I would like fries. (And, much to my chagrin, I can buy them at the golden arches on the Champs Elysees.)
2. Der Tiergarten – This is the largest garden in the centre of Berlin and my account of it in the poem is true.
3. Ich bin ein Berliner – infamously spoken by JFK in June 1963 to his Berlin audience as a gesture of solidarity, ‘I am a Berliner’ can also be translated as ‘I am a jam doughnut'.
4. Ichi ni – one, two in Japanese.
5. Chopsticks - knifu forku in Japanese.
6. Exploradora – Dora the Explorer. What a cutie. Loving the fact it's also the Spanish word for explorer
7. corazon – heart.   No Spanish song is complete, no tune lyrically satiated without this linguistic staple.
8. mochila – backpack en Español.

and finally

9. Pi – 22/7 or

3.1415926535897932384626433832795028841971693993751058209749445923078164062862089986280348253421170679

82148086513282306647093844609550582231725359408128481117450284102701938521105559644622948954930381964428810975665933446128475648233786783165271201909145648566923460348610454326648213393607260249141273

724587006606315588174881520920962829254091715364367892590360011330530548820466521384146951941511609...

…with decimal places to infinity.

Bo-ring.
 
This poem is dedicated to you (because you're about to read it), to Suzanne, to my friend Jen whose mathematical prowess was rather more eloquent, my Maths teacher Neil who organised the most ripper school ski trips, our inspirational, organza draped English teacher, Lorrane, and the following good folk of Facebook who showed off about how good they are at French: Sarah, George, Sylvia, Cate and Phil.

By the way, I'm still willing to memorise pi it to a million places if it guarantees a lay.


Parabola Palabra

Was sitting with Suzanne,
the dawn of our exam,
with little of a plan,
except the plan to cram.

The apple pie now eaten,
eight pieces fully beaten,
with icrecream too, to sweeten,
the morning we were greetin’.

We sighed, exhausted, stuffed
and thought we’d done enough
to call the marker’s bluff,
avoid producing guff

and in delirium,
I thought back with a grin
to all I had packed in
to make the year a win.

Six subjects I had chosen.
My mum had stood quite frozen
and once done recomposing
had challenged my proposin’

that I would choose my strengths,
go to whatever lengths
to climb up in the ranks,
avoiding teachers’ spanks.

So languages it was,
a LOTE star, just because
if I e’er did leave Oz,
I’d order ‘vichyssoise’

in France and I would say,
‘Monsier, errr…Je voudrais
les Pomme frites,’ at Maccas, hey,
on the Champs Elysees.

In Deustchland, what a winner,
nude folk in Berlin’s inner,
der Tiergarten, me - grinner
shouting, ‘Ich bin ein Berliner!’

And Japanese, yippee!
I’d have an ‘ichi ni’

The Pilbara Poet, intrepid and sweaty above Bariloche,
Argentinean Andes

and use chopsticks for tea,

drink sake ‘til I pee.

Then, travelling right on

I’d fill mi corazon

con Español, the one,

a language wicked fun.

(But truly, to my core, ah…

I love Exploradora

so jaunting with my ‘mochila’,

I’d be a…conquistadora?)

And English, well, compulsory.
Not that it made me ulcery -

dressed in organza glory

our teacher told great stories.

Thus, five subjects of six,

I did the sixth for kicks,

just threw it in the mix,

my knowledge, well, was nix.

So here we sat together

hoping for fairer weather,

my heart unlike a feather,

our maths skills…well…whatever.

‘Suzanne,’ I pinned her eye,

‘Oh why oh why oh why

did you pick maths, like I?’

She said, ‘’cause I like pi.’

'You mean,' I said to her,

like, apple pie?' This blur

at dawn now caused a stir

and she said, ‘Well, um, err…

‘NO. I mean…3.14159

2653589,

I love pi, it is sublime,

I love singing it in time.’

Oh boy, she had gone nuts.

No ifs, no maybes, buts

and sleepless now, my guts

were churning, filled with ruts

of inverse differentials

and all my maths potential

which might well be essential

when I picked up my pencil.

‘Elise?’ Suzanne asked back

'What’s with you and Maths?

Was not your subject track

for languages? Your knack?’

Indeed, I faced her query,

my eyes now fully bleary,

my body spent and weary,

my armpits even teary.

‘The thing, Suzanne, you see,

this Maths is language glee,

I love it like boats the sea,

but it’s all quite…Greek…to me.

