It's Remembrance Day: Some Thoughts & a Poem for Them All

Where have all the Flowers Gone? (Adelaide Australia November )

To say I have a complicated attitude towards days like today, Remembrance Day, is a massive understatement. I was born with a predisposition towards pacifism, a tendency that was strengthened by experiencing the damage done to my father from his time in the army and especially his time with the Australian army in Vietnam during the war. Then there was the impact on my family of his time there: the family basically imploded, with the subsequent effects on each of us.

Then there is my knowledge of military history, both as it is lived by the people doing the actual fighting and from the broader geo-political perspective of historical movements and imperatives, as well as the reasons for going to war. Not to mention my acute awareness of the lies we are told to justify war and the hiding of the real reasons a government will wage war.

At the end of the day it is these lies told by politicians and our so-called leaders and their manipulations of events and the revision of history, that has me now saying no to all wars.

At the same time from deep in the core of me I feel a love and affection, a pride, for the people we send (yes, we) to do the fighting, killing and dieing; I feel for and care about those who return from the fight wounded in body, mind and spirit.

Whatever the individual’s reason for ‘joining up’ to fight, they have all done the dirty work their society has demanded of them. Their efforts—their sacrifices—need to be looked at as completely separate from their governments actions and reasons for sending them to fight and what they have done must be looked at separately from any outcome of any given conflict.

I have always been deeply revolted and disgusted to the core by those who place blame and then abuse or attack those who have only been doing our (yes our) bidding in war. Anti war should and does not mean, anti those who have done the fighting.  To not make this distinction is to abdicate one’s own responsibility as a member of society.

On days like this, Remembrance Day, and all other commemorations that purport to remember and honor those who have died in war, there is a militarization that in many ways excludes an honoring of the dead by people who do not wish to, at the same time, promote or celebrate a culture of war and conflict. And that makes me sad.

My father (who had served as a Major in Australian Army Intelligence before, during and after the Vietnam War) died in 2000 as he ran for a train on a hot summer’s day. I don’t think there were too many moments in the thirty odd years between his time in Vietnam and his death that he was happy; not too many times he was at peace.

PTSD; Depression; violent mood swings and behaviours; constant and consuming distress and an ongoing inability to settle into any semblance of what we call a ‘normal life’. These were his rewards for doing his ‘duty’, for doing the things we (yes, we) asked him to do.

No need to go on. Suffice it to say, my siblings and I are the children of a Vietnam veteran, and to some degree or another we have inherited that legacy of suffering. Just like so many others, in so many wars, all over this benighted planet and through time.

About ten years ago I wrote a poem about my father and his post Vietnam life and death. Here is it as my offering at the memorial to all who have had to suffer as a result of all wars everywhere.

Lest We Forget to not only oppose war in all its guises and disguises, but let us always remember to create peace in our lives and in our communities.

Peace to you all.

IT’S A ’NAM THING

My father, many times he hit me.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.

My father hurt my sisters.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing

My father, he beat my mother.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing

My father had a shrink at 150 an hour.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.

My father tried to get sane.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.

My father, he kept his demons.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.

My father used to run for trains.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.

My father, one day thought he was late.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.

My father ran hard for his train.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing

My father caught that train, of course.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.

My father, his heart attacked him.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing.

My father, on that train he died.

But, hey, it’s a ’Nam thing

Hobart Australia

?2004 or 2005

Create and Share That Which has been Created: A Mantra for all Artists

Hello My Darling (Melbourne Australia December 2012)

I wonder how many of your know that I am a poet. Well, to put it more accurately: I sometimes write poems. I might go a year with no poems appearing, and, then, as has happened recently, I will write one a day for several days in a row.

Anyway, a couple of days ago I was reflecting in my journal (yes, I keep a journal too, and have been for over 35 years, again with the occasional break) on one of these recent masterpieces, and I found myself writing that I was really quite pleased with the poem and how I expressed some real feelings in the piece and that it contained some really nice images (of the wordy variety that is).

