Poetry My Friend Vol.1 - English

Chapter 1

2021-02-23T18:22:00.059-08:00

INSPIRATION

We often hear from people who write in the imaginative mode that they need to be inspired.

What makes us want to write for ourselves or for others?

When do we write?

When do we create our poem or short story or other?

The answer is that we can all do this if we:

a) have a clear objective of wanting to create something that is ours.

b) have the willingness to reflect on what we are going to write about.

c) have the patience to first write and then perfect our piece of writing.

d) have the good sense of keeping our piece of writing and finally.

e) keep on making as many drafts of our writing as necessary until we are satisfied with our creation.

The two poems "The child within the poet" and "Mute Inspiration" contain in themselves elements of this need to be inspired. In the former, the memories of childhood in a small country town in Italy are recalled after many years. In the latter, the absence of inspiration is the essence of this poem. "Inspiration" occurs within us during the course of our daily living. It is a fleeting state of mind. Therefore we need to photograph it by taking the time to capture it in writing. Once we have captured it on paper, then our work begins...

Where poetry is born

He said to me: “Do you still write them?”

referring himself to my poems.

He asked me not so much out of curiosity,

but more to encourage me

on this road undertaken

so many years ago.

“And what does this poetry give you?”

they ask me. “To tell the truth”

I reply “it has always kept me company.”

It has always been born, this poetry,

when I least expected it: in places visited,

amongst the confusion of activity,

sometimes during reflection, often

in the evening or at night, on holidays

or during my daily work routine,

on a tram or even in a car!

Finally these are thoughts

directed at capturing some knowledge,

to make this visible. Poetry

is born everywhere...like love!

Creator

Control the moment

with your words and with your pen.

Make inroads on the lines

of your exercise book.

In your fantasy

you meet so many things

and so many people.

Give them surroundings

like in a dream.

They deserve it!

It's your own very world,

ephemeral.

Don't dream beyond

your limits.

Become the builder

of life situations.

Let your characters

live!

Make them feel

the warmth of living

with all its contradictions.

Now and then

move them from their places,

just like the bosses

do with their dependents.

Be a god

in the world that you have created.

Don't be either too logical

or too good... in fact

sometimes be bad.

Respect your created work.

Continue to smooth it

until it can stand on its own,

like a work of art.

Be satisfied.

Then proceed to other things

The Rain and the Student

A deluge of rain is falling down

whilst I, with my pen,

am making some verses.

It's late, but my will

and my passion for creating pushes me

to write something that will remain

with me forever.

The rain is falling on the roof noisily;

she continues, confident in herself,

without regard for the old derelict

who wanders about the city.

She doesn't think that a child

could wake up, frightened...

and that the mother would have to get up

to give him a comforting kiss and to say:

"Sleep. There is nothing to fear, I am here".

The rain continues uninterruptedly,

not caring for these men of earth.

She overpowers them, she conquers them,

it is she who is in command.

You can't do anything about it.

You can't stop it.

* Rain (La pioggia) is neutral in English.

* La pioggia is feminine in Italian.

* I have decided to translate La pioggia as a feminne

word in English. All references to rain, for poetical reasons,

are translated as “she” not “it”.

Although she doesn't think

she is capable of speaking.

She breaks on the roof,

she becomes infuriated

then she calms down;

she is infuriated again

this time more persistently, ceaselessly...

She becomes angry: she can't enter

the student's room who,

satisfied and confident, writes.

In fact he is thinking of her

and of her rhythmic descent

which surrounds him and encourages him

and which moves his mind to think:

man is small and without importance

in the eternity of things,

but in his insignificance, he creates...

He is a little god all alone,

who creates for himself by himself

He is a thinking animal

who is proud of his capabilities.

Nature is nothing in comparison to this little god:

he is great in spite of his smallness ...

and he knows it!

Mute Inspiration

I lack inspiration.

I don't know what to do.

I'm here lying down on the carpet.

I think. I'm not successful

in putting my ideas together.

