Year of the Dog

Well, we blundered and blustered our way through 2011 and have just come out the other end hoping for no more shaky ground, radioactive vegetables or products spelt with 'K' to signify Kardashian entrapment.

Most of all, in Australia, we hoofed it on home on the back of another K: A red cloud kelpie named Koko who's not only become super hero of the north west of WA, but a symbol of all things Aussie and quintessentially huggable.

So, for a final wrap of the year that was, I offer with much spit and dribble and the best take on Julia Gillard's strine I can possibly muster, a 2011 foray into the year's insanity, as heard across Australia on ABC Local Radio's national New Year's Eve broadcast with Scott Lamond.

YEAR OF THE DOG

Snow in the desert

No matter how many times I tell my three year old that the Pilbara is only likely to get snow during the next ice age, or in a parallel universe, or when the proverbial freezes over, she continues to ask when it’s going to arrive.

Maybe you’ve got the answer. I mean, if you're going to live in a desert which does a good job of flowing with money, palm trees which gather flies and eggs which fry themselves on the road, then why not snow as well? 


It's the Pilbara. Anything's bloody possible!

Frosty

Whatdya mean Karratha?

Or…grrr… not Newman too?!

Not getting’ me to Panna

Or Para-what? Paraburdoo!

Get stuffed, have to pay me,

An awful lot for sure,

Cause you’re not getting me to Wickham

Or Samson or Roebourne, what’s more.

I’m on the tightest schedule,

You know I am the man?

I’m sure that you do realise

That heat’s not in my plan.

So nup. That’s a no to Hedo.

A no to Port South.

A no to outback Warralong

And Jigalong – read my mouth!

So… that’s what happened at Christmas,

When Santa outsourced himself

And subcontracted all his talents,

Reindeer, wife and elf.

You see, he’d had a big night out

At an early Christmas party

And done his back with a big fair whack

And boompf! Weren’t feeling hearty.

“I do not want to give this up,

My duty to mankind,

But alas, I’ve sent out forms for

Application, if you mind.”

Just like one bloke he’d wrangled

For, well, double the overtime rates -

A friend of a cousin who had a friend

Who was friends with someone’s mate,

So, the north west heat of WA

Got stuck with a bloke named Frosty

Who was, funnily enough, with a carrot nose stuck

And in scarves looked rather bossy

I know, a snowman really sucks

For delivering to the desert

So up in the greatest north north west

They prayed for, (what else?) a blizzard.

And lordy be on Christmas Eve

With Santa workers compo

The god or gods or angels or stars

Must have thought they’d just gone bonkers, 

that 30 000 hot sweaty folk

Who all loved cyclones and sun

Were still praying hard on the 24^th

For a fierce snow storm to come.

And lo and behold on Christmas Day

It was snowing in the Pilbara skies

And Frosty did his job for Santa Claus

And we all ate hot mince pies. 

National release of "Red Dog" film sparks sneaky return of the legend

This week, the Pilbara had a bit of a coup. To the lovely Jess Mauboy, that's not coup as in cow-p or coop as in chickens or coop as in scoop. Even though it is a scoop. A lovely one at that. I hear the doves coo (as in coup). It was a national movie premiere, no less. Perhaps our debut. (The one which rhymes with coup, not mutt).

Speaking of mutts, that's where all these seemingly random literary segues are headed. To Red Dog.
He's a famous woofer in these parts. Liked to roam about the Pilbara between Paraburdoo and Dampier several decades ago. Today in Dampier, his statue stands proudly. The only way history could stop him disappearing into the ether of history forever.
Many people have stories about Red up here. Some knew him. Some fed him. Some knew someone who knew someone who knew him. And everyone else who didn't grabbed a role as an extra in the film so they missed out neither on history nor hobnobbing.
When the film premiered recently in the beautiful amphitheatre of the Walkington Theatre in Karratha, the town went off and Kleenex bought shares in the Shire of Roebourne.

Koko - star of "Red Dog" on location in Dampier, WA,
with Courtney Bertling, 2010

I like to imagine that Red Dog is still alive. He's out there wandering, looking for a bit of Chum and the odd truck ride to Port Hedland. And he quite likes the look of himself in the movies.

Woof and you’ll miss him

Who, oh who, let the dog out?
Who oh who? What’s more,
he’s been gone about a week,
he’ll be dripping down his cheek
gettin’ honks from hooning road trains by the score.

Someone out there yells, “Got ‘im!”
And the locals gather round ‘im to be fussy.
But he’s rather too polite,
floppy ears and hair’s not right
and it turns out we’ve been duped - it’s bloody Lassie.

Far oh far away in outer space,
even there the martians think they’re right.
And we reckon, finally, righto,
but they’ve mucked it too, that’s Pluto!
So they speed off green, embarrassed, into night.

