Absolution: Cardinal George Pell and the Pontiff

Absolution is the conclusion

of the sacrament of Penance,

a jewel of the seven sacraments.

If a Cardinal lies to a Pontiff...

a minor misrepresentation perhaps..,

or all that his memory provides...

We are nothing if not imperfect beings.

If he lies for the Church? A venial sin surely..?

The Pontiff senses the existential crises.

The reputation of all that was blessed

is shredded by special commissions laying

bare the beasts within, those who succumbed

to the works and pomps of The Devil

those who entertained their base nature

those who made the little children suffer,

the innocents who should have been sheltered

and were horribly violated.

You must return and clear your name,

if you are certain as you claim,

that you are snared in political folly,
a victim of those who would harm our Church?

I am, Your Holiness. But despite

my innocence, the rumours and the press

have painted me guilty. It is impossible

to receive a fair trial now. It is quite possible

that I would be imprisoned, probable

in fact, the scales are tipped against me.

And I am old now, my health is ragged

Your Holiness, it deteriorates rapidly.

A pacemaker regulates my heartbeat.

There are popes and there are popes. This one

is too moderate... too holy perhaps.

If only Ratzinger were still here, he would say

let them rattle their cages,

let them stack their faggots,

let them howl for blood, you are here within

the bosom of Mother Church; rest easy, within.

For some reason an image of that girl,

the one mother made me take to the final

primary year dance, appears now.

She wrote as an 'old friend with a word of advice'.

The rumours have embarrassed her;

if only I would return and clear my name.

God was with me, God will care for His own.

Priests are lonely people, and some more than others.

Some, like Ridsdale are weak. Everybody

has his Achilles Heel. I kept it under

control, mostly. An occasional lapse.

I despised the weak. Man up! I said to him.

Say a decade of the rosary and ask

for the grace to overcome temptation.

It was in his nature and I forgave him.

A priest's life is a lonely one.

But George, he said, there's no one else here.

I am afflicted, why did He make me like this?

I told him, I said, During the sacrament

of confession you will address me as 'Father'.

I was hard on the weak in the confessional.

Mine was the Voice of God. That girl, the one

made pregnant by her father, so she said.

I told her. If you have an abortion

I cannot forgive you. So I will go

to Hell? She asked. You will receive your just

punishment. But what can I do? She asked.

These are simple folk. The flock ha. Humanity.

Beer, footy and a root on a Saturday.

They need to know where sin lies. You sin,

and you risk damnation for eternity.

My God is to be feared. He is not a loving god.

All that Vatican 11 kumbaya skippy stuff.

Not for My God. That's why we are where we are.

The rabble needs rules, a stiff rod.

In essence they are stupid. But they can lynch you.

The pack mentality. I hear them now,

they slaver and howl.

Cardinal, our flocks diminish, our shepherds die.

You must return, for your sake and for the

sake of Holy Mother Church. Say a decade

of the rosary and ask for God's mercy

understanding and blessing in your future trials.

Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat...

So, that's it. It has come to this. Me...
The Sacrificial Lamb. Such heavenly irony.

Well, my lawyers will see about that one.
I will be Pontiff one day. The Church needs
my guiding hand. My God knows it. 

Remastered

When I die there will be no more tinnitus.

The insistent ringing will be replaced

by a limitless space, the peace and silence

I knew as a child in sleep, and if a voice

were to say 'Welcome home my son, step inside

and rest now from your journey,' I need not reply

'What was that? I'm arrested for a burglary?'

Vision. I shall cast away my specs. Done.

I will have the eyes of a raptor. I can spot

a prey miles away. And remember where.

Oh yes, my memory will be mint perfect.

No more 'Oh where did I put those keys,

my wallet, my specs, my phone, my knees?

My white hair will flush back to red.

But not the freckles, oh no. The skin will be

brown and tough, or maybe black and tough.

Tough is good so I can walk barefoot,

no more white Scots' thin skinned impediments

of broken and knitted bones which feel

every seed and stone no, now I can bound

from rock to rock claiming territory.

My voice shall have a rich resonant quality,

a presence. I shall cast away ego as something

superfluous. Dispatch conceit with a raised eyebrow.