I stopped writing at that point to think about it a bit more. Then I started writing again. Here’s what I wrote:

I’m really struggling to come to a point where I do all my creative work and especially my photography simply because it is what I want to do, and to let go of any expectations of it being liked by anyone else or commented on or whatever. I am trying to realise that my role is to create and to share. That is all

Then I stopped again. After a few moments, I wrote in bigger letters and in the middle of the page:

 Create and share that which has been created

Okay, it’s not a new idea, this do your art because it’s what you want to do and don’t worry about the reactions of others. I'm sure you've read the same thing on other blogs, but it’s an idea worth talking about again; it’s a kind of reminder to self (and maybe to others?) that it is why one does something that matters most. Although of course, being human it’s always nice when people approve of what one does. I guess it’s about not worrying overly much about what other people think. It’s about not thinking about what’s popular, what sells, what gets the most “Likes” and the rest.

So, that’s what I am trying to do in my work as a street and social documentary photographer: make the photos I want, for the reasons I want to make them. I always aspire to make my photos the best I possibly can, just as I always try to have the best possible reasons or motives for making them. In a sense, once I have done my best to send them out into the world, I have no control over what impact (or lack of impact) my photos have. Same goes for this blog or anything else I do.

Anyway, I am glad my sub-conscious presented me with a new mantra as I wrote in my journal:

               Create and share that which has been created.

 Peace

James & Stacee: Forever Young

Josh & Stacee Forever Young (Terrigal June 2015)

Who is Josh? Who is Stacee? Who carved their names in the rock? Josh? Stacee? We will never know (unless the gods of art smile kindly and lead them to this blog). But here are their names, carved lovingly (yes, I think lovingly: look at the detail and the stylish nature of the carving.) on a rock shelf at a beach called Terrigal on the east coast of Australia.

Now, this rock shelf is made up of sandstone and other materials and was laid down as many as three hundred million years ago. Which means that for as long as people have lived on that shore, these rocks have looked much as they do now, but once they were high cliffs that have been eroded by time and the power of the sea.

We can wonder about Josh and Stacee sitting on this spot enjoying the spectacular views, to the north up the coast and out to sea.

In the Harsh Light of a Coming Storm (Terrigal Australia June 2015)

We can wonder at the patience and skill of the carver as she or he spent what must have been hours working on this beautiful declaration of presence and love.

And then we can wonder, whatever happened to Josh and Stacee? Are they now happily married and raising kids in the mortgage belt? Are they young and travelling the world and leaving their names wherever they go? Was it merely an adolescent passion that burned out with age, time, changing tastes and perhaps distance? Or, and this is also possible, are they middle aged (whether together, alone, or with other people) or even older? Perhaps they have even departed this life? Again, as with their identities, we may never know. But, still, we can wonder.

But whoever they are and wherever they are, their presence on that day when this carving was made is there for all to see, and to ponder on. In some way they will remain forever young as people come and go to and from "their" spot and wonder about them for years to come. But for how long? Who knows really?

Only the sea will know this. For one day, their names will be erased from this rock (just as others have been before them). Then, one day long after, this rock itself will crumble and fall into the sea. But, Josh and Stacee will be here and be together until:

"Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble"

 PS This last line is from a mesmerizing poem called Forsaken Garden by Algernon Charles Swinburne and written in 1895. You can find the complete poem here
. 

Harking Back to the Age of Reason (1)

Daddy Don’t Go

 

Never been to the park

with me Dad before.

But we’re goin’ now.

He’s made me a kite!

It’s a funny thing,

made outta brown paper and sticks

We’re in the park now

and Dad’s got the kite thing.

It’s got a long string.

‘Okay mate, you hold the kite. Got it?’

Wow! I never knew he’d let me

hold it.

Reckon he loves me lots.

‘Okay Dad’. It feels real good

hanging onto this kite thing.

Dad says he’ll walk away a bit,

and then we both have

to run to make the kite go

up in the sky.

He’s far away now;

I can hardly see him;

and he’s takin’ ages...

‘Okay boy, you start running now’

Why do I have to run?

 I think Dad told me

but I can’t remember.

Well, he’s me Dad,

so I’ll do what he says.

But I hate running:

I feel stupid.

Dad’s running too.

Very fast.

So am I, but...

‘Let it go!’ He’s yelling now.

What? I don’t get it.

‘Let it go!’

So I let it go, but it just falls

and I’m tripping on it, and

now I’ve broken Daddy’s kite.

All the paper’s ripped

and the sticks are all busted.

I’m so stupid.

I think Dad’s mad with me.

He’s walking away real fast.

I hate this kite thing.

‘Daddy!’

I’m yelling and crying and running

‘Daddy, don’t go!’