That dog, oh dog gone it, he’s just vanished
and everyone is feeling rather goofy.
It’s a dog’s life for our Red
and we’d like to go to bed,
but we cannot help but being that bit snoopy

Red Dog? Nope. Doopa.

“There he is, all fluffy!” yells some kiddie,

wand’ring about Hedland last weekend.

But that kid’s in some blind fog

‘cause he’s sniffed down Doopa dog.

Must have overdone the fairyfloss again.

Some Paraburdoobian hears Elvis,

sniffs a hint and gets right on the scent.

But it’s Hound Dog on the radio,

not our Red, just yodeladio.

Our man eats a dagwood dog quite sad and spent.

Suddenly, a call comes from Snake Gully,

a Pilbara traveller’s seen a tucker box

But the dog that she has found

is glued on, not trotting round

and, embarrassed, she just sinks into her socks.

Finally, the word comes from Fremantle,

a red dog standing proud, now that’s our lingo.

Biggest dog you ever saw

looking out to Rotto’s shore

and we smile, realising then…the flour dingo.

So here we sit in Dampier just wondering…

enigma of the roads, where might he be?

For he never ever failed

to stop all chasing his tail

and he never ceased being stuff of legend, see.

Meanwhile, there’s a movie on in Karratha.

Lights down and all eyes agog.

“They made that film right here,”

whispers someone in the rear

and behind him, sitting quiet…shhh

                                                    …Red Dog.

I'd love to have a tea with Jackman

In the two days leading up to April this year, I was beside myself. Well, I wish I had been beside myself so the self who was beside me could stay at home in Port Hedland whilst the other 'I' was freed up to tootle down the road to Karratha for a BFAT (A Bloody Freaking Awesome Thing).

You see, Hugh Jackman's publicist had liaised with the West Australian tourist industry to secure him a beach, for one day only, outside Karratha, called Hearson's Cove. The purpose? Why, to film the next in his series of extraordinarily delicious Lipton Iced Tea advertisements.

I thought the proposition ideal. The beach is a long, shelly stretch in a wide bay. The sun is imminently blue. The sea (when it is there, as opposed to when it is out two kilometers, according to local tides) is persistently warm.

Thus, when it came to the Friday morning of his ad. shoot at the commencement of April, all Karratha was abuzz and abussing its way out to this beach. Yet I was more despondent than a Britney fan who'd thought they were going to get live Spears for their splash of cash. And the only way I could cope was by going shopping. First, it was to the homewares store in Port Hedland where I spent over $100 on several items I absolutely did not need. Then I did the grocery shopping, spending $437 on food, drink, vegies and random homebrand appliances. An interesting venture given that I'd just done that week's grocery shopping the morning before.

By lunchtime, having ached my way through the morning, eaten four hot cross buns, crunched up a packet of triple choc biscuits, slurped a bucket of icecream, masticated several bags of chips and drunk six mugs of Lipton Tea, I had nothing left to do but write this poem.

Hugh and Cry


Not lying, I’m crying,
upon the floor I’m dying
and thinking, stop blinking,
mascara splodges inking
my face which is blotchy
and dribbly, blubbery, splotchy.
I’m sitting with icecream,
a bucket, topped with whipped cream.

My spoon I am slurping,
the wine’s made me start burping,
the Tim Tams are crumbs now
with me slumped in my pow wow,
crosslegged and moaning,
‘Oh woe is me,’ I’m groaning.
The morning, a heartbreak,
I’ve made a dreadful mistake.

Why did not I jump on
that bus and get a move on
from Hedland southwest where
Karratha had its coup there?
Hugh Jackman, oh heck, man,
he’s there today, so why am
I sitting here dribbly,
my guts all wobbly wibbly?

To Hearson’s he travelled,
his secrets to unravel
of dancing, so sexy,
with looks which do perplex me.
And right now, he’s sipping
his Lipton’s tea and dripping,
no doubt with his shirt off…
Oh I am such a nuff nuff.

I’m foolish, schoolgirlish,
and somewhat maybe churlish.
Oh bottom! It’s not fair!
OH WHY AM I NOW NOT THERE?!
So here now in Hedland,
my head and heart in bedlam,
I’ll sit here without cheer
for hours with a sore rear.

The phone rings, it bring brings
at midday and this voice sings:
‘How funny! How stupid?
Can you believe they took it?!
To think that they bought how
Hugh Jackman would be here now
and dancing and singing
down on the beach, hearts ringing.”

I listened, I shivered,
my bottom lip it quivered.
I blushed in the hush and
tried simply to be offhand:
‘Indeed yes, how crazy!
Who’d be sucked in so hazy?
Hugh Jackman, oh haha,
come up to see Karratha.’

And quickly, quite sickly,
I said goodbye all prickly.
And looked all around me;
my purchases astound me.
In woe I’d gone shopping,
the credit card hot hopping.
And that makes me coolish –
FIRST PRIZE Ms April Foolish!