I shall have a messianic aura. Part seas

or simply walk over the top. Ladies will

flock to touch the hem of my garment.

Chaps will seek to crucify me.

Yea next time I come flying down the tube

I'll be six foot two in bronze and as strong

as a bullock and as quick as a fish.

With a dollop more intellect for math

and science, and artistic too

with an outrageous sense of humour

and drop dead Adonis. And the Grandda

will say, 'Where'd this lad come frae, oor Dot?

We dinna breed 'em like that in Glasgae.'

Apollo eh bro?

'Ok dudes. Who's got it??'

Review Oumou Sangare - Seya

This is a fabulous album, so musically rich, vocally, instrumentally and lyrically; the production is superb. Savour it and allow it's beauties to unfold. We have been fortunate this year in that two Malian divas have released albums, Rokia Traore with Tchamantche and now this, Seya by Oumou Sangare, each different styles, each excellent.

This is Oumou Sangare's fifth release including the Oumou compilation from 2004. She is called the Songbird of Wassoulou, a region south of the Niger known for its music which has developed from traditional hunting songs. On this album Oumou writes her own material, some based upon traditional songs, but make no mistake, this is modern music with modern themes.

In her songwriting she assumes the responsibility of her position, as she sees it, by using lyrics to address complex and traditional social issues such as the forced marriages of young girls, emigration, family unity, hope and support within the community and general respect for women. Indeed the song Koundaya is about using God given luck well, as though she reminds herself to do so. The lyrics are rich with metaphor, morality tales, proverbs and local sayings. I imagine that Oumou might have some resistance within her community from conservative elements.

Although the lyrics may appear weighty, the overriding impression is one of joy and hope. Seya itself means Joy. The music is exuberant with both male and female call and response, buoyant and colourful with a mix of traditional and modern instrumentation, and above all Oumou's supple, muscular voice sweeps, soars, dives and punctuates. It is a rhythmic vehicle, unforced and natural.
She is accompanied by 49 musicians over the 11 tracks, including Pee Wee Ellis, Tony Allen, Cheick Tidiane Seck and Bassekou Kouyate, and the blend of the traditional n'goni, balafon, flutes and percussive instruments with organ, guitar, sax and trombone is organic, not ornate, vibrant but not jarring.

The CD is attractively packaged and includes English and French lyrics with an explanation of each song, although not Oumou's singing tongue(s), however you can easily enjoy the music without following the lyrics. If you are new to African music this is an excellent starting point. Mali is blessed with rich music from it's cultural diversity; there are 32 ethnic groups. If you wish to delve further into the variety which Mali offers I suggest you try the following, mainly recent, releases:
the late Ali Farka Toure - Savane,Talking Timbuktu(with Ry Cooder),
Rokia Taore - Bowmboï, or the latest Tchamantche,
Salif Keita - The Mansa of Mali...A Retrospective, or Moffou
Bassekou Kouyate and N'goni Ba - Segu Blue
Toumani Diabate - In the Heart of the Moon(with Ali Farka Toure), The Mande Variations
Amadou & Miriam - the popular Dimanche a Bamako (produced by Manu Chao), or their latest Welcome To Mali(I haven't heard it yet, but it had good reviews),
or the desert blues band Tinariwen - Aman Iman: Water is Life, or Amassakoul,
or anything by Issa Bagayogo, the Malian boogie man - Mali Koura, Tassoumakan or Timbuktu.

These are all differing styles and all appealing, and this is just Mali! To delve further into 'world music' check out the UK Songlines (with free CD of sample tracks from recent releases) or fRoots (also with CD) magazines and/or the two Rough Guide publications called World Music. There is a whole world of music waiting to enrich your life; get into it !!

An earlier track, Djorolen - sublime, from Oumou Sangare. 

Impossible Gift

This is not the smoke of colonial rod

of scarred encampments, the prodding stick,

of the fires where infants were tossed.

This is not the smoke of the gift of grog

of paternal authority, of children stolen

of lubras raped, of smug denigration.

This is not the gift of denied genocide

of suicide in the white washed cell

of herding and terror and shrieking mothers.

No! This is the gift of purification

This is the gift of cleansing the spirit

This is a blessing, an impossible gift.

