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I know what you’re doing, ScoMo

/ Doug Jacquier / 3 Comments

As part of my experimentation process in all forms of writing, I performed this piece at a recent heat of the SA Poetry Slam series. Suffice to say it didn’t go down too well with the predominantly personal angst-ridden young emo audience. Ah, well, to each his own.

PS – For my overseas readers:

  1. ScoMo is the universal nickname for our Prime Minister, Scott Morrison, who’s about to receive a State Dinner from Donald Trump.
  2.  The last stanza is a parody on our best known traditional folk song, Waltzing Matilda.

 

I know what you’re doing, ScoMo,

when you push the Dutton panic button

and Michaelia tells us there’s no cash left in the machine;

it’s the old magician’s trick of misdirection.

 

I know when you’re playing your Trump card, Scomo,

Of all circuses and no bread

While behind you the blind horses nod and wink for the cameras

And whistle up the dogs to bite the refugees.

 

I know what you’re doing, Scomo, making us pick sides

Telling women sleeping in cars that it’s all the greedy Boomers fault

And telling frozen Newstarters that it’s all their own fault

Because you’ve got a no-fault clause in your social contract.

 

I know what you’re doing, ScoMo,

Smiling at screen zombies who live their lives online,

And regurgitate their ignorance for eternity

and shape-shift their paranoia on to anyone but you.

 

I know what you’re doing, ScoMo,

Winding up mid-lifers running in the wait-for-age handicap

over the mortgage distance,

and playing dead-safe while they wait for the Lotto results.

 

I know what you’re doing, ScoMo,

waiting to zonk me out in front of the TV in a nursing home,

where immigrants shove shit in one end and wipe it up at the other,

while you’re waiting for your mess of parliamentary pottage.

 

But this ghost will be heard as I camp by your billabong

Despite all your snoopers and the cameras I see

I’m not happy-clapping, waiting ‘til the planet boils

I’m calling out your humbug and slamming it with glee.

 

An uncommon future

/ Doug Jacquier / Leave a comment

This poem emerged from a conversation with some older relatives, where I talked about a vivid memory I had of a time we shared. They looked at me as if I’d arrived from another planet and told me none of the things I recalled ever happened.

Since the elders told me I only remember myths or dreams,

I’m not sure what past I share with you.

Often enough, until now,

I assumed a shared memory space,

a common time.

 

But if none of it was real

it means we can be anything,

now and in the future,

because the past is only what we make up

from hatred and desire.

 

The challenge now is to grab this thing,

this weightless freehold,

this rule change,

and enter this corridor of a thousand doors

and dare to knock on them all.

 

I want in my remaining years

to say the unsayable and deliver the unaddressed

and release the never-to-be,

before it can hide in safe corners,

waiting for something-to-turn-up.

 

Never again will I wrap my tiny fortune,

like a sixpence,

in the corner of my childhood hankie,

waiting for the tuck shop to open

and fulfil my desires.

 

For time is the only kingdom,

the power and the glory,

for ever and ever.

And if we have no common past

we must have an uncommon future.

 

 

Not shy but retiring

/ Doug Jacquier / Leave a comment

I don’t know how to be yet

when I am being nothing that I used to be

in my rapidly fading workaday world.

I don’t know how to speak the language

of nothing.

I don’t know how to begin and end the day at the same place

and radiate contentment.

I don’t know how to say the things

that a person who is alright would say.

I don’t know if I will go mad

and I don’t know how I will know when it starts,

if it starts,

or how it will end,

if it ends.

I don’t know how to say I am a writer when the words won’t,

when the words, when the ……….

I don’t know how to be nameless and hatless in a community,

to be, for all intents and purposes, irrelevant.

I don’t know how to be adrift without a network,

with no-one watching me for worrying signs

when I don’t even know what the signs are

to worry about.

I don’t yet know how to be still

long enough to be

nothing,

so I can decide

if there is any something to be.

And what if I want nothing

and to be

nothing?

Will there be anything left to love?

And will there be anything left of me to care?

Eureka

/ Doug Jacquier / Leave a comment

This Eureka lemon,

this only true lemon,

this mother of all lemons,

was planted in someone’s field of seaside dreams

a generation ago.

Now in serial tenant territory

its untended bounty reaches for the sky

and rains down a citrus glut

that no gluttony can satisfy.

I box them up to share

and Mr. Across-the-road-but-one barters fish

in return for freezing the squeezings

for the summer lemon drought,

but there’s a limit to how many lemons

a street can absorb in its life.

I’m only renting the tree

but I can watch its random neglect no longer

and, having given up on myself,

I’m slowly getting it fit

and in shape for the next generation,

as I try not to think of bulldozers

and two-storey eyesores with sea views.