Copyright Elise Batchelor 1st April 2011

Bite me!

The Laws of Attraction must state in their fine print that my pathetic, girly skin is a fair target for mozzie mauling. That's one thing up here. The bastards are breeding like it's the last water they'll ever see and they suck not just the blood, but the life blood out of unsuspecting victims.

Sandflies, however, roam in another realm of disaster.

AND I HATE THEM.

Unequivocally, with passion, and a body covered in carcenogenic bitey beastie protection (ie. RID upon DEET upon Bushman's. And none of this natural twaddle. Sandflies laugh out loud in the face of natural balms.)

So, here's my poem, to honour the sandfly sufferer and mark said sufferer as a legend of the maul.

Superbad Bities


Four am in stillest night,
in the tent with stars all bright,
full moon out which lights the sky,
far from shore and high and dry,

I am woken by a ping!
Something like a little sting.
Not a mozzie, all is silent.
What on earth is this here tyrant?

Sitting with an itchy butt,
wiggling it around a lot,
cannot seem to make it cease.
Looks like I’ve got worms, good grief!





Then I feel it on my arm.
Hairs spike up in great alarm.
I rub on my funny bone,
right up to my armpit zone.

Suddenly they’re on my knees;
right, then left, then right, oh please!
Then upon my heel and toe.
Twitch about all do-ce-do.

Little finger, largest thumb,
then again upon my bum.
Undies not protecting much
as I scratch that such and such.

Silent evil, little din,
next they are upon my shin,
on my ankle, in my hair,
up my nose (how’d they get there?)

Here a knuckle; this is rotten,
then I scratch my belly button
for as long as I am able
to thus gaze upon my navel.

Ouch! My eyelash. Ludicrous.
Rub my shoulder, scratch my wrist,
Itch my back ‘til I am sore,
scratch my ribs with bites galore.

Hair and scalp, that bloody menace,
every nook and sweaty crevice,
bits the light has never seen,
not wish on your enemy.

Tummy, toosh and cheek and lip,
palm and wrist with bony bit,
hip and thigh and calf and jaw
underarm and chin, what’s more,

reeling, feeling rather grotty,
next another on my botty,
now my lips and just for fun,
open wide, it pings my tongue.

In between my fingers now,
then upon my right eyebrow.
Forming now a crazy nexus,
how’d it get my solar plexus?!

And by now I’m scratching mad,
nutcase spinning superbad.
Midgies, give yourselves a clap.
You lot win, but take this – SLAP!

Headtorch on and hunt for keys.
Scrounging round upon my knees,
find them in the mess of stuff,
bit to ‘blivion, had enough.

Eye the zip and spy the ute,
count from three, two, one and scoot.
Beep, unlock, jump in, and slam!
Lock the doors from this here scam.

Hoon away into the night,
past the dawn to bright sunlight,
far away from Cleaverville.
Camping there? Don’t be a dill!

Four weeks on and I still count
scars of which did well surmount
one hundred and forty eight,
done and dusted, well too late.

So, if you pass me on the street
you will know me, hard to beat,
I’m the one who still looks rotten,
…scratching on her itchy bottom.

Elise Batchelor March 2011

Christchurch Quakes

Our world is a crazy beast right now. The December floods in West Australia's Gascoyne region were incredible. Then Melbourne rained all January, Queensland then New South Wales and Victoria had their monumental floods in Feburary, only to be mopped up by the massive Cyclone Yasi in the country's north east corner. The Pilbara has rained and cycloned its way through summer and, next thing you know, there are fires culling suburbs in Perth, more deluges in Queensland and flooded roads in the Kimberley.

And then the Christchurch earthquake.
And then Japan's earthquake, tsunami and ensuing nuclear reactor explosions.

I suggested I'd buy a lotto ticket. Now seems the right time.
My friend Beth replied not to bother. 'All the outlets,' she reckons, have probably 'been flooded, burned, and knocked down in earthquakes and nuked! There is always fine print to these games.'

In the fine print, there is of course the worst of all of this. Not the buildings, or the holes in the road, the debris littering rooftops, or the cars and boats littering village streets.

It's the death.

Yet still, amongst that, there persists that singular gift of humanity we cling to through all such sobering times.
Hope.

I was privileged to be given the opportunity to write about the Christchurch earthquake in its wake. And this is what I share with you today.

The photo is of two sisters together in France. The lady on the left makes her home in Christchurch. this 'little old lady' was injured, but survived. And thus, carrying hope in a handbag, she still makes her home in Christchurch.

Blessings to all.

The Pilbara Poet











When the earth moved


Newly wed and under wraps in a fine hotel,
their synchronicity was blinding.
Both felt it at once,
the earth moving for them.
Yet neither screamed,
for the weight of the moment
sucked breath away,
deep into dust and steel,
with the rose petal bed shifted
eight floors south
and their thumping hearts
clogged quick into lifelessness.

