AUSTRALIAN POETS AT WORK SERIES 2
Barbara De Franceschi
Selected by Coral Hull
[Above] Photo of Barbara De Franceschi by Boris Hlavica, 2005.
CH: What is your favourite season and why?
BD: Once I would have said spring with its air of expectancy, but autumn suits me well, a gentle time, winding down from heated ideals. The blood in my veins slows to a steady pace. A pleasant stillness overcomes the constant rush induced by summer with its fiery sunsets and seductive frills. Pot-roast days alternate with mild curry nights, baked apples experience a revival along with contemplation and brewed tea. Pigments of ochre redefine ambition with a soft flutter. There is time to forage words for that perfect verse and to store love.
If my answer reads like a poem, I confess the thought of autumn does that to me.
CH: How would you describe your immediate surroundings?
BD: In one word, arid; red dirt spills through saltbush and over hills aching from drought. Yet there is evidence of effort. Gardens are tended with special care, even if we are gentle on weeds. All roads lead to desert surrounds where wild flowers ignore the harsh environment and bloom with a determination that comes from living in the outback where self-reliance is rife.
The city of Broken Hill is scarred from decades of mining, but not so community spirit, which runs the length of the ore lode, one of the richest mineral lodes ever found.
Open space coupled with clean air and amazing light draws artists and film-makers.
Tranquillity thrives amongst the crows, the cockatoos and the tweets of early morning song.
Ok, so there is dust and flies but both are the friendly kind.
CH:What is the hardest thing you've ever had to do?
BD: There are so many difficult things to do in life it is impossible to condense them into a specific action. One thing does stick in my mind though, maybe not the hardest thing in terms of magnitude but it certainly made my heart jolt out of rhythm - saying goodbye to an old decrepit dog.
Scungy was his name and that says it all.
My son brought him home from the Tanami Desert, adopted him out of pity, a battered camp dog, once a warrior who bore the scars of battle to remind everyone of his bravery. He was a big dog, (breed indecipherable), ugly beyond words, with a huge head, most teeth gone, a dirty mottled-brown coat and a prance that defied his unattractive frame.
I detested his intrusion into my ordered life, knowing my adventurous son would eventually leave him in my care. I ignored that lumpy hound for the first month as he did me; we refused to make eye contact and pretended neither existed.
On a sultry day as I rested on a comfortable chair on the back verandah reading a book, I was repulsed by a sudden hot breath (the breath of a thousand camels I might add) blown in my face. I stared into tawny eyes that held the wisdom of compromise. He flopped his large head onto my lap, dribbled all over my pristine page, unconcerned that his spotted tongue lolled unsightly from vacant gums.
And so the story of attachment began.
He was my prince; he listened to all my woes, grinned at my failures and blew his hot breath to dissipate any silly mundane concerns. I admired his patience and laughed at his strange antics. He would freeze mid-pace, a vague fog curtained his eyes as he stood like a statue until the episode passed and he returned to his sluggish self. He loved the sun, sprawled about for hours just soaking up its energy, not that he found any; he was lazy, slothful and totally absorbed in his own daydreams. The only time he became animated was when I stroked his head and told him how extraordinary he was despite his camel breath and scungy appearance.
Eventually arthritic bones hampered his princely prance and pain dimmed the flecks of gold. With a hole in my heart I said goodbye to my friend, my confidante, who earned the neighbourhood title of The Ugliest Dog Ever Seen, which just goes to show, beauty is overestimated when it comes to loyalty and love.
CH: Do you believe that the human race has a purpose?
BD: Yes, humanity. Some of us get it and some us unfortunately don't.
CH: If you had three wishes, what would they be?
BD: 1. I would like to bestow on everyone the gift of hindsight.
2. To meet Leonard Cohen.
3. And let's be totally selfish here, I want the brains of Einstein, the patience of Job and the body of Elle McPherson.
Because I am greedy that is probably five wishes instead of three.
CH: What are your primary concerns regarding the world?
BD: I must go with the obvious here, racial hatred, religious intolerance and global warming. We seem to be on a collision course with global disaster, a heedless lot with no blue-print on how to avoid annihilation. I fear the children of my grandchildren will never know the world as I have, every generation thinks in terms of the past, whilst the future hovers somewhere out there in cyberspace for someone else to preserve.
CH:
Who are your favourite Australian writers?
BD: I don't like to list favourites, as being a fickle female I fall in and out of love with poets and writers (dead or alive) quite often, so those in favour today can easily be banished tomorrow to make way for some new discovery.
However I do enjoy the poetry of Bernard O'Dowd (1866-1952) whom I discovered in a second-hand book shop. My favourite poem is titled The Song Thing, The first verse goes:
Out of the song a Song-thing flew;
Into the briar a bee;
Out of the silence floated you
Into the storm to me;
The Song-thing ripe to the moon-way rose;
The briar at the bee-kiss flushed;
Your silent petals I heard unclose,
And you my tempest hushed.
Of course I am forever the romantic!
On today's scene I admire Les Wicks for his ability to think outside the square, Michael Sharkey for his wordiness and being able to write a poem about dandruff and Peter Bakowski for his uncomplicated language.