Amongst its criss-cross branches

I find mundane secrets

of upturned plastic bottles filled with pest bait

and a pair of men’s shorts snagged in the canopy,

a victim of wind-blown snowdropping.

Hardly Eureka moments

but a connection across the decades

to someone else who believed there was a future.

We will not go quietly

/ Doug Jacquier / 2 Comments

As you can tell, I’m getting a bit sick of boomer bashing as the latest millennial blood sport.

 

You can honk your horns all you like

as we drive along the roads we paid for

visiting the health system we paid for

while you were at the schools we paid for

only for you to choose ignorance.

 

You can call us feeble-minded

when your life is just a screen, replicating your ignorance for eternity

and shape-shifting your faults on to anyone but you.

We’re as sane as hell

and we’re not going to take it anymore.

 

We will not be your scapegoat

(or whoever vegans blame)

for every ill in the world.

from a sick planet

to not having a job

that doesn’t involve you being rich and famous.

 

We will not be zonked out in front of TVs in nursing homes,

where immigrants shove shit in one end

and wipe it up at the other,

because you don’t want to get your hands dirty

while you’re waiting for what you think you deserve.

 

We will not sit freezing in the dark

living on bread and vegemite,

because we were structurally re-adjusted

or spent our life nurturing our country’s children,

so that you can have your mess of pottage.

 

We will not be told by politicians

when we can choose to end our life

in this God-forsaken wasteland.

We will decide when we leave

and the manner in which we make our leaving.

 

But, before we leave, we’ll embarrass you

by swearing loudly like sailors

and continuing to have sex

and throwing parties with lots of loud music

because we won’t sit in silence.

 

We will not go quietly.

Bushwhacked poetry

/ Doug Jacquier / 12 Comments

Note: Aimed at an Australian audience, though I imagine similarly execrable hackneyed forms occur in other cultures and languages.

 

I love a well-worn cliché

Where the Snowy River reigns

We don’t need no quiche, ay,

On the Oodnagalabi Plains.

 

Some doggerel out of Gundagai

Old regrets we used to know

And stone the crows that fill the sky

Along the Malonglo.

 

Our patron saint, The Banjo,

Of Waltzing Matilda fame

Makes our very hearts glow

With his verses, both halt and lame.

 

Close behind is Henry Lawson

With his tales of outback life

Though goodness knows what Freud would’ve made

Of the snake and The Drover’s Wife.

 

The Bulletin let them have their say

And the bush bards told it true

Of characters met along the way

But no Afghan, black or Jew.

 

So Akubra on and pen in hand

Churn out some turgid lines

About some Never-Never land

And make sure the bastard rhymes.

Defiance in the dust

/ Doug Jacquier / 4 Comments

Episode 1. (in which a wife becomes a widow)

“They’re Roman Catholics, of course,

All those kids, have to be.

Don’t have any choice really, do they?

My God, what a tribe!

Still, cheaper by the dozen I always say.”

And the tongues clacked even louder

when your husband went to work one day

and his heart sent him home in a coffin.

 

You, the new tribal elder,

with no time to rend your clothes or cut your skin

or wail into the night

survived,

your duty to the children

and your love for the One

(tested in late lonely hours of single terror)

ensuring tomorrow and then tomorrow,

until automatic again.

 

Episode 2. (in which a widow becomes a wife again)

The back door is banging less these days

and the youngest stragglers are drifting from the hearth

as a familiar face comes calling.

To your children you deny blushes

and your diminishing waistline

but, eventually,

you fall in love with his passionate patience

and his belief in you.

 

Episode 3 (in which asbestos taketh away what God has joined together)

A cough got its skates on

and pale Christmas courage

gave us memories of him to live with.

We all came to be with him and you.

You, stronger at your core than us all,

solace to kin and doctors alike,

determined that you were married to a man and not a patient,

laughed as you prayed and liberated Peace

from the clutches of pompous Death.

 

You, the tribal elder,

again no time to rend your clothes or cut your skin

or wail into the night,

survived for him and your duty to the offspring

and your love for the One.

But this time, the late lonely hours did not fill you with terror

but questions

about where you would find automatic tomorrows this time.

And you even dared “Why?”, in your private silence.

 

But in a hot, dusty churchyard

you walked bareheaded

and sang loud your hope of a merciful Heaven,

striding defiantly every inch of the way

as though everything had happened

but nothing would change.