In the next room
a businessman walked out
the third floor
at street level
with a scratch
upon his temple.
And a headache.

The little old lady hunkered beneath
her shattered shoulder and
the ridiculous armour of a black wool coat
noted her own irony, stuttering, dazed
through this Armageddon of
broken earth in her city’s heart.
It was Tuesday.
Her mass day.
Holy Mother of God.
And she had been communing with her Lord,
giving thanks for her many blessings.
At least one person watching on
the evening news saw her confusion,
wondering if she was wondering
whether Christ went down with her church too.

We build along the fault lines of hope.
It is our nature, and will be done
until the lovers sleep at peace,
until the bells ring out once more.

Until we are certain we are solid.




© Elise Batchelor March 2011

Bubble wrap or bust!

When I first moved from Melbourne to the Pilbara several years ago, it was, as many stories up here go, completely by accident. We were in a four wheel drive. Travelling around Oz with life compacted within the confines of a Nissan Patrol. And it was oh so very, very simple. We ran out of money at Exmouth. Well, everything bar $20 for fuel to get us five hours up the road.

In Karratha, we found a house (or my husband's employer did, as is also, necessarily, the way of things in a region which, whilst responsible for the country's booming economy, is brutally expensive to rent in.) And we shipped over our boxes.

All 78 of them.

Plus furniture.

Plus this funny thing which looked like either a ginger crusher or a guinea pig torture chamber. Still not sure.

Plus dust.

Plus. Plus. Plus.

And the mountain which was stacked up before us in our ever so fragile loungeroom ached like all the last straws in the world had been placed on its peak.

It didn't collapse under the pressure.

But I almost did. And to this day, I wonder how it is we so quickly move from the simplicity of a few boxed items of necessity to a hoarder's paradise. And still believe we'll need everything...sometime.

In the meantime, we've just moved again. I now call Port Hedland home and have been boxing and unboxing my life once again. Andrew Collins from ABC North West is also doing the same with his wife Melissa and little Pilbara baby Saffron as we speak.

Their motto is 'Bubble wrap or bust!'

So, to all of you who have ever moved and found the movement a less than moving experience, here's a little joy. And maybe a message of hope too: You'll never be alone in the experience. We've all lost the plot over it before. Don't you worry about that!


Packing It


As the ultimately anally and
organised type,
she would not believe the press
and he would not believe the hype
that to get somebody in to do the
packing was all right.
He said, “Nope, cannot afford it.”
She said, “Do it in a night.”

So the challenge it was on and they were
ready, set pack,
with the microwave unplugged
and all the crockery unstacked
And all the knives and forks and spoons
and what the Lordy be is that?
“It’s a garlic crusher, darling.”
“Oh,” he mused, “not a…rat trap?”

“How ‘bout,” she said with sense,
“we chuck the kids’ toys all in here,”
as he packing taped the boxes
and forgot to drink his beer
and so in went lights and buzzers,
teacups pink and teapots clear,
every truck and train and block,
every thing which pings the ear.

Every mobile phone for babies,
every wind up singing car,
each and every tambourine, and drum
and battery powered guitar,
all the toys which ding and tinkle,
all the franchised kiddy stars,
“Can’t we give it to the Salvo’s
and not cart it near and far?”

“Sorry darling, no,” she frowned,
although she’d wondered just the same.
It is all just part and parcel of the
pack and movem game,
as he lugged another bloated box
to sit beside the frame
of the portrait posed and four foot wide,
smiles pinched and rather lame.

And they boxed up every cable,
five remotes from one tv.
He felt ripped and fully able,
she thought are we off our tree?
But the deed it needed doing
and between just you and me
with Bon Jovi in the background,
it was quite a sight to see.

And they had a kiss at four am
both sweating like drowned flies,
sorting uniforms from dress ups,
chucking out last year’s mince pies,
taping box on box on box with cheekbones
fierce and rippling thighs,
“How about a break my darling?”
giving her his cheeky eyes.

“Hardy har,” she pulled a face and fiercely
onwards they did scramble
with a mission of precision all their
pots and pans to handle,
every match and dust collector,
every teapot trinket candle,
every dress and shirt and belt
and every thong, ugg boot and sandal,

every cute thing, wrapped in bubbles,
every CD stacked and packed,
here a loose spoon off the table,
there a stray coathanger whacked,
‘til the sun was dawning yawning
and the next door’s chicken clacked,
but unlike its single egg neither our two
had actually…cracked.

“Ta dah!” he put his arm about her,
wiping off his sweat.
“We are legends, superstars;
more to the point, we’re done!” You bet.
And they stood amongst the silence
of the boxes’ towering threat
as amidst the great brown castle
sounded something like regret…

Bok-ekkkk. Bok-ekkkk!