CH: What makes you happy?
BD: I could say simple things like peace of mind, being surrounded by family, the creativeness of writing, watching a movie that makes me laugh and cry.
However being true to myself (even if self is sometimes sightly off centre to the rest of the world) is the mainstay of my happiness. The words of Leonard Cohen sum it up so well:
"Like a drunk in a midnight choir, I have tried in my way to be free."
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Blue Wren
a dead bird
leaves my judgement raw
blue-black feathers
fluffed by a light wind
long tail fanned with dignity
I know by instinct
it would rather play this parkland
from the low branches of the lilly-pilly trees
I want to lift its body
examine the cause of death
but my fingers are repelled
by ants in a funeral train
a rent-a-crowd of mourners
ready to feast upon the wake
there is sorrow
for the autumn left naked
sunny skies open to mercy alone
the nests / the riverbanks abandoned
for the wings trapped inside me
I come in search of nothing
accustomed to empty contemplation
wasted time
I find
a dead bird
Christmas on a Sheep Station
there is nothing subtle
about plucking a wild duck
turquoise head limp
against a soft brown chest/ voice box silent
I am twelve-years-old
whisked from urban to rural Australia
where commodities are precious
conservation respected in every crude form
black leeches stick to my legs
after a swim in the creek
ghostly flutes piped through red-gum stands
sigh in sympathy
as I apply common salt to save my blood
I learn to squirt milk into a bucket
from a cow's bulging teat
fill vacola jars with fruit
grown in an orchard
that survives on bore water and chicken shit
in solid darkness with a narrow torch beam
I navigate the pathway to the lavatory
avoid being bitten by furry black tweezers
or spooked by the vaporous bleat
of a stray lamb
but I cannot tear feathers
from a dead chestnut teal
around a Christmas table
set with no nonsense
fragile bones rise on white china plates
for me ... sweet-potato & sticky dumplings
Culture in the Park
A Sunday afternoon band concert ropes him in.
Feet strike a tempo, body rocks uncertain.
He accepts my scrutiny. His face is a graph
plotted over rough terrain.
Beneath brows tossed every which way,
flashes of malachite detain my curiosity.
A long charcoal beard hangs feral,
like a national park sprouting untamed growth,
overcoat doused with a thousand scarecrow seasons
dangles from lopsided shoulders to below the knees.
Suddenly he pirouettes.
Black cloth is out there circling above green grass,
arms rise and fall, hands form intricate patterns
He is elaborate poise, graceful deportment.
The variegated shades of his imagined past
obscure even more given such nimble precision.
Oblivious to a staring crowd he spins
in a ballet so unearthly
tortured hearts revive from boredom,
unbidden tears sting behind lids
too fascinated to blink.
A change in rhythm breaks the hold,
he fatigues, a slow grin sees him off
in an awkward shuffle. I close both eyes
to hold his beauty,
in case he never was.
Floral Confessional
As a child I confessed to hollyhocks
rather than those wire grills
that handed out penance for fairytale transgressions.
No hidden expressions for me.
Open faces
on tall elegant stems
swayed with sensitivity.
They stood stately against a corrugated iron fence
heads bent
in a placid stoop to hear some tragedy.
I discussed questions about ideals
the madness of growing-up.
Spoilt their noon-time snooze
with the yabbering of a child
uncertain about which road to take.
Cabbage-like leaves dissuaded annoyance
sweet forgiveness instilled repair.
When they left
another year was added to my chart.
I spent cold days
with my tongue locked in bleak seclusion
stored despair in small frozen parcels
to be unwrapped
in warm empathy when they returned.
I scattered fear & hellfire
(the black peatmoss of religion)
around their roots
sung made-up hymns
until I felt their shoots begin to travel back.
Robust seasons fed innocence.
I confessed to flowers
& blamed no-one for my sins.
Acknowledgments to: Eclectica (USA), Poetrix (Australia). |
About the Poet Barbara De Franceschi
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Barbara De Franceschi was born in Broken Hill and is passionate about the city and its desert surrounds. A prolific writer of poetry, her works have been published Australia-wide and internationally. Barbara is an adventurous writer and is continuously trying to find new ways and forms to present her work. As well as devoting her time to writing Barbara runs a local business with her husband. The City Council of Broken Hill presented her with a Citizenship Award in 2000 for her service to the community. In 2002 Barbara was awarded the 'Order of Australia' medal in recognition of her contribution and involvement in multicultural affairs and events. This commitment continues and was evident on May 7th 2006 when 'Sharing the Lode: The Broken Hill Migrant Museum' was opened in the city, a result of five years of persistent effort by the Broken Hill Migrant Heritage Committee under Barbara's leadership. Barbara's first collection Lavender Blood was published in 2004 and the manuscript for a second collection is well under way. Barbara is a member of the performance group 'The Silver Tongued Ferals' and performs at caravan parks, arts festivals, 'Poets in the Pub', etc. She has also read her poetry live to air on ABC Radio. |
[Above] Photo of Barbara De Franceschi by Boris Hlavica, 2005.
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Thylazine No.12 (June, 2007) |
