Do you want to return to a time in your life when things were wonderful, filled with people you loved, with dreams that you had, when the world was simpler and the future glistened?And do you wonder what happened, where did those years go?The answer, my friend (no, not with Bob Dylan), is with you inside your head, all the good and some of the bad. The answer is writing it down – it’s still there – in poetry. Reading others, writing your own. Think back – it’s still there – look back, look forward… poetry. Do you recall those violet-infested walls of that old English church; that girl you saw and never forgot in a tavern once visited; that old town you first taught in and that noisily funny dunny-cart man; the fear of being trapped in a crashed car with petrol dripping; resting in love with a beautiful partner; dangling a line in a beautiful river with beautiful sons?It’s all there, deep down, relived and reloved, in poetry.
Reading Dad’s poetry is like taking a walk through his life. It is easy to see there are demons, but there is beauty and love too. Beauty in memories of greyhounds, raging fires, the plight of Indigenous people, the complexities of religious beliefs, and recognising the power of other people’s life stories.
I remember sitting in the back seat of his car, listening to him speak of Shakespeare and reciting sonnets verbatim. He spoke of Keats and Eliot, of Yeats and Poe, and Yevtushenko and I did my best to comprehend the images of tragedy, love and loss. And now, many years later, when I read Dad’s words, I think I understand them.
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