narratorAUSTRALIA Volume Three

Thursday 10 October 2013

  A New Sura

  Joemass

  Chisholm, ACT

  (As recited by Osama Bin Laden)

  In the name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful

  He who has trodden unbidden on the sands of the holy land,

  it shall be as if he had trod on a scorpion and his heel shall be bruised.

  He who rides unbidden over the paths of the Prophet,

  his steed shall stumble and he shall be utterly cast down.

  He who takes the inheritance of the people of the Prophet,

  he shall be repaid with sorrow. When We repay,

  We repay not one harm but a multitude, visited on Us and Our people.

  They that set the children of Abraham one against another,

  they shall be called to account by Us, who is one and indivisible,

  as Abraham’s seed should be.

  This sword, crafted in Damascus, shall cut down Our enemies,

  as did Saladin’s,

  and Our people shall reclaim their birthright.

  As the burrs drive the ass to madness, so shall they be to Our enemies.

  As the shadows of the birds of the air darken the ground for an instant,

  so, too, the shadows of Our enemies are in Our heart but fleetingly.

  The true servants of God are the shadows;

  they cover the ground but cannot be touched;

  they fall upon you and, though you feel them not,

  they take away your light.

  The sun rises over the mountains,

  the sun sets on the mountains,

  the mountains remain.

  Foxes have holes and birds have their nests,

  but the servants of God have the mountains.

  The caves are comfortable to them.

  Did not the angel Gabriel come to the Prophet in the caves?

  And are not the secret symbols of Allah carved

  into the walls of the caves by wind and water?

  The caves keep the secrets of God.

  Our women take the golden threads of the those secrets

  and weave them into a new world, as once they wove

  cloths of damask or cashmere or cotton.

  Remember, in Our cloths your saints were wrapped.

  Though Our men may be wrapped in shrouds,

  there shall be a bright light in their dark eyes,

  for they shall see Our face and receive their reward.

  They shall be the jewels of Our faith.

  And even though their cities are pounded to dust,

  they shall be as Cordoba, an ornament to the world.

  In which city, once, Our servants gave knowledge to your forefathers.

  Even now, in the ruins of their homes, they shall teach you a lesson.

  In the name of Allah, peace be unto Him.

  Friday 11 October 2013

  The Natives Are Restless, Sir

  Mark Fowler

  Magill, SA

  ‘The natives are restless,’

  he said to the man in charge.

  ‘Keep me posted then

  about details small or large.’

  ‘Remember sir the

  last time we waited too long.

  They broke through sir, and

  were singing their battle song.

  They built up sympathy

  and stirred the resistance up.

  Must act soon sir, or

  they’ll be impossible to stop.’

  ‘Sorry to tell you sir,

  but we’ve left our run too late.

  Broken through the front

  lines, they’re at the very gate.

  Will it be the white

  flag? Or a strategic retreat?

  We must act now sir

  or we face certain defeat.’

  ‘Make contact with their

  leaders, we’ll negotiate.

  We might salvage our

  position, if it’s not too late.’

  ‘We’ve met the leaders, sir.

  They’ll accept a compromise.

  They’ll return to work, sir,

  for a longer smoko and a rise.’

  Saturday 12 October 2013

  Awe And Confusion

  Fantail

  Mount Barker, SA

  One summer afternoon I was lying on a rug on the back lawn, reading. Huge billows of cloud massed in the north-west and, feeling drowsy in the warmth, I’d just put my book down and my head on a pillow when a loud ‘Ahem!’ made me look skywards. Immediately I buried my face in the pillow, eyes squeezed tight against a blinding light.

  ‘Oh, hang on, I’ll dampen the special effects.’

  The voice was deep and resonant. My eyes popped open. I lifted my head and, to my amazement, an angel hung about three metres above me. While I slowly took in the bright vestments, great feathered wings and awe-inspiring masculine countenance, he extracted a thin, translucent cylinder from his robes, unrolled it, and solemnly began to read:

  ‘Behold, thou shalt conceive, and bring forth a son, and shalt call his name …’

  ‘Hang-on,’ I interrupted as he drifted slowly down, ‘I’m not Mary, and we’ve already had JC.’ My heart thudded; I’m a sixty-year-old grandmother. I quailed as those terrible eyes held mine for what seemed an eternity.

  He looked back at his reader, then at me and promptly sat down.

  ‘That wicked Lucifer! Always mucking around with my wormholes! I apologise. This message is for a female in sector three, and obviously this is not sector three.’

  For a while, he quietly studied the reader. Then he turned to me and asked, ‘What do you mean “JC”? Are you speaking of the son of God – the one who’ll be crucified? He couldn’t have been here. Wrong time, wrong sector.’