And their looks were stunted horror
as the sound screeched from the ground
and they quick began to wonder
where this sound might well be found.
In amidst the thousand boxes,
deep within it did resound
and he heard her swear prolific
as his blood thumped round and round.

Was it Joseph’s wind up truck,
or was it Rosie’s fluffy chook?
Was it Elly’s dancing Tinkerbell
or Max’s talking book?
Could it be right near the top?
Could they take the merest look?
No, that sound came from the depths,
depths of despair and they both shook.

Bok-ekkkk. Bok-ekkk!

And the answer? It was simple:
They must unpack every box,
every stupid household item,
every jewel and single sock,
every shell and vase and ruddy muddy
gumboot, every jock.
as it showed, that torment on her face,
before he’d thrown a rock…

Bok-ekkkkk. Bok- Ekkkk!

Two hours on and all their work undone
the thing still rang on aloud
She was crying, he was chucking stuff,
but nowhere to be found
was the voice of greatest torment,
ringing out and all around
and they sat amidst debris
with everything just come to ground.

Bok-ekkk. Bok-ekk!

Then she heard it. There it was and there she
found the microwave,
sitting all alone behind the rubble,
unboxed barricade
and she opened it to find it
and to end this mad charade -
her egg timer - clucking chicken -
done its time and on parade.

Bok-ekkk. Bok-ekkkk!

And the husband and his wife,
with exhaustion and great thirst,
took a lesson from this moment
before into tears both burst,
that when packing and upstacking
when that moving time’s the worst
is quite easily and simply…

take the batteries out first.


Bok-ekkkkkk!

©Elise Batchelor February 2011

Pin the Tail on the Shonky Donkey

In my final (Wembley Primary) school year, the most exquisite girl in our class had an impossibly large birthday party. I remember this vividly, for I was not invited.

There's nothing like being invited to a rocking good party. In Australia, we're totally lucky because every few years (or few months, depending on one's keenness for pin the tail on the political donkey) we're all invited to two parties. At LEAST two parties. Of course, we have a slight problem here in that they're invariably on the same day, at the same time. But our job is to elect one to attend.

For example, a little while back Julia Gillard's party was sort of or not really ok. Tony Abbott's party was not that gay either. No one really liked either and most of us ultimately went to one so we could prove we didn't go to the other.

And the third half was busy scamming illicit tickets for a boat ride out of the country.


Pin the Tail on the Donkey

He invited everyone to come to his great party.
Every kid in every class, he thought he was a smartie.
Problem was that she did too, she asked them all to come.
She’d pin the tail on donkeys and they’d have just loads of fun.

He said it would NOT BE HOT! No hotter than last week,
But he’d give them sunscreen and nice party hats with peaks.
She said they would play indoors on her WHIZZ BANG COMPUTERS!
Plenty fun for everyone, even distant commuters.

He soon heard his plan was flawed because some thought him dud.
She soon heard he might have scored because she was not Rudd.
On the day they sat in wait in fancy schmancy clothes.
His mum asked, ‘How many Tony?’ He replied, ‘God knows.’

Tony’s mum said, ‘Ask Him then, I’m baking sausage rolls
and fairy bread -’ Tone interrupted, ‘Can’t have them Mum, no!’
‘Tony!’ his mum glared at him. ‘OK, Mum, just this once,
but fairy bread’s for sissy’s and I ain’t nobody’s dunce.

Meanwhile, out at Julia’s, her mum tried being enlightening,
saying, ‘dydd Sadwrn, gwlad, cors.’ My goodness, Welsh is frightening.
What happened to all the vowels? And when does it not rain?
Anyway, this is digression. What’d she say again?

Oh yes, that’s right, young Julia’s mum said, ‘It’s party day, my dear,
and, as you say, they’re all your friends! I’m sure they’ll all appear.’
So Tony had his fairy bread, despite his inclination
and Julia had done her hair and taken up her station

of standing at the front door, the gates of chance now open
as Tony cycled round his yard, his nerves of steel unbroken.
And soon they all arrived. The guests come out to play.
Some they went to Julia’s and some the other way.

Then some more to Julia’s, then a bunch to Tone’s,
‘til there were just five kids left and THEN kicked in the groans.
‘But Muuuum,’ whinged Julia out loud, ‘why didn’t they all come?
Near half of them are all next door at Tony’s place. Not fun!’

‘Oh stop your whinging little girl, your strine’s like blackboard nails.
Maybe there are others coming, drifting in like snails.’
And Tony, well, now he was sweating, seventy-something counted.
Sort of Mr Popular, his campaign fully mounted.

‘I guess you’re right,’ said Julia, to her mum as kids played,
‘my friends, they all have spoken but who knows what they did say.’
Tony scanned down to the fence upon which five friends sat,
right ‘tween his and Julia’s and he thought…bottom, drat.

