From Haiku to Haibun to Prose: Fellowship of Australian Writers, Port Macquarie-Hastings Branch

      Writing is not life, but I think that sometimes it can be a way back to life.

—Stephen King On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

From back L to R
Tom, Hazel, Brian, Colleen, Ann, Debbie, Michael
Gwen, Rae, Wilma

Still bruised early Saturday I headed to the Mac Adams Centre at Port Macquarie to run a workshop organised by Colleen Parker. Each workshop is a thrill as one gets to know those attending. Participants ranged from a 'new' writer to Gwen, a delightful woman who was a foundation member of the group thirty-seven years ago. We focussed on 'writing from the senses' designed to envelop the reader in the writer's experience of the world. Using examples of Haiku from Basho to Les Murray, we explored the traditional form of Haiku then moved to Haibun—prose interspersed with an odd number of Haiku. 

Just two hours after

Eternal Life pills came out

Someone took thirty

—Les Murray

We had a productive day, plenty of writing, sharing work and laughter but also the odd tear. I was exceptionally moved by 'aha' moments from prose poetry that resulted from an exercise adapted from Graeme Kinross-Smith's book Writer. 

Judges 
Bruce Venables and Judy Nunn 

Colleen and I first met in 2001 at a meeting of the Partners in Crime group at the Hughenden Hotel. I was in shock after winning the 'Queen of Crime' award—Colleen and Diane Pattinson were to be the publishers of the resulting anthology. The story 'Morning News' had been originally shortlisted in the Stephen King   On Writing competition. 



It was then I realised life story could be adapted to any genre of writing. The work was 95% autobiographical—at the time there had been trials relating to a number of horrific crimes in the area including the murder of Frank Arkell, former Lord Mayor of Wollongong. The narrator in the story is a woman who has become paranoid because real life is frightening her more than Stephen King's fiction.

Diane Pattinson, Rae, and Colleen 2001

Colleen and Rae 2015

The grasshoppers' cry

Does not reveal how very

Soon they are to die

—Basho (17th century)

During the last week of school before exams, they had been reading and writing haiku in English class. Haiku was a Japanese form of poetry, brief, disciplined. A haiku, Mrs Douglas said, could be just seventeen syllables long—no more, no less. It usually concentrated on one clear image that was linked to one specific emotion: sadness, joy, nostalgia, happiness ... love. 

Ben had been utterly charmed by the concept. He enjoyed his English classes, although mild enjoyment was generally as far as it went. He could do the work, but generally there is nothing in it which gripped him. Yet there was something in the concept of haiku that fired his imagination. The idea made him feel happy ... Haiku was good poetry, Ben felt, because it was  structured poetry. There were no secret rules. Seventeen syllables, one image linked to one emotion, and you were out. Bingo. It was clean, it was utilitarian, it was entirely contained within and dependent on its own rules. He even liked the word itself, a slide of air broken as if along a dotted line by the 'k' sound at the very back of your mouth: haiku. 

Working carefully over a twenty minute period, with one break to go back and get more work-slips, striking out words that were too long, changing, deleting, Ben came up with this:

Your hair is winter fire

January embers

My heart burns there

—Stephen King It

From Ipads to Icepacks

We arrived at Penrith around 8pm Monday 22 June. We're ready to take off for Hawks Nest Tuesday morning. Barry has packed the car. We hear a bit of a bump turning onto Northern Road. We pull over, but can't see anything amiss. We arrive at Col and Sandy's and I go to get the Ipad. I ring Trish in hopes we have left it at her place. She says no and I remember that noise. 'Barry, you don't think you put the Ipad on the roof of the Kia?' Tried location services (did I activate it?) rang Penrith Police. 

And now to relax with Col and Sandy. They've asked their next door neighbours in for dinner—Henry and Shirley used to live in Mudgee and our daughter Tracy and Shirley's daughter Lyndall were best friends. We talk about Mudgee wines and ageing. If only we kept getting better like a good red. Wednesday morning non-stop on mobile with Telstra, Apple, and NRMA. Yes it is password protected. Despite all the pressing buttons and holding—Telstra and NRMA were helpful and did all they could.