  ‘Well, it was about two thousand years ago,’ I replied. The angel’s eyebrows lifted so high that I said, ‘I’ll get my Bible – our holy book.’ I gave it to him – with the Q’ran.

  He leafed through both, making occasional derisory noises. Slowly, understanding gleamed in his eyes. ‘Lucifer has been here, hasn’t he?’

  ‘Maybe ... I mean ... possibly.’ I flushed. The Devil – here? To my house? To me?

  ‘And now he’s having fun in hell and left you lot unguided and unguarded, with a plethora of confusing religions, and up to mischief. Just look at the state of this planet! Rubbish everywhere; life systems failing; on the verge of a run-away greenhouse effect. You realise I’m going to have to interrupt my journey and find people to appoint as ecological prophets, otherwise there’ll be no human race for a first coming, let alone a second!’

  The angel turned his penetrating gaze on me, and stood up.

  Alarmed, I said, ‘I hope you’re not thinking to appoint me!’

  ‘You?’ he asked with sudden scorn in his voice. ‘You’ve got to be dreaming!’ And with a loud bang and bright flash he was gone, and the first fat raindrops hit my face.

  Sunday 13 October 2013

  Smashing Garlic

  Susan Kay

  Bellevue Heights, ACT

  Well, she says contemplating the head of garlic still cold from the vegetable bin. Well. She wants to grab the sharp knife and peel the skin off and chop it up as usual. All her cooking life she’s done that. But on the cooking shows …

  Bash it! say all those chefs. Hearing it for years – never tried. She takes a chef’s knife, lays its broad blade on top of the garlic clove, smashes it with her fist. Pain scoots up her arm all the way to her shoulder. She does a quick dance around the island bench to the tune of a few expletives. The garlic lies on the floor where it landed, completely unimpressed by her attempt to flatten it and by the performance following.

  God! She gazes longingly at the sharp paring knife, her life-long kitchen friend, but no, she recalls the voice of her newest chef friend from the television last night, reminding her how straightforward this is, how learning to do this properly will change her life. And echoes of all the
other cooks and master chefs – actual and aspiring – encourage her to a second try. She throws the chef’s knife, with its infinitesimal smear of garlic juice near the handle, in the sink.

  She seeks inspiration from the kitchen drawer and reaches for heavy artillery – the rolling pin. A large, heavy, marble object rescued from a garage sale for a dollar. She picks up the garlic, replaces it on the cutting board. Three second rule says she should wash it, but surely the germs will curl up and die in the cooking oil? Isn’t garlic antiseptic or something?

  Shut up and bash it girl. She strikes one, two, three times and the garlic head is pulp! She is sure she has broken her wrist in the process but she shakes her hand and contemplates step 2. Just remove the skins – easy! Half an hour later she is still fishing with the tweezers.

  Monday 14 October 2013

  Betrayal

  Mark Fowler

  Magill, SA

  She entered into my life by stealth

  ‘Love me’ written on her face

  No possessions, winsome name or wealth

  Her movement all style and grace

  I accepted her in my life – no reason or favour asked

  My mind beguiled – I cared only for the present, not past

  She loved me in return, so I thought

  Her touch full of tenderness

  But no matter what I gave or bought

  I loved her more – she loved me less

  In daylight hours she was mine – but at night she wandered far away

  From fear I locked her in – but in truth, my love was but a stray

  Signs of betrayal were all around

  A bed still made, not slept in

  And when we spoke she uttered not a sound

  Rueful smile, on lips so thin

  Pain of infidelity too much, I ushered her from my life

  I was devastated then – I should have listened to my wife

  Stray cats will always let you down

  No matter how tame they are.

  Just choose a dog from the city pound

  He’ll love you close – not from afar

  Sometimes I think if of her – wandering lanes and alleys dark

  But soon that passes by, as I take Rover to the park

  Tuesday 15 October 2013

  Twenty-Seven Typists

  Graham Sparks

  Bathurst, NSW

  In this modern world of hyper speciality,

  The micro-tomes of simple fields

  are divvied up among the functionaries,

  and each and every one of them

  begets a micro-manager.

  So say a firm desires a typist,

  to with letters grace the face of papers

  creating thus, epistles,

  no less than twenty seven ads require the placing.

  For you see the number twenty seven is the count

  of functionaries required to span the gamut of the alphabet.

  Number one, the letter ‘A’, a specialist in typing ‘A’.

  Number two, the letter ‘B’, a specialist in ‘B’.

  Number three, the letter ‘C’,

  and so on then until we reach the letter ‘Zee’,

  counting in at number twenty six.

  And now I hear you ask about the number twenty seven,

  surely twenty six encompasses the alphabet.

  Here we see a fatal flaw for man has tunnel vision now,

  and something whole and simple like the alphabet

  is deconstructed most post modernly,

  and such a thing as inference,

  and such a thing as general knowledge ,

  and such a thing as inquiry,

  alas they’ve all been lost.