The celebrations dwindled and all the kids they left,
quite bored with both the parties, the right one and the left
and waved out to that fivesome perched as if it didn’t matter,
still deciding which to choose, including BobKat Katter.

And there they perched for days and weeks, sore bums, ‘twas rather odd.
Jule’s she offered lemonade and Tony offered…God?
And finally, they all decided which party best fared,
by which time it was footy finals, so no one really cared…




© Elise Batchelor 2010

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

Rains (n. Plural)

Rains in the Pilbara is always an auspicious occasion. Not only cause for celebration, but reason to modify the English dictionary. Such is the rarity of these about-time-happy-tears-from-heaven, that when one drop falls we call it rain, but when there are plural, they become, necessarily, 'rains'.

When rains come, we also run into our front yards and dance. Jiggy jig, jive and rhumba. And we just hope they will stay for more than a few minutes, during which time we can hopefully absorb enough by osmosis to keep our souls hydrated for the next...year...or two.

And when they leave...which they always do...there is that little moment of melancholy before the dreaming begins again.

No way does one ever want to miss rains in the desert. And there's not much we wouldn't do to seize the moment and get wet. Something like yesterday when it rained. Something like this...


Storm in a Teacup

Each morning as she wakes she wishes
once upon the starfish
on her doona quilt of bright red
on her soft and squishy queen bed

and she asks the painted starfish
and its friends who dot the doona
if the rain might come but sooner
if it might just change its tune, huh?

And she closes tight her eyes and then
peers up towards the window
where the blind and curtains hang low
all so dark with but a faint glow

and she hopes with all her guts and gizzards
that the blind will flick up
and reveal a morning wake up
with a weather pattern mucked up

where the sky will be all black and purple
bruised, like when her sister
threw that tape recorder at her
aged just ten, did that cause one stir!

And her leg had looked a storm all swirly dark
and eggplant mushy
oh, she was so not a sissy,
well, maybe a little prissy,

but the blind, today she’d wished from bed
would zip up quick, surprise her,
rain would thwack and rumbling thunder
would chase painted starfish under

neath the doona with its polyester centre,
dry not soggy,
and she’d bound, a little groggy
to the window pane all foggy

and she’d write the words through window mist
up to the darkened sky where birdies
all too wet to fly
had gone to Melbourne for some dry

simply, THANK YOU, to the gods of rain
and lightning, hail and snow,
You’ve really given it a go;
it must be really hard I know

but what a looney tuney glee it brings
to wake up hearing frogs
going berserko on their logs
and jumping in and out of bogs.

Imagine them, gone psycho yelling
ribbit, ribbit, boing!
Sploshing puddle, path and lawn,
whacko frogs, with baby spawn

and what a rip roaring delight there is
in running from the sill.
Get outside now, my girl, you dill,
all nickey noo and feel the chill.

     It’s the blue moon sunshine RDO,
     the day of all your wishes
     when it pishes and it pishes
     and it fills the cracks and fissures
     fills the sink and does the dishes
     rains for me and you and fishes
     and it smells divine…ahhh…delicious.

She bounds out to the hall all starkers
running through the kitchen -
no point getting rain then bitchin’
that you missed the chance to stand in

dirt which smells of sweet release and lawn
which turns green just like that,
a purging sky which pours flat chat
and you know this is where it’s at…

As she dashes past the sink she grabs a
teacup from the drainer thinking
this will make me saner
knowing I have a container

into which I’ll let the storm c
                                       a
                                        s
                                     c
                                      a
                                       d
                                      e
and keep it then as proof
that I’ve felt rain on my roof,
that I’m not a total goof

and she hurtles out the front door with her
teacup tight in hand
feeling blissful, whacko, grand
to gather raindrops as she’s planned

and she races to the centre of the front yard
on this morning
in a barefoot dance of yearning
with her cup and belly tingling

and it stops – the sky.
It ceases.
To let rain fall from its creases
and she’s out there, oh bejeesus,
with her cup - her bits - her pieces,

nothing more or less this morning
with the sunshine peeping through
and she knows not what to do
but just stand and wail boo hoo

and she sobs her heart out there and then,
not drenched but much forlorn
on this sneaky Pilbara dawn
feeling woe and no more storm

and her tears fill up the teacup quickly
lapping to its rim
telling her things aren’t so grim
at least these tears she could swim in

‘til she holds her head up finally
and just pauses then in thought…
she saw rain and she just ought
to be mature, as she’d been taught

so she turns on heel with dignity and
walks back to her door,
bottom wobbling, eyelids sore,
knows she should not ask for more

and she climbs beneath her doona
and she makes one final wish
to her starry doona fish
with her teacup on a dish

that in all the dawn commotion with the
rainfall hard and quick
no one saw a tall blonde chick
standing out there in the nick…

and she hopes oh my that if they did
her teacup covered something
with her bits and pieces bumping
and her heartbeat raw and thumping.