Spiced salmon with yoghurt-herb sauce

/ Doug Jacquier / Leave a comment

Source: http://www.taste.com.au

Ingredients

  • 2 tsp ground coriander
  • 2 tsp ground cumin
  • 4-8 salmon skin-on portions
  • 2 tbs extra virgin olive oil, divided
  • 3 bunches baby broccoli (about 600g total), thick ends of stems trimmed
  • 1 cup (280g) Greek-style yoghurt
  • 1 lemon, rind finely grated, juiced
  • 2 tbs finely chopped dill
  • 2 tbs sesame seeds, toasted
  • 1/2 cup coriander
  • 1/2 cup dill sprigs

Method

  • Step 1
    Position racks in centre and bottom of oven and preheat oven to 250°C (230°C fan-forced). Place 2 large heavy non-stick baking trays in oven to heat.
  • Step 2
    In a small bowl, mix the ground coriander, cumin, 1½ tsp sea salt flakes and 1 tsp freshly ground black pepper. Coat salmon with 1 tbs oil and season all over with spice mixture.
  • Step 3
    In a large bowl, toss the baby broccoli with the remaining 1 tbs oil and season with salt and pepper.
  • Step 4
    Remove preheated trays from oven. Place salmon, skin-side down, on trays. Scatter baby broccoli around salmon. Roast, rotating trays halfway through cooking, for 12-14 mins or until salmon is cooked through with a rosy centre.
  • Step 5
    While salmon cooks, in a small bowl, whisk yoghurt, lemon rind, 1 tbs lemon juice and chopped dill. Season with salt and pepper. Transfer salmon and baby broccoli to a large platter. Spoon over yoghurt sauce and sprinkle with sesame seeds, coriander sprigs and dill sprigs.

Slow cooker pea and ham soup

/ Doug Jacquier / 1 Comment

Source: http://www.taste,com.au (with some minor amendments from me)

If you haven’t got a slow cooker already, buy one for $50-$60 (the bigger the better) and you’ll find it gets lots of use. This recipe couldn’t be much simpler and tastes amazing on a cold winter’s night.

Ingredients

  • 1 tablespoon olive oil
  • 1 small brown onion, finely chopped
  • 2 garlic cloves, crushed
  • 2 sticks celery, diced (I used leeks last time)
  • 300g sebago potatoes (or whatever you have), peeled, diced
  • 650g ham hock
  • 1 packet green split peas, washed, rinsed (the original says one cup but if you like your soup spoon-standing-up thick like we do, throw in the whole pack)
  • 3 cups chicken stock
  • 1 dried bay leaf
  • Chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley, to serve
  • Crusty bread, to serve

Method

  • Step 1
    Heat oil in a large frying pan over medium-high heat. Cook onion, stirring, for 3 minutes or until softened. Add garlic, celery and potatoes. Cook, stirring, for 3 minutes. Transfer to bowl of slow cooker.
  • Step 2
    Add ham hock, peas, stock, bay leaf and 1 litre cold water. Season with pepper. Cover with lid. Cook on high for 6 hours.
  • Step 3
    Remove hock from soup. Remove and discard rind and bone. Shred ham. Return ham to soup. Cook on low for 1 hour or until ham and peas are tender. Serve with parsley and crusty bread.

Spicy tuna pasta bake

/ Doug Jacquier / 1 Comment

Source: http://www.taste.com.au 

Very simple but delicious, this has become a firm family favorite.

Ingredients

  • 300g penne rigate
  • 2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
  • 2 garlic cloves, crushed
  • 1 brown onion, finely chopped
  • 700g jar tomato passata
  • 1 tablespoon dried Italian mixed herbs
  • 2 teaspoons white sugar
  • 1 1/2 teaspoons salt
  • 1 to 2 teaspoons dried chilli flakes
  • 1 cup pitted black olives
  • 425g can tuna in olive oil, drained, flaked
  • 1/2 cup grated mozzarella cheese
  • 1/2 cup grated tasty cheese
  • Finely chopped fresh flat-leaf parsley, to serve

Method

  • Step 1
    Preheat oven to 200 C/180 C fan-forced.
  • Step 2
    Cook pasta following packet directions, until almost tender. Drain well. Transfer pasta to a 12-cup-capacity baking dish.
  • Step 3
    Meanwhile, heat oil in a frying pan over high heat. Cook garlic and onion, stirring, for 3 minutes or until light golden. Add passata, herbs, sugar and salt. Season with pepper. Add chilli, to taste. Bring to a simmer. Reduce heat to low. Simmer for 3 minutes.
  • Step 4
    Pour sauce over pasta in baking dish. Add olives and tuna. Toss to combine. Sprinkle with cheeses. Bake for 25 minutes or until cheese is melted and golden. Serve sprinkled with parsley.