A sad turn of events.

I write, I read, I aim to change the world.

I teach.

And it is there that I see so much that just saddens me. Children who can't read, parents who are too busy trying to blame someone else, teachers who just don't have the time to fix the problem. Teenagers who are essentially illiterate; people who will probably never be able to functionally read, let alone enjoy the beauty that can be the written word.

These people will never see the world I see, never live in the world that I live in. They know it too, and they are angry, but pretend that they don't care, that it doesn't matter, that being illiterate is actually cooler than you or I think.

I am not fooled. I will keep trying. I may not be as successful as I want to be, but I will try.

And I wonder ... could I actually write something for one of them? Firstly, I've got to get them to read.

If you can read you are richer than any man, woman or child in the world.

If you can read you have more opportunities for change than those who are not privy to this secret world.

If you can read, you get to live wherever you like, see whatever it is you want to see, and feel whatever it is you'd like to feel.

If you can read you are free.

Reason # 450,000 for having a child

After a terrible and demoralising day at work, I sat down with DH and my little angel for dinner. Tacos. They are her favourite as she can make them up herself; pre-schoolers and independence are an on/ off commodity that can change on a whim, so we embrace it when it works for us. But I digress, Em was given a melamine plate that I had decorated in grade four. She loves it as it has a rainbow on it, and she currently loves painting rainbows all the while singing about how, and I quote, "I can sing a rainbow, sing a rainbow, sing a rainbow too."

Like any person who has had an energy draining day at work, filled with blockers and naysayers and assumption makers, I sat eating my dinner, contemplating how I could debrief with my family without everything turning into a whinge-fest. So there I sat, in a contemplative stare, when I noticed the plate. Memories of grade four, being raced by my mum to my little sister's kinder program to create a plate template as my mum didn't want me to 'miss out', came flooding back. That plate always annoyed me. I was so stressed at the time trying to think of something 'good' to put on the silly thing, that I totally panicked when I realised I was running out of time. I decided to 'just do a rainbow'. Even then it annoyed me as 'so obvious for a girl to do', and to be honest, I wasn't even a 'rainbow type girl' (is that a term?) that I had feelings of betrayal for my own self at the time. I am sure I have put a few adult words into what was, essentially, an emotional experience for a 9 year old, but you get the gist (I hope).

And here is where I get to reason # 450,000 for having a child. While I sat there, stewing about my day, letting feelings of regret and annoyance from 1984 swamp my already tainted feelings, I blurted out that I really don't like that plate. Three and a half year olds don't let you drop a bombshell like that and not explain it, so I was asked the now obligatory, "why?" I rambled on and on with my little story, about how I felt rushed, and disappointed with the end result – all very 'woe is me'. Cue compassionate voice of an angel:

"It doesn't matter mummy, I like it."

Now I don't cry; it is a rare occurrence, but this made me tingle and tears of joy filled my eyes.

Reason # 450,001 would have to be the proud smile from her when I told her that she fixed the day for me. It takes a strong person to be able to change a whole day, and that three and a half year old is one of the strongest people I know.

Furphy’s Law: As told to an Australian poet.

Do you know Stella Maria Sarah?

She was a lyrebird, dancing in the cultural forest that is Australian literature.

Among the myth of mateship and the dear larrikin;

where we pretend that the only venom comes from our spiders and snakes.

She was a 'happy little Vegemite' who knew all about the insular nature of the bush telegraph.

We dream of our own Lindsay inspired 'Magic Pudding'; one that fills the void that builds with each foray into the abyss that is the quest for acknowledgement.

Blindly worshiping the icons built on Colonial foundations:

The digger,

The swagman,

The drover,

and the mighty battler.

These men pass muster – they had a go.

Now we do the same. Have a go that is, and look for the bludger, the wowser, the dobber –

anyone who no longer quietly serves the Crown.

That black and white harpy, who warbles her dissent at our culture,

has forgotten the beauty contained within the acerbic expectations we have of our people.

She tells a wild yarn in a dialect devoid of the Strine that pulses through her veins.

Where she lives they have the stiff upper lip, whereas we mutely salute those who enforce the ideal –

'keep your bloody mouth shut.'

We whisper, "I'll keep mine closed, if you'll keep yours."

Down here,

where a little hard yakka never hurt anyone,

where our admiration is directed at those who bravely fought the troopers during the Eureka Stockade,

we prefer to create barriers that lock out anyone who does not understand our particular manipulation of the Queen's tongue.