Clean Hands

Clean Hands

They hover, tentative at first, these hooded

birds pecking for sustenance on the shore

of the South China Sea.

Massahh papa? Foot massahh? Pedicure papa?

You buy? They show me their beads and bangles

their packets of crinkles, chips, their cold drinks,

their pineapples on sticks. They carry their hopes

across their shoulders, these slight pecking

Vietnamese ladies.

Massahh mama? Foot massahh? Pedicure mama?

Just over there a plump golden dame from WA

is showing pictures of her grand house,

with gilded bathroom taps, her awesome garden

and swimming pool to these slight creatures.

A lot of work from hubby and more than a little

luck honey, if you get my drift? She winks.

How much is your massahh for an hour sweetie?

You have to be kidding me. I'll pay you half.

I hope your hands are clean.

Cats of the Forum Romanum

There were strange lights in the sky in the early

hours of fifteenth of March, 44BC,

flashes of crimson, hues of blues and yellows,

they had been seen before, when Rome was the prey.

The temple cats stirred and became restless

looking upwards then quickly darting down

to vanish beneath the sacred buildings,

hierarchies and animosities forgotten.

In the chill of morning they watched the sixty

senators stride past led by Brutus and

Cassius. The black tom, known as Magnus

Lux, the Great Light, was heard to remark

'Yon Cassius, hear his slack bones clack,

methinks he needs a good feed and fuck.' The cats

of Rome, like the plebeians, were known for their

vulgarity. They watched as Julius Caesar passed

and heard his taunt to Spurinna the Haruspex

that 'The Ides of March are come.' The Haruspex,

a seer in entrails, had divined danger for Caesar

and so replied 'Aye Caesar, but not gone...'

The cats, a clowder of mewling and yowling

orphans, a ragbag of feline protestation

sensing assassination in the ribbed

and clacking air, followed the gathering

'By the bollocks of Jupiter' said Magnus Lux

'This day will be marked in metal and bone.'

And when Brutus thrust his weapon up high

into his father to forge one of the

twenty seven wounds, to ensure he would

not rise again, the general and god had spat

with blood 'And you child?' And so the deed

was surely done and gods, and cats, all slinked away.

In the ensuing centuries the cats witnessed

the wars and fires, the murderous retributions,

the excesses, and secret assignations;

the screech and the scream of metal on bone,

all of the triumphs and trials, processions

and condemnations, the memorials, the shrines

the arches and the grandeur. More strange lights,

the raw vermilion of war, and the cats

cowered among smokey ruins. Roman gods

were thus deposed and history rewritten.

Yeshua, a Jewish mystic who was

executed by the state became the god

Jesu Christus, and the masonry of

forum temples was used to build churches

in his honour. The twelve guilded deities

of the forum and the myriad minor gods

were replaced by statues of apostles,

angels and saints. Some said Yeshua

would awake in horror at his deification

and return to cast the new temples asunder.

But they were put to death for heresy.

Magnus Lux remarked that 'the new boss

smells like the old boss.' And the temple cats

slinked around and slept among the ruins.

They lived those millennia being fed

each day by the Gattara, a Crazy Cat

Lady, dressed in black and murmuring

in Latin, of news and scandals of papacy

and politics and the curse of inhumanity,

how the paupers had become princes

how the princes had become corrupt

and how nothing changes through the ages.

And how the rule of power and corruption

has persisted from age to age. And the black tom

Magnus Lux would reply 'Carpe noctem'

that 'We cats will always seize the night'.

The Distorted Mirror?

The Distorted Mirror?

A pair of Pardalotes flew outside my window,

their black crowns sparkling with snow white dots

the female beaked hay from the hanging pot

while the cock flew at his reflection

thrusting his bright yellow breast against the glass

saying 'Look at me, look and see. What a buck I am!'

Then he glanced in the mirror on the courtyard wall

and spotted a rival - what a handsome chap

with his fine night head festooned with stars

and he said to the female, his new found mate

'Check out this boy, such an impudent fellow

to flutter so close with his looks and his charm

so utterly gauche when our deed is done,

sure his breast is brown where mine is yellow,

a golden sun to warm your nest, and the down

of our young.' Then the female she dropped the hay

from her beak and flew in the face of the mirror.