  So number twenty seven is a luncheon functionary,

  a ‘Tiffineer’ if I may take some licence,

  A person who’s employed to put the morsels into mouths of twenty six,

  then oscillate the jawbones,

  then massage throats to ease the khime on down,

  for twenty six enscribing specialists, each bereft of common sense,

  cannot themselves do lunch.

  Wednesday 16 October 2013

  The Charms of Miss Cairns

  James Craib

  Wentworth Falls, NSW

  So you won the beauty contest in north Queensland,

  Now you’re known as ‘Miss Cairns’.

  But I know that you have doubts, misgivings and concerns –

  But have no fear; you see I know you best and well understand ...

  Miss Cairns:

  You’re fabulous, extraordinary, magnificent and great.

  You’re marvellous, remarkable, and wonderful; just wait ...

  You’re amazing, awe-inspiring, spectacular and dramatic,

  You’re splendid, significant and startling; I’m emphatic, that ...

  You’re stunning, astonishing, astounding and incredible.

  You’re delightful, insightful, delicious – almost edible!

  You’re pleasant and charming, disarming them all,

  You’re amusing, confusing, a good time, a ball!

  Did I mention that you’re humorous and witty – a hoot?

  Did you also know that you’re deadpan, droll and so cute?

  You should know you’re drop-dead gorgeous in your birthday suit!

  You’re sexy and slinky, even kinky; for all time a great route ...

  To travel with ’cause you are fabulous, forthright and fun,

  You’re brilliant, fantastic and sensational – second to none!

  You enthral me when you call out in the middle of the night.

  You’re beguiling, always smiling; you’re sweetness and light.

  Not forgetting that you’re noteworthy, naughty and so nice,

  You’re perfection, a confection; you are Paris and paradise.

  Endlessly entertaining, illuminating though occasionally obscure ...

  You’re mysterious and I’m delirious; this is serious – should I demur?

  No! ’cause you’re agreeable, amenable, appealing and outstanding.

  You’re enchanting, entrancing; momentous like the moon landing.

  You’re super, superb and sparkling like the stars in the sky,

  You are bold and beautiful; you are Manly (?) and Bondi.

  But Miss Cairns:

  Fabulous you may be – you can be fatuous and in addition,

  Often you are florid and quite horrid, say things torrid; arouse sedition.

  Some say you’re exotic and quixotic – it makes me shiver ...

  Perhaps it’s for the best I should just get dressed, stop staring at the mirror!

  A Reflection:

  Who is ‘Miss Cairns’? What is this poem about?

  The answer is one and the same.

  Wednesday 16 October 2013 4 pm

  Cricket

  Alexander Gardiner

  Bullaburra, NSW

  A luv cricket, oh ah really dae,

  A luv tae watch cricket whin at play.

  A luv Tests, wan day games an’ twenty twenty,

  Whare dramas arrrrr’ oaftin plenty plenty.

  Noo cricket is no awbidy’s game,

  basketball an’ fitba arrrr’ nae the same.

  Sum folks like tennis an’ hockey tae,

  An’ they arrr’ aw played at aw times o’ day.

  The twa teams play wae bat an’ baw,

  The greatest spectakal yea kin iver saw.

  The twa batsmen at each end o’ the wickit,

  Face slow baws, fast baws an’ sum impossible tae hit.

  Noo it kin be a very painful game,

  An sumtimes wan kin be in aufie pain.

  Cos’ the batsmen face fast bowlin’ men,

  An’ sum fast baws arrrr’ blidy gems.

  Sumtimes fast bowled baws yea canny see,

  An’ shid a’ways, be lit be.

  Cos’ sumtimes thay very fast baws,

  Kin hit yea
oan yer ain wee, poor he-haws,

  He-haws whit arrrr’ they yea say?

  Jings, a ken he-haws yer no quite au-fait.

  Weel it’s sae delicat tae explain tae sae the least,

  Cos’ thare painful whin even jist a wee bit creased.

  Weel, let’s say wummin hivnae gote he-haws,

  So it’s nae the same if hit wae very fast baws,

  Blidy nora, it’s aufie hard fur me tae explain,

  It’s tae dae wae sex that’s nae quite the same.

  Aw, a think yea hiv guessed it by noo,

  If no, ma explanashun wull hiv’ tae do.

  Am sure yea ken co’s yer no aw fools,

  Yer richt, it’s man’s family jewels.

  Sair wee he-haws whin hit wae aufie fast baws,

  Dinny matter cos’ it’s fur a great cause.

  Tho’ resultin’ in excrushiatin’ pain,

  CRICKET IS STULL A BLIDY FANTASTICK GAME.