She peers from ‘neath the doona cover
through the panes of glass - forgetting
‘bout her wobbly arse
and spies the last cloud quickly pass…
and lets the sun
                     shine
                             in.



© Elise Batchelor June 2010

In your car and follow that star!

When the International Space Station recently emerged as a speeding star over the dawn horizon of the North West Aussie Pilbara region, my family and I jumped up and down like looneys (as far as my post baby bladder allows these days). We beamed our

Helloooooo!s

into the atmosphere and we were loud. So loud, we're sure they heard us. The ISS was being pursued at the time by the Space Shuttle Atlantis on the last days of what may well have been its final mission. Our view was awesome: rather gritty, a bit crusty, waves lapping behind us, tent thankfully sandfly proof. We were camping at our Indian Ocean secret spot along 40 Mile Beach near Karratha. And admiring its speedy passage across the sky smacked my gob harder than a flying sandcastle.

Meanwhile, I'm led to believe, down the road were a couple of grey nomads (and for those of you reading from the far reaches of the globe, this is a term of ...endearment? for wandering Australian retirees travelling about the country in their vans, campers, tents and other weird, wonderful getups.) They were having a few issues with their vehicle of choice whose brand shall remain nameless (and don't worry runaway 4wd types, it's not you!) They spent the night on a large station, surrounded by plenty of space and a few international travellers. Hmmm...an international space station of its own, one might say. So it's to these folks we turn: Geoff, Shirl and their not so trusty four wheel drive, Apollo. They have their own astronomical story to tell...and it's pretty, uh, far out...

Apollo and the ISS

Geoff had the radio turned up loud,
tapping on the steering wheel, royally proud
of his shiny sublimy four wheel drive,
‘Apollo’* took them travelling, fully alive.

Shirl felt it first and moaned out loud
Didn’t sound right even under the shroud
of blasting beats from the stere-e-ere-oh
and caravan wheels back there on tow.

But loy-a-lly she faced the music,
‘Geoff!’ she called, should he choose to hear it.
‘Geoff!’ again, ‘Can you HEAR THAT SOUND!’

But thumping his beat, didn’t turn around.’

This time Shirl cried out, ‘My dear!
Houston? GEOFF!! Got a problem here!’
Around spun Geoff, nose tapping the beat,
Shirl now squiggling in her seat.

She flicked off the music, speaking clear,
‘I said, just listen, to the engine dear.’

His face then blanched. Coconut white.

A rattle and thump, his wife was right!

So here they were two nomads bold
travelling the earth to lands untold,
through the dust and rickety gravel,
never did they think it would unravel.

Su-dden-ly, the plans had changed.
Something in the engine was deranged.
and caught on a road ‘twixt nowhere near,
landscape burnt, they felt the fear.

Then…just like a dream a sign emerged
beside the road both on the verge
of pondering, wondering about their fate,
sun now setting, getting late.

A station it was, with plenty of space
and dusk now coming was a race
to find a spot with Apollo intact
before a diff or engine cracked.

Soon found a paddock by the sea,
wide and vast as this land can be,
a scattering of vans spread far apart
by folks whose travels were an art:

A German couple in a battered van,
a family from France in a hired tin can
and way over there were a bunch of Swiss,
blonde and yodelling, hard to miss.

Vast amounts of space to camp
on which to muse beside their lamp.
‘Oh dear Geoff, maybe in the morning
someone can help us on sun’s dawning.’

‘Better still,’ mused Geoff-er-y,
‘the first night star’s above the sea.
Let’s make a wish from this vast station
for ve-hicular inspiration.’

They wished the star might ease their plight
and all too soon the dawn brought light.
Geoff woke first and mustered Shirl,
‘Look outside! Check it out my girl.’

Everyone else in the paddock near,
everyone was up and up they peered as a-
cross the sky a bright star moved,
followed by another one along its groove.

Curve balls over the daybreak light.
What an anomaly, a bit of all right!
And off the light headed north northwest
‘It’s a sign, it’s a sign!’ burst forth our Geoff.

They jumped in Apollo, perilous car,

‘Follow, follow, FOLLOW THAT STAR!’
Away from the station scattered with races
all peering up with glowing faces.

Out down the gravel to the nor’ nor’west

off to Karratha (just my guess).

If only they had known when they awoke

‘twas no bright star but full of folk -

astronauts not on vacation

but hurtling past on a fast space station,

speeding round out in the dark,

thinking life is quite a lark.

So, as a p.s. to this tale of Apollo,

the four wheel drive drove ‘til tomorrow

and up they went, not into town

and sailing into space you could see Geoff frown.