'Here's a fine looking gal, far better than I,

she will turn his head but I'll live with that.

I so want the cutie who appeared before

instead of Old Mate with his bangs at my door.'

And the pair of Pardalotes were up and away.

Was this a game that each year they play?

I really don't know. They are just birds.

I simply relate all I saw and I heard.

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - Lovely Creatures Box Set - 3 cds and 1 DVD. Superb!

I wrote this review for Amazon. But I can't post it because I haven't bought the required USD50 or GBP50 over the last 12 months. Postage is a killer. I bought it locally at JB Hi Fi for AUD37 (from memory) and it is well worth it. So, the review had to go somewhere and here it is. 

Well this really is an embarrassment of riches, 3CDs plus a DVD of prime Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds. There are a couple of reviewer complaints that some fave tracks are excluded - Henry Lee I think was one mentioned - but it's an indication of the band's quality of output that this is so. I don't know any other band that has such a high quality in terms of rock, lyrics, and performance, given their longevity. Check out the alternative box set of 3CD B sides and Rarities, it's a treat! Ok, its all subjective but that's my view.

Nick Cave, a superb lyrist, vocalist and performer is really without peer IMHO. Dylan and the late lamented Leonard Cohen are on a par lyrically, maybe some of Paul Simon, Elvis Costello and Richard Thompson, but do they reach such heights as vocalists and performers in a rock sense?

Your decision. And The Bad Seeds who Nick regards as one equal unit, are beyond any other rock unit in terms of delivery and imaginative interpretation. Yes? No? Its all subjective, whatever pushes your buttons.

How do you choose a 'best of' for this band from an output that spans thirty years? Well, this excellent compilation was chosen by Cave and Mick Harvey with some input by the current Bad Seeds. To quote Nick from his website, “This release is designed to be a way into three decades of music making. That’s a lot of songs. The songs we have chosen are the ones that have stuck around, for whatever reason. Some songs are those that demand to be played live. Others are lesser songs that are personal favourites of ours. Others are just too big and have too much history to leave out. And there are those that didn’t make it, poor things. They are the ones you must discover by yourselves.”

The tracks are in chronological order, a total of 45, from 15 albums with 3 session tracks included, the double Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus being counted as one album. I wasn't familiar with some of the earlier more manic rock tracks, 'The Carny', 'I'm Gonna Kill that Woman', and 'Up Jumped the Devil' but they provide a reflection of where the band was at, which was some liberating place of intense release, a cacophonous maelstrom of deliverance. Such purity, ha, is balanced by a sly dose of black humour and songs of beautiful melodious melancholic majesty.

But the cream on top for me is the DVD with 25 performances and 14 interviews approximate running time 2h 5m. Most of the interviews are short, providing song writing and performance background. Cave is a wordy songwriter, 'swallowed a dictionary' as they say here in Oz, and like similar songwriters, Cohen, Dylan, Shane McGowan, Elvis Costello, you wonder how they remember their lines. But he does, like a cinematic narration I guess, but it's his performances that are stunning. I've seen those artists mentioned above and they were all great, Cohen and Costello particularly, but I haven't seen Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds yet. On my bucket list. I have a number of their DVDs, top entertainment.

And this one will do it for you too. As Kirk Lake describes Cave in his insightful essay, 'ever the stick-thin, jack-knifing, marauding malcontent.' The DVD does not run chronologically which is a good thing. Most are excellent in terms of sound, photography and production but a couple look like Utube phone caught, and you're looking at the performances of course.

The book is cardboard bound, nicely designed, which includes the aforementioned literate insightful essay on the origin and development of Cave and the band, lots of rare photos, plus track and video information. It is superb!

Note that there are no tracks from the two Grinderman albums, although at least four could have fitted well here, but Grinderman is a stand alone stripped down unit, and one which may be savoured in the safety of your own parlour. Sorta like durian really. Hey, there's a whisper that another is on its way. Lawd be praised. 

Silence ANZAC Day 2018

My dad was silent about his place in the war


except to say that shells whizzed through the night


over El-Alamain seeking the army


of the Desert Fox. And that, sleeping on


those cold night sands, if you could, you would


wake to find a brace of scorpions


under your bedroll each morning. The tales of


my Uncle Don by contrast would enthral


us kids, how he'd dived behind a tank


with bullets ricocheting around his head...




