The Dingo Poem

Hello. Please see attached The Dingo Poem. This poem is one of the longest poems I’ve written and took the longest to write — about two months, and then a few revisions in the preceding months. The notes were written while hiking the Larapinta Trail in 2016.

The length is not conducive to posting as an image so you’ll have to read as pdf. Hope that’s cool. Thanks

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Forest clearing on the Bibb track

In July I walked the northern section of the Bibb track and was saddened to see that a large swathe of native forest had been cleared between Ball Creek Hut and Helena Hut. I wanted to wait to make this post to confirm my worst fears that the area was being cleared for pine plantation. Yesterday I walked through there once more, and yes, the Bibb track has changed character forever. The photos below show the huge mulch piles and machinery getting to work to chop up the balga, gum and casuarina that once lived there.

They left one thin tree in order to be able to nail a wagyl triangle on, as shown in the last photo.

Amongst a lot of other thoughts and emotions I find this embarrassing that walkers come from around the world to walk the track and they see the way we treat our native forests.

Yule Brook

Yesterday the government and their workers chopped down more trees in Perth’s wetlands. This time at Yule Brook. Photos below by Paddy Cullen.

 

A while back I went and camped there. Walked thru the wetlands from Kenwick Station and followed Yule Brook to the protest site. The government say that some trees had to be cleared so that others could be saved. The main game and big issue is used to argue for losing small games and small issues, when the main game and big issue has always been the protection of the small. Every tree matters.

While I was there I wrote this poem for my friend John Kinsella. I get depressed very easily. Not just about the environment either. While I camped there under the peppy tree that’s now gone, he and I stayed in contact and he talked me through my sadness.

 

 

Yule Brook

– for John Kinsella

 

Knee deep, Yule Brook leaves mud bits on his sneakers, 

the long distance walker has chewed some chilli,  

the way ‘progress’ chews forest after forest;

we want to annoy our gods to prove they don’t exist. 

 

On the oval the women play football, and the men 

watch the water slide past; murky, grey, grabbing typha, 

pulling the reeds that flick back, that know no bank,

that signal the dragonfly to land. 

 

White power on Roe Highway: Septimus, that surveyor of gods 

gifted roosts, he’s now the swamp nemesis, 

he’s now the ring road that ringbarks what’s left of wetlands,

one to nine he chops down ocean and woodland.  

 

Someone shakes the fence. The lock holds. He throws his head

above the top rung and sees the alley of rivergums, soon to be mulched. 

There are heart-shaped messages tied to the trunks, 

but the storm has loosened the string and moistened the cardboard. 

 

I’ve a photocopy of Kim Scott’s A Most Intelajint Kuriositie, 

and each time I read a page drops fall from the clouds and a wodjalok 

talks with John through a jarrah tree, as a pacific black duck 

takes off from the stream, straight for a state funeral —

 

where the weeping peppy leaves have swept the soil clear,

and they make the coffin smell sweet and the magpies sing 

quoowooloolo, quoowwlolooo 

and their song starts to sound like rail wheels headed for Toodyay.  

 

There’s snails on my sleeping bag, and lightning in the air, 

that’s the canopy spread to take in the spark, to eat the sky, 

half man, half electricity, you’re the giver of horizons, 

an orrery with light for each planet.