The ISS it took them far,

into orbit with their car

and with just a little less gravity

and wicked views, the world to see,

the four wheel drive was simply fine
and Geoff and Shirl had a whirl of a time.
Talk about nomads flying free
around the world dexterity.

So if you see a funny shape
up in space, it’s the 'Great Escape’,
for Geoff and Shirl can still be found
following the space station round and round
          and round and…round and
                                     …round…
                                             and round...
                                                      and...round...

© Elise Batchelor ABC North West 26th May 2010
© Rob Whitehead 2010 - photo of the ISS and Atlantis
    in the predawn Pilbara sky
* Apollo: not the car's real name

Zorro of the North West

You know, I get it, I really do. Having been a Melbournian for twenty years, I understand the need to make haste for the pool whenever the sun peers out from behind a cloud. After all, that cheeky golden grin may only last five minutes. And there are three more seasons yet to expect in that day. Maybe four times over. And maybe including snow.

But when you live in the desert, somewhere like the north west of Western Oz in my home of seven years, oh how quickly you come to expect the heat. In summer our temperatures remain at about forty degrees celcius or so. I don't get in the pool now until it hits at least 37 degrees. Thus, when winter comes and the days (although still lurid blue and ceaselessly sunshiney) crawl below thirty degrees, the idea of swimming is simply ludicrous. Unless, that is, you're on holiday here. Unless, perchance, you're just visiting. Unless, oh yes, you're from Melbourne.

This poem is for my beloved Melbourne, for friends who visit and provide us a winter laugh by diving in deep. And for anyone else on our planet who would eagerly jump into the pool, in the Pilbara, in winter. I'll be in to join you soon! Try...November. 

Of course, by then we have cyclones. And they're another story entirely.


North West Superhero


The plane was right on time,
the heels were quite refined,
the general Savour Faire was ripper mate.
No one had drunk too much rum
with ties ad infinitum
arrived from chilly Melbourne to our state.

And out they stepped this pair
with faces worn by fear
of dodging trams and tumbling black umbrellas
in freezy winter breezes,
frappéd with chunky sneezes
and pale, these two were salty white, I tell yas.

She was, from head to toe,
dressed inn black, uh huh, you know
just how it is when you forget the sun.
Forget you ever could
go out without your hood,
without your bits snapped frozen - that’s the one!

He though, let’s call him Paul,
escaped the eastern squall
deciding that he’d try to match the trend.
A walking suit in I.T.,
today he’d donned a flannie,
a metrosexual sin, let’s not pretend.

So Paul and his dear wife
(so as not to cause strife,
let’s call her Flower, a floral pseudonym)
were here for seven days
the heady heat to praise
and had on their agenda just one thing.

And with their little boy,
the cutest cuddly toy,
Paul wanted but to live the tropic dream.
He stripped off instantly
for all the world to see
which caused a royal shock and some to scream.

(Now, just a small aside,
a turning of the tide
to put this keen display into perspective -
Flower: pragmatic, British
refined and never skittish
and Paul: stuck long indoors a corporate captive.)

But there he stood, defiant
and rather uncompliant,
gazing through the gates and not quite nude.
Not nood as one might say, but
Nyuuuude, called Flower, ‘Hooray!’
‘We’re here to swim!’ cheered Paul, ‘So let’s go dude!’

For them, the height of heat,
a temperature to beat
of thirty three, or two, or one, at dawn.
For them, insanely hot,
for Pilbara folks, quite…not
with me there in a jacket on this morn.

Too brrrrrrr for me by far
but Flower’s pool wear, it starred,
‘twas elegant with brimmed hat, sunnies, cream
and I shivered inside out
as I watched them swim about
living what we call the ‘Pilbara Dream.’

It’s the dream of bright hot days
of gold, that Yabu* haze,
of singing, dancing sunlight under trees
of floating through the water
and dressing as you oughter
in nearly next to nothing in the breeze.

And when they were all done,
their time out in the sun,
Paul joined his lovely Flower sipping tea,
‘My darling Paul, you’re burnt;
I thought you might have learnt
your skin can’t take this; you’re more pale than me!’

‘I know, but I’m the man!’
Paul took his darling’s hand
and then she burst out laughing through the air.
‘Oh Paul, you missed a tad
of sunscreen, my dear lad!’
‘So what?’ replied young Paul scratching his hair.

The feat, remarkable,
now irreversible,
a lightning bolt burnt right across his face.
‘My love, you look like Zorro
and probably will tomorrow,
a streak scorched Pilbara superhero. Ace!'

Well, Paul, now marked, was chuffed,

burnt beautifully, enough,

their lightning trip now took on greater meaning.

And my bones chilled as they'd swum

but God, did they have fun

and ZORRO! of the north west flew home gleaming.

 

© Elise Batchelor 2010
* 'Yabu' means 'gold' in aboriginal Wongatha language