Barry and Col growing old disgracefully

Barry and Col were in the same class at the Police Training Centre in 1961. Later they were in charge of adjoining 'one-man' stations—Col at Howlong and Barry at Balldale. There was six months difference between our eldest Trish and theirs, Craig—we each had two daughters and a son. For years we had holidays at Hawks Nest. First we stayed at Jimmy's Beach caravan Park, then Bill Ring's flats and finally the Beachfront Motel. The ten of us went up the Myall lakes on Col's boat Martini, the older kids sometimes camping on shore.  

Sandy and Rae growing old gracefully

There were pre-sunrise walks on Hawks Nest beach and watching the kids on hobi-cats in Port Stephens—years later finding out it was shark riddled. 

We sit and natter for hours and Col takes us for a drive around our old haunting grounds.

Thursday we had crispy fish and chips overlooking the entrance to the Myall Lakes in idyllic weather—ignoring the pelicans looking for a free feed from Hook N Cook.  

Taree Rest Stop

As we drove off I was in holiday mode at last—leaving the stresses behind. We stopped near Taree for a cuppa. As we drove into Laurieton I muted the ABC and said to Barry: 'It was the worst of times and the best of times here—remember when we brought your mum (Nana) just after Pop died?' It was stinking hot on the trip from Mudgee via the old Sandy Hollow railway tunnel—and in those days no air conditioning in the mustard coloured Peugeot. 

Trish Tracy and Shane
Sandy Hollow Tunnel 1975

The caravan park pool was empty because of the drought. After we unpacked we drove miles to find a beach for the kids to swim. I was exploring the rocks when I heard Trish yelling. I swung around too quickly, slipped in my wet thongs, and cut my feet badly on oyster shells. The kids had been attacked by sea lice. Stings covered in calamine lotion, and cuts dressed, we were ready to go for fish and chips. Nana came back from her walk with a kilo of devon for us and a few slices of ham for her. ‘I don’t like devon,’ she said. 

Kids at Big Brother

At dusk we went fishing in the Camden Haven River. Barry caught a sting ray, then the propellor of a boat, but managed to cut the line with his knife before it ran out. I had visions of him belly ski-ing into the sunset. I’d never heard of sandflies—my legs responded with inflamed welts. Nana took her knitting on each exploration. To the rainforest, North Brother Mountain, and the Everglades—a kind of theme park run by the ‘little people’. ‘I’ll wait in the car. Don’t worry about me. My it’s hot isn’t it? You won’t be long, will you?’ A couple of sunburns later we arranged to visit Hec and Jan Coulston who had been transferred from the Rural Bank Mudgee to Port Macquarie. Nana was happy to stay in Laurieton, she’d found a Bingo game at the RSL. With Stewart and Shane building Leggo and the four girls colouring in, Jan and I began to pick up our friendship. Then Hec yelled, ‘Come and look at the telly’. We sat riveted, watching the unfolding Granville train disaster.

Last night at dusk, Barry and I arrived at the Jacaranda Caravan park. We'd stopped to pick up the new Ipad at Laurieton and discovered the Piggly Wiggly butcher is still there. Armed with their famous 'wissoles' and some wine for tea we begin to set up. He starts unhooking the van while I walk around the back to plug in the power. Next thing I'm yelling. My eyes focussed on the power pole looking for number 34 I didn't see the pothole. The park owners brought a pillowcase full of ice and I sobbed, leg in the air, while Barry set up. He said I'd do anything to get a story for the blog. I kept saying I'm so sorry as I knew he was exhausted. Afterwards I decided to do a Pollyanna 'glad game': it could have been so much worse than a swollen and bruised knee and elbow. In sympathy, the clouds burst open and I tossed and turned al night to the beat of the rain.

Saturday Night

Photo Courtesy Des Riach

Saturday nights I switch from ABC Local Radio to Radio National. I just don't like Country and Western. In the wee small hours I was snapped awake when I heard Jodie and David Kilby mention the Modernaires. The program was about Jimmie Sloggett. I didn't know him but his Dad used to send shivers up my spine playing the last post at Anzac Day in Orange. I was in the same class at Orange High as Des Riach, drummer and Ray 'Butch' Lawrence, the trumpet player. I learnt Highland dancing with Beth McMaster, the sister of the pianist, Ian McMaster, and so I had already begun wallowing in memories of Orange just before Jan died. A few minutes ago without thinking I went to ring her to check Sloggett Senior's name. 