To be a true blue Aussie, that language must be a part of you.

It is a badge of honour that adorns the armour of words that you wear without shame.

Without it, we would much rather hail a man named Kelly, and sing praise to a thieving swaggy, than admit you've got something for us to learn from too.

What epitomises an Australian writer?

A question I know a lot of my blogging friends may not be able to answer, but it is something my next piece aims to address.

Why?

To be honest, why not? And the simple fact is that here in Australia 'we', as in the media, our people, our critics, and our education system are so seemingly intent on categorising this 'quintessential Australian Literature / Film / *insert item or genre here*, that we need to spend some more time working out what that is.

The result can sometimes be ironic in its very nature. I am Australian. I was born here, raised and educated here, and I write here. I am an Australian writer. I am an Australian female writer. The very factual nature of my life makes this so. Yet my poems do not describe the Australian countryside, don't marvel over the warbling song of the magpie, nor liken myself to the land. If it did it might be Australian.

And this is where I hit hurdle number one. If Australian poetry can only be defined by its use of the 'Australian voice', recognisable with a metaphoric link to the land, there are a whole lot of Australian poets who may just never be seen as such. Now this is such a shame. We are Australian poets, we use the quintessential Australian voice; we just don't channel A.B. 'Banjo' Paterson in the same way.

Does an Australian poet have to use the iconic references that we as a country clutch at - seeing these icons as being able to clarify who or what it is we are? Is it possible that the Australian voice is much more?

I suggest that the Australian voice is a quietly observant, political dissent. An observation of people and their motivations. A discussion of the impact of the world on who 'we' or 'I' are /am (respectively). Surely this same voice can be found in the Colonial past, the questioning of the role that has been played by the myriad groups that have added their piece to this fair land of ours?

As well-written, and interesting, the 'Australian' poetry that is published and discussed in well respected journals is, it is a shame that it seems to need to list a series of Australian icons in order to be labelled as such. Anything else is poetry. Good poetry admittedly, but not discussed in any great depth for its critique and/ or commentary on our land.

My next piece comments on this practice, and while it uses the 'expected' icons and references to be classed as an Australian poem, in reality it is the intent behind it that makes it an Australian poem. That is, the method of using what you are criticising to make a point that in itself is much, much more Australian than the icons Australian poems are expected to use.

That is why I am an Australian poet. Not because I was born here, raised here and write here. But because my poetry is a version of the Australian voice; it is a discussion of how society does things, and it doesn't need a warbling magpie to do it.

Frustrated apologies

Firstly I would like to thank those of you who commented on my last post and it's attached piece Lycanthropy. The problem is, I have no idea what you've said as the post comments just aren't showing up! Gahhhhhhhhh.

I have a returned follower and one new devotee (thanks), but would really love to reply to whatever it is that you may have said about my writing. Please don't think me rude when I don't, as I can't! My posts may be telling me that I have 2 - 3 comments, but when I click (delightedly as you may well imagine) on them to read, it comes up blank.

Hopefully this situation will be resolved soon. In the meantime, it's back to writing for me as my little girl is having a day at the in-laws.

Who's afraid of the big bad wolf?

Folklore loves wolves. They are the epitome of evil and are used in literature to symbolise a multitude of evils. One only has to look at the links between wolves and lunacy. Werewolves, Lycans, Wolfs bane ... so many ways to cast aspersions on such a beautiful animal. Humans have used this fair creature to comment on society, to moralise and preach, and to scare the living daylights out of generations of children. Little red riding hood's journey to visit her grandmother is a well know fairytale, and I have used it my newest piece, Lycanthropy.

Hope you like it.

Lessons from the good doctor.

Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter, and those who matter don't mind. Dr. Suess.

Something more important than realising the truth contained within those simple words is teaching our children to think this way. We teach them that being different is wrong, to fight back when others hurt them, to change who they are to fit into the world that we have allowed to develop.

And then we run off and complain that the world is a tough place and we wish that everyone would stop being so mean to each other.

Dr. Suess was a wise man - a wise man who wrote awesome stories for the people of the world. They don't just teach us how we can manipulate our language, but they show us how we can behave in a world that is full of rules and regulations; how we can be something special without breaking someone else down.

I hope that my child will live in a Dr. Suess world, because that's the one I am teaching her to be in. As an aside, she is cuddling me as I write this, singing 'Where did you sleep last night?' by Nirvana. As far as I am concerned, that little fact is beyond amazing!

So tell me, what happens in your Dr. Suess world?