No, my dad was mostly silent about


his place in the war. He had seen a Bedouin


carrying in a basket much prized eggs for sale


walk too close to the makeshift runway


and a Spitfire while landing had lopped his head


and everyone had jostled for those eggs.


I think that vision stayed; summed up war for him.




He did say that when the allies liberated


Rome he stood for hours in Saint Peter's Square


at a papal mass in celebration


of peace. Now, whether it was the fierce heat


or perhaps he was just overwhelmed,


he fainted and found himself inside the Vatican


where a kind and grateful priest gave him


a heavenly wine; scooped from the spring at Cana.




I recall that he and a fellow Airforce


mate were returning to base along a


valley track, maybe from a night out


in Perugia with those friendly effusive


Italian girls or maybe from a visit to Assisi,


'just us,' he said, 'not a soul to be seen'


and out of the sky swung a German fighter


with jackhammer canons raking the ground.


They dived in a ditch. 'What sort of human..?'




I recall as a young lad being on a hot


pebble beach at Deal where the Romans


had landed in 55BC. Granddad


had a handkerchief over his bald pate,


and a single engined plane zoomed over.


'Eee, exclaimed our Nan, 'I thought Gerry were back.'


We all laughed.




No, my dad never


celebrated ANZAC Day despite being


urged to do so by his boss.


In Dad's opinion


such marching and celebration


ratified the inhumanity of humanity.

Balloons, Sunday 18 March 2018

In the pre dawn half light the headlights

wash the road, and maybe the kangaroo

was mesmerised but knew where she had to go.

I swerved and almost collided with a cab

and the young one followed her mother as

she knew she must and slammed into my wing.

I braked hard, and she bounced off then bounded

and collapsed by the roadside, her tail

rising and falling, once, twice, three times

signalling the end before she'd barely begun.

I wondered whether the mother waited

dismayed like me, waited for her young one

to rise. There are those who would say

oh well, they're a pest, it's only one less...

And so, I drove slowly down to the lakeside

to await the gentle rise and drift

of the colourful balloon spectacle.

Down there the day was peaceful and still

with sunrising walkers and joggers,

and images mirrored upon the water,

which betrayed the image in my mind.

And I waited for the balloons to come

and play upon the placid lake.

And I waited for balloons to come.

Snared

Snared

That little nymph statue laced with web

holds indented prints of the sculptor’s thumbs

when he formed her flesh and curved her thighs

and smoothed her breasts with strength and love

and tenderness to place her proud at the

Governor's wharf. And now in shoulder curve

and tilt of head a spider drapes a lucky web.

A board decision cast a cement plinth

to fix this lithe ephemeral nymph

who watches unblinking those cruises arrive

they come and they leave in the bay of her eye

now filled with us and our fiddly lives

being shunted along through gardens and lawns

vacuumed, filleted, stamped and endorsed

by imprimatur of reign and rule

our route defined by steam cleaned walls

and paths and if you wander beyond

you'd be flung like a sinner into

the water or flogged like a felon,

a sculptor perhaps, on that old triangle

of truth and justice and clemency

this our U3A convener warns

mischievously on this smiling morn

where the warmth of the sun albeit strong

on those lissom limbs can raise but motes

and memory of sculpted nymph
 and sculptor

his firm and loving thumbs forming her into

perpetual life both model and sculptor

conjoined each day in viewers' eyes

like ours where art will jostle with fiddly lives

and we, replete with our sunhats, cameras

concerns and knee-jerk 'NO', just cannot affirm

this moment thumping with Life and YES

before it passes and the nymph oh the nymph

she understands well and would comfort

with welcome limbs and whispers

but snared she is by silk of spider and

muted tongue, and snared by atrophy

of circumstance and cautionary twirl

of his final thumbprint with its solemn

imprint forbidding her flesh and will

to move as it would but to cast instead

caution as currency into her form.

Yes, oh yes she would whisper softly

into his ear... as she did.

Adapted from a prose poem by Neva Kastelic.
The beautiful statue is at the head of the Governor General's landing in Yarralumla, Canberra.