It was wonderful to 'find' Des Riach and have a chat after almost 60 years. The Modernaires played at a ball at the Palace Theatre Parkes and I can remember dragging Barry up to meet the band. Some of the best balls were at the Tichborne Hall, half way between Parkes and Forbes. The Tomkins women and others cooked their legendary suppers, finishing with pavlova and fresh real cream. The men disappeared outside to check the contents of the car boot, and the women checked their kids were still sleeping.

The history of the Modernaires appears with that of other dance bands, including those my father played in, in Bill Forrest's fabulous Saturday Night: A History of Dance Bands in Country New South Wales. One of my favourites was The Hip Replacements that featured John Hatton, a former South Coast MP. As well as the picture of my father in George Stevens Night Owls Dance Band (see Blog Preparing for Liftoff) there was one of the CWD (Central West District) Band sponsored by Radio Station 2GZ with the caption 'George Dennis—other members unknown). I instantly recognised my father playing the trumpet and contacted Bill. His book is part of my life writing teaching tool kit as it gives the music of each era, and a history of those wonderful country dance bands.

Liftoff at Last

OK we finally got away to a late start yesterday afternoon. Had lost the caravan power, turned out 'we' had the fridge on DC (or was it AC?) which drained the 'new' inverter system. Red face, won't say who. Arrived in Penrith through busy traffic travelling north at a sedate pace. No doubt other drivers behind us saying 'Bloody Caravanners'.

On not being Scottish: The Orange Caledonian Society

My aunt Madge Marston ready for Burns night.
A year or two later, she ‘remade’ this dress
 for me to wear to my final
Orange High School social, at the end of third year, 1955.

In the late 1940s and early 1950s I went with my Aunt Madge to the Caledonian Society Saturday night socials. The hall was in Peisley Street Orange, just past the Strand but before you reached the old cement swimming baths. We danced til we dropped, with pipers from the band playing Strip-the-Willow, the Gay Gordons, foursome and eightsome reels, the Highland Schottische, and calming us down with a leisurely Pride-of-Erin. The men politely took turns whirling the kids around. 

There were Wisharts, Tillets, McConnells and Mackenzies —Jock McConnell had a garage and Jock Mackenzie had started the pipe band. Their kilts were dark blue and green, colours I have loved together ever since, despite ‘blue and green should never be seen’. I grew to adore the Scottish accent. We celebrated Hogmanay and Halloween (long before trick or treating). We had to kneel down in front of a barrel with apples bobbing on top, hands behind our backs and try to grab one with our teeth. There were bowls of mashed potato with threepences hidden inside (imagine real silver, about half the size and thickness of a five cent piece).

Robbie Burns night was adults only. I went to the Presbyterian Church and so I was Scottish through and through. Rev. Torrance, kept us in line with threats of fire and brimstone. I remember being terrified when I first met Barry’s grandfather, a staunch Mason, when he queried my family name ‘Kelly’. I explained I wasn’t Catholic, I was a Scottish Presbyterian Kelly. By the time I got the family history bug in the mid 1990s my mother and all my aunts were dead. I gradually started collecting birth certificates. My great Grandfather Levingstone wrote Glasgow as his place of birth on ten of them—I could never trace one for their first child, Michael.

I was researching in the Orange library around 2003 and came across a book of articles written by William (Bill) Folster, compiled by his grandson, Paul Weathersten. Bill wrote about James Livingstone: ‘Born in Dublin, he worked as a linen weaver in both Ireland and Dunfermline Scotland. At the latter town he worked as a boy with Andrew Carnegie, The Scottish-American millionaire. The old man remembered well working on the table linen which was being made for the first great exhibition at the Crystal Palace, and making a shirt front for the Prince Consort.’ So perhaps his ‘Scottishness’ came from working in Scotland during his boyhood. He was likely educated while working in the mills.

The article went on to list his battles with the British 77^th regiment of foot in the Crimean War, and success on the gold fields at Lambing Flat before moving to the Bathurst area. According to the article, James had had tea with Mr HM Keightley two days before he was held for ransom by Ben Hall and his gang at Dunns Plains in 1863.

I paid a military researcher in London to get his army records (now freely available) and discovered James Levingstone was born in Craigs, Ballymena, County Antrim, and so there is nary a Scottish bone in me, much to the chagrin of Barry whose mother 'Wee Mary McNaught' really was born in Glasgow.

Orange City Pipe Band circa 1955 Photo courtesy Des Riach (second from right, back row)