We eyed the apple pie

then gazed towards the sky

until was time to fly

to our exam quite nigh

and we passed with fine aplomb,

parabolas now done,

whence I flew towards the sun…

Santorini…that’s the one.

     

                                                                                           Santorini Windmill © Rob Whitehead 2010



©Elise Batchelor August 2010

Fill your bucket before you kick it!

Before we kick the bucket, we all want to fill it. What's on your bucket list? Mine's actually blutacked to my study wall on large pieces of butcher's paper to prevent me forgetting any of it. In fact, the thing is so busy with 'to dos' scratched all over it, it keeps falling off the wall and flopping onto the carpet. (Or maybe I just need to be a bit less scungy with the Blutack). Mine includes stuff I've ticked (have a poem published, run naked in the Simpson Desert), plenty I haven't (be an extra in a film, write a book) and some which are, quite frankly, ridiculous or impossible (become Cate Blanchett, appear on Enough Rope.) So, here's a poem about a lady named Kirstyn's bucket list. It's surprisingly so choccas with everything she's done already, I have no idea how she's going to continue filling it for the next 70 years! Maybe some inspiration in there for yours...

My Bucket


If only my wonderful parents had known
that when I was just aged four,
my little beach bucket then full of sand
would soon fill up with much more.

For, whilst then the shy and retiring type,
I sort of, well, went, KABOOM!
Decided to suck out the marrow of life,
announced, ‘Now then sand, make some room!’

And off I did trot with my bucket and spade
and my gumption and gizzards and guts,
proceeding to fill it with crazy adventures,
not heeding the voices, ‘She’s nuts!’

I bungee jumped out in Zimbabwe;
it bounced in my bucket aboing!
I danced on some tables, Croatia,
‘twas that, or get sleep, flipped a coin.

Shoved an elephant in, rode in Thailand
and a leopard in Africa patted.
Risky, perhaps, but a baby, and that’s
quite sublime, as if nothing else mattered.

There’s pelicans in there, Kalbarri,
and wine bottles from South of France.
They’re empty mind you, for what else can one do
but keep chucking them in. Take the chance!

My bucket went with me to Queensland
and scuba dived out on the reef.
It skydived Namibia (no broken tibia)
and sunbaked in Broome for relief.

I threw in some lions on safari,
giraffa and zebra tossed too
and ripper strong curry, don’t be in a hurry
mzungu to find you a loo!

My poor thankless bucket on that one…
and also a few other places.
Try, all of Nepal, thank you bucket, quite brimming
with mountains…and spew, oh good gracious!

You could say my bucket has fortitude,
for long far and wide did we ‘Rome’.
Indeed there, the grand Colosseum
(was tough work to ship that one home).

But my bucket said, ‘bring it on!’ daily,
so why not live life to the max.
Done the ‘Undies 500’, Kalgoorlie
and paid my respects in Auschwitz.

My bucket reflected in stillness;
we both knew how lucky we were
and onwards we journeyed together
as a whisper of breeze it did stir.

We’ve driven through Spain (wrong side of the road),
drove a header, four wheeler, a van.
Oh memories, my bucket, of tootling along
with a gorgeous South African man.

And then there’s the bee that once bit me
(I’m not going to tell you all where)
but I nearly died and only survived
in a one man run hospital, yeah!

And soon, with old Esperance quite buried down deep,
Karratha was tossed in the mix:
gorges, Karijini and camping, bikinis
and thousands of great Facebook pix.

But that was way back in the noughties.
Let’s fast forward eighty years on,
my memory now straining, my bladder now raining,
my bucket, not quite had the gong.

And I’d filled it to bursting point every year -
I’d married, had kids (hair all curly),
learnt to surf like that Slater, run a pub out of Africa,
stayed up late with my mates, got up early.

Taught English in Taiwan with girlfriends,
done TV, wrote books, travelled more
and worked at the Antarctic base camp
(my poor bucket got frostbite galore!)

And chucked every bit in my bucket
and heaved it on buses and trains.
In Kombis it thumped, doing bombies, it jumped
and I held its hand tight on big planes.

Then yesterday came. It was different.
Worn out by its weight, I felt sick
and in but a split second moment of ire
I gave my loyal bucket
                                       …a kick.

So here now we are up in heaven.
‘Watch out!’ they called, seeing us come.
‘She crammed full her bucket on earth ‘fore she kicked it
and I reckon they’ve both just begun!’


© Elise Batchelor 2010