Disconnected from reality
I floated with the tide
towards an unknown future
where despondent waters flow.
Washed ashore
bedraggled and dripping
ambulatory
but no longer drifting.
Teetering through disasters
inhumanity’s wasteland
a brutal world war fading
its cold sequel in the making.
An all in brawl behind closed doors
blinds drawn and shutters closed
with idealogical graffiti
scrawled on Berlin’s wall.
Weird incarnations or strains
of Neanderthal man
had been democratically elected
by a majority of voters.
Pompous politicians
with fixed ideas
and stationary minds
governed Australia through the 50s.
The government of Pig Iron Bob
Menzies (or Ming)
maintained its influence and power
through fear, innuendo and smear.
I was a victim of those times
when contemporary art
which began with Cezanne
was deemed degenerate by Ming.
I worshipped at the National Gallery (or shrine)
where the art of the past
resplendent in gilded frames
was devoutly displayed.
Unthinkingly
I learned to appreciate
the imoposed aesthetic standards
of our nation’s artistic heritage.
The establishment
and the great artists from our past
spurned the emerging genius
of Nolan, Tucker, Perceval and Boyd.
The old Swinburne art school
was three story brick
with a pottery in the basement
and painting studios on the top.
Programmed with preconceptions
I optimistically began (as an artisan)
and learned to imitate laboriously
the traditional representational way.
Taught to draw accurately
we copied casts
and rendered the nude
until cramp or rigor mortis set in.
It was art based on the past
draughtsmanship and the golden mean
with little creativity
a beginning without an end.
In between I learned to box
sparred and skipped
taking punches on the chin
and jabs bang on the nose.
Sometimes I would borrow
Pop’s Willys station wagon
and go camping rough
with some mates from Swinburne.
We’d seek
but rarely find
idyllic camping sites
near inaccessible rivers.
After two years we specialised
I chose painting
and at he same time
fell madly in love with Mary.
She entranced me
embraced my mind
with her beautiful legs
jet black hair and soft warm hands.
I clasped one of them
at an art school ball
when she invited me to dance
because I was too shy to ask.
So crazily intoxicated
overwhelmed by her presence
so adorably devastating
I fled during every model break.
Scampering away, down the stairs
to the pub just minutes away
to guzzled a beer
before returning.
I graduated top of my final year
with no prospects of an artistic career
except as an art teacher (temporary)
but a new direction.
Enjoyed this my mother was an artist and I have all the work…she studied with Henry Koerner Cezanne’s student) who always had live models… I can appreciate so much of this.. glad to be able to read your work!
Thanks. How interesting! With such genes, it is not surprising you are also so creative. It certainly shows in your poetry.
Hello Ken,
This poem is I feel, a masterpiece. It evoked so many memories of the three story red brick art school where my Mother worked as a life model. She went on to graduate in fine art 2006. It was a long time in the making. I like your new banner head. I will be back to read more in due course. Best wishes Talia.
I am speechless my friend. I don’t know where to begin on this piece, all I can say is that it says a lot! It tells the story of a one of a kind person in such a way that says, there’s still more greatness to come. Fantastic brother of mine, absolutely fantastic!
I though I’d try and write an autobiography in verse. I was aware it was risky, but have been persevering through various ‘orbits’. I have nearly finished part 5. Such praise from someone with your talent is like icing on the cake and will inspire me to continue until the orbit is complete.