My mind is not functioning.

I don't know. What shall I do?

I want to play with my fantasy:

Everything is ugly.

It doesn't make any sense.

The idea takes form slowly.

It transforms itself.

It becomes alive.

How beautiful! I'm smoking.

I don't know. What shall I do?

How ugly!

What?

I don't know, what shall I do?

Good! Look! It's beautiful!

The perfect poetry. Where?

You're joking. Yes? Why?

Those beautiful times.

Muse, where are you?

The portrait of every man

in the sky, yes?, which

transforms itself.

It changes.

No.

Yes, that empty frame.

And then... yes, it fills up...

What?

It fills up with a child...

An outline.

And then?

That child changes with time.

Look!... It becomes a boy.

Explain the transformation.

How?

Well then? He becomes a man, an old man.

He disappears from the frame.

Another takes his place.

The same end.

To put these ideas together...

but how?

I'm lacking in inspiration.

Will I be able to realize my wish?

A perfect poem, carved in time,

forever...

Yes, the portrait chiselled by an author.

It is beautiful, really!

The portrait.

Yes.

Life.

The Child within the Poet

In the fresh air of Spring

the birds fly freely

like the spirit of the poet

that furrows eternity

scented with life.

The flowers bloom early in the morning,

whilst the dew wets them with love.

The petals are beautiful

when the first rays of sunshine

dyes them as if they were new.

The night disappears.

Peace listens to the matins;

the people slowly

wake up, get up and go.

It's the stirrings of life

whilst the young sing

about the joyfulness

of the little birds.

The first rays of sunshine

cross the windows of the child,

and the swallows sing whilst they're making

their nests for the little ones

under the balconies and the eaves.

The peasant is walking...

the housewife is making bread...

the sweet bell of the Main Church

calls the people to God.

Tom Padula - Poetry My Friend

The dreams of the night go,

the joy of living returns

with the first call in the morning.

Time goes by quickly...

the poet doesn't sleep at night,

an angel calls him to his table

since the Muse has inspired him.

He remembers those distant days,

he feels joy in his heart,

he feels it close... and then

that little boy who so many

years ago had his head on the pillow

awakens whilst Spring

plays joyfully with its breath

full of life.

Counsel

He said to me: “Write when you’re happy.

Your poems are a little sad.”

I replied: “A writer tends to write

when his morale is a little low!”

But my friend was right.

Happiness is to be cultivated

as much as pain and sadness.

Our emotions are so many...negative

and positive...and you, poet, you should

know them all a little! Especially

because we go up and down

according to how we feel.

Write when you’re out

seeing new places and people.

Write on friendship and the many

individuals who like you.

Write about your successes and satisfactions,

when you have done a good action.

Write about those who please you

and those who are really kind.

Write a little every day

wherever you may be.

Give this your gift to life.

Write about time and things,

on what happens to everyone.

Don’t discriminate. Include men

and women, children and the aged,

animals and nature

and then so much, much more.

Appreciate the positive

and give away your optimism

like the bud of a flower.

My imagination

One faraway day in my past

together with the children of my youth,

I remember having had a dear friend

who, truthful to his childish dreams,

always enjoyed himself besides me.

This was my imagination, which never tired

to beautify my days with eternal visions

of a more happy world, where the universe,

the stars and even God touched

their hands in mateship. And, in a valley

full of blossoms amidst the mountains,

there was a multitude of people, who,

accompanied by divine music,

sang and danced joyously

in subliminal happiness.

Now I am grown up.

But all day I still find beside me

my most faithful friend...

and it is for this reason

that now, when I am alone,

in times of sadness or happiness,

I look enchanted into the emptiness...

and close my eyes...

and search for other things in my mind...

because I don't like human things

when I have in my head

a more happy and attractive world.

Blessed philosophy

Why is it that in this spring

I no longer hear the much loved singing

of free birds in the sky

and of sweet scented flowers?

Now summer has already come,

and I, unmindful of spring,

have forgotten my dreams.

And I look behind and feel only

the mute voices of the so many in the past

who will tomorrow be overlooked.

Will my life be another dream?

Or will it be a blooming plant,

which one day, when winter so far away

will let the warm snowflakes fall,

will rest under the white mountain

and it'll remember with satisfaction

that he* has left to all people

his blessed philosophy.

* Although “he” should be “it”, I have used

“he” to refer to the writer.

Hope

With so much nostalgia and love

I see my star still shining

up there in that so attractive darkness!

Man, like a boat on the high sea,

moves and goes forward towards the shore,

so fixed and serene down there in the horizon.

And, almost always, the boat moves on the waves

of the great sea... happy, without a goal:

like a child held by the mother, who peacefully,

sings to him a sweet melody... a lullaby.

But, sometimes, a more pensive boat is

upset by storms, luck and winds of joy.

Oh you boat, oh my life!

Don't leave this spirit without a goal

until it hasn't amongst so much darkness

left behind a little warmth for humanity.

Continue to swing in the middle of the tempest

and then, after the shores, let the noise

of your past movements, at that time so joyful,

and now forever making happy the eternal cheeks

of those people who still live in society.

Hope of the Poet

Oh beautiful muse,

oh my mortal time

awaken in this heart

that has so much loved

the poet's breath,

the musical notes

of that adored chord.

Now I raise to the sky

this mute prayer,

this vain pleasure

of a transient, who dares

to look at infinity

for the immortal soul

of a mortal.

Oh my muse

keep my company

in sleepless nights,

in days of need!

I offer you

a world of joy,

full of fantasy,

that has for company

a glass filled

with my homemade wine.

I shall be inspired with things

that please me,

and I shall let you hear the pomp

of that teacher of ours, who

in the history of two thousand years ago,

wrote on the papyrus,

of the lost youth,

that famous enigma

which people today

are still disputing!

I will want to speak amongst

other things of this place of ours

to our future citizens.

Gracefully and humbly, tell them

that speaking to others

is a bit of a fraud

when we are lacking in our own opinions;

the greatness of whomsoever

is a product of their vanity

which is looking for praise...

and pride enjoys it!

Poetry

There is no more sure way

to joy than having the certainty

of having for company

the beautiful voice

of my friend, poetry!

To listen to her sweet notes

feed the chords of my intellect

which occasionally deigns

to make me dream of poetry!

Consolation

This consoles me

everytime I write

on this ruled paper.

That something will yet remain

if you tell of true facts

that happen on the street

wherever you are!

That in looking for reality

on written paper, you sometimes find

a true sense of life.

It seems to you that the writing then

adorns you with a thought,

a memory, a something.

And to see the great writings

of poets of many centuries ago,

from Dante to Ariosto, to Leopardi,

you realise that vainglory

leads you a little everywhere

with your imagination.

But if you think about it even more

so many are the hours that you have spent

together with your soul, my friend.

And discover that in fixing your ideas

in precise thoughts, that you then improve,

you are really an adventurer,

a traveller seated at the table.

And from this fixed spot you focus

your binoculars on human nature

or on sentiments or other varied themes.

Don’t tell others with resounding words

all the love that you feel in your heart,

because the written lines speak clearly,

as if you are looking into the bottom of a brook.

Who you are you don’t hide to anyone

because when you engage yourself in introspection

one can see openly what you have inside you.

I began these lines without knowing

where I was going with my pen.

Perhaps writing is like going through

a dark forest of trees, with covers

that do not allow in the sun’s rays.

But it’s beautiful to see again

what you have said a little out

of curiosity and a little for empathy

because this pastime, my friend,

belongs to those who dream in daylight!

Curiosity

led me to you;

to see if I could

talk to you. I am not doing

it for love, or friendship,

but just for curiosity.

If only I could

stop this moment

of strangeness, of discovery.

I see your beautiful face,

your well shaped body

but I cannot see

your “I” that belongs

to you and nobody else.

What will you think

of this strange moment?

I shall never know.

Forgive my daring

but I had to meet you,

because you have been

my inspiration.

Valued

You fill your heart

with an exhilarating feeling

from who makes you really

feel that you are great.

You know that they were good

the things that you wrote.

It was your pastime

and also a gift for others.

Now you have the confirmation

that a little of your work

has been appreciated...

and it has made a real impact.

You have been fortunate to have had

certain circumstances in your favour.

Thank all those

who have honoured you!

The Poet Remains

Men and women learn

and keep on dreaming

whilst life

quickly passes by...

and hope grows

with the passing of time

for dreams are more

beautiful than reality.

The wheel in fact turns,

it does a merry-go-round:

children grow up,

old people go.

But the poet still

remains amongst everyone

and he shines

like stars in darkness.

The lord of the centuries

You run away quickly, oh fleeting time.

But why, why do you take with you so suddenly

the few joys of the restless beings?

Why don't you stay a moment longer

with mortals who live happily?

You, who remain behind, even after the passing

of the sun beyond the west, tell me if the passion

of mortals changes the ideal of the human eye.

Tell me if dawn after the shadow of the night

brings back afresh the joys and hopes

of the past which now sleeps under the cypress tree.

Oh time, extend your hand to life

and remind those, for whom it is forbidden

to think just now of the warmth of the star,

which fell within my youthful heart.

Let my words flourish again

in the bosom of someone who still loves

the sweet melody of a little ancient bird

who extends his voice to the infinite.

I don’t know anything about poetry

I have never seen her,

I don’t know her,

I haven’t met her.

No one has ever

spoken of her to me.

Now here is

finally someone who

wants to teach me;

to open the door

to my emotions.

And what do I do?

I remain here seated

and I think why

don’t I too try

and discover what I think

or feel or do?

Writing it

perhaps one day

I’ll be able to give it

to someone else.

* Poesia is in Italian feminine

* Poetry in English is neutral gender.

* I have retained the feminine feel of the word poetry.

The tune

There is in the world

a guitar that plays

in the mind of artists.

It doesn’t play for everyone,

this singular guitar,

but only for those

who know how to make it play.

Oh you children

who are living now,

don’t forget

to learn to use it

because, in today’s world,

it doesn’t play

unless in a group,

but you are alone!

Make it play

sometimes

in the lovely meadows

of our beautiful Spring!

And if nature

won’t listen to you,

don’t worry too much;

just raise

the live sound of the guitar

that pulsates in the heart

of poets!

Do you see it?

Everyone knows,

everyone does.

Everyone listens

and looks.

Everyone speaks

and acts. This is the story

of every day.

But everything ends.

And then all

is repeated

in other places,

at other times.

Seeing

this path

closely

is something truly

interesting.

Do you see it?

To the closed-in Muse

I’ve asked the stars

tonight to extend

their smile upon me.

They’ve looked at me

gently and then they

said “no”! What do I want

to do with the stars?

What can they give me?

I feel in me a spent fire

that in vain searches for

a match to again set alight

my joy, those thoughts

of love. But it is better

to remain alone tonight to think

of my sweet lovers of bygone days

when I blindly played with fire

that the wind kept on stoking.

Oh my dear muse,

you have, for a long time,

been closed-in. Come out

in the open to again revive

the spirit of the flowers.

To whoever feels like a poet

Search in your soul

those beautiful live emotions

that go past the rhyme

or the numbering of syllables.

Don’t be intimidated

by those who would like to...

but unfortunately can’t,

they suffer that others feel...

Don’t be trampled upon by who

doesn’t know or can’t do.

By the one that auto elects himself...

a critic of beautiful poetry.

This is the one that rejected her*

that recognises only the classics

because he doesn’t want to appreciate

those who live in the present.

And then when there is a little success,

when your doing takes shape,

he comments, analyses, he wiggles himself in

magazines, he tries to teach those who really know!

And from afar you can give him your smile,

because you are the poet, the real creator,

because you accompany your life

with your close and loved poetry!

* I have used the word Poetry in the feminine

like in the Italian translation.

And the word became flesh

And the word

made its way

amidst the other arts

with its articulated

phonics, by actors

sensitive to its meaning.

And she was received

this cinderella word,

like a princess

who till now misunderstood,

had remained apart and unloved.

The strong cadenced calling

of the soul and the blood,

in the veins of those who had felt

and those who still feel the poetry

of things and of daily existence,

was raised on our local stage.

Another type of spectacle, amongst the many,

in which the poets have advanced

their capital of words of the soul

bleached for this occasion,

at the insignia of words made into flesh

onto the Italo-Australian cultural skeleton.

Written in the night of the 10th of June 1995

Always her

And she said to me

“Always with this poetry!”

And I replied

“You’re right. It’s true!”

Poetry is born here inside

when I least expect her.

She is like a breeze of fresh

air that bring you

happiness.

Poetry, the true one,

the one of the soul,

cannot be given.

Even if you could sell it

there isn’t money in the world

that can buy it.

Poetry is beautiful,

like youth!

* I have used the word Poetry in the feminine

like in the Italian translation.

Rich is poetry

Today I have re-read

some of my poems

to a dear

colleague poet.

It surprised me

the fact that even

after so many years

my poetry

is still fresh

like when I wrote it

a long time ago.

In it I find myself again,

I keep myself company,

I abandon myself to the memories.

All the time that I dedicated

to her is well repaid.

Poetry is your personal

fortune.

* I have used the word Poetry in the feminine

like in the Italian translation.

What we feel

Poetry (don’t tell me)

is here between these lines

of unknown authors,

perhaps in other languages

and different times.

Poetry is not rhyme,

nor only beautiful words...

Poetry is the sentiment

behind each verse,

it’s the weight of lived wisdom,

of met happiness,

of known love.

Poetry is an outlet

that comes from the heart for who

feels the need to communicate,

perhaps with himself!

Poetry surrounds us,

like the air that we breathe,

like the food that we eat,

like the wine and water that we drink.

Poetry is everything

that we feel...

Gift from within

What can we give

of ourselves to others?

What do we have in the luggage

of our suitcases full of experiences,

of content, of expressed ideas

and so many, but so many others submerged?

When we ask ourselves where can

we find happiness, satisfaction...

Surely we feel in our intimate self

the presence of that humanity

that vibrates outside of our existence

like a mass to get to know...

in order to make us know better.

Yes, the act of giving, to do for others

is the necessity to feel various reactions

at times positive, sometimes negative,

that our work gains amongst the people.

Are the intentions always good?

Is it what others really have

need of? Or is it that

which you want, to then impose

on others your preferences,

your ways of doing!

Our creativity teaches us

sometimes so many varied things... that

normally are excluded from us

during our daily life.

When we want to give we must

learn to reflect on what

we give and why... in that which

others from us in reality

have need to make their life

more rich, more varied and more full

of happiness. When we want

to give, we must learn to feel

to receive in the same equal

manner that which we’re giving.

The balance of giving

If you offend, you should be offended.

If they offend you, you should learn

to offend... This is the natural

balance of feelings...

It’s necessary to be

who knows how to receive without giving

and knows how to give without receiving...

True greatness you will find

in your own real humility

to accept or give with dignity.

Enlightenment

We work.

We please

and play.

We seek

the truth.

We lie.

We differ.

We stay apart.

We discover

others.

We find them

similar, but

not so!

Behold the difference

It’s hard

to respect.

We pray

for enlightenment.

LET’S LIVE NOW

Sometimes life presents itself very negatively. Things just

seem to happen. We take living passively.

However there is a solution to change the boredom of

everyday being. We can view again the world more

positively. We can find in it a joy for living, for

reawakening and recharging our spirit, for sharing our

happiness and companionship with others.

The art of good living requires a certain youthfulness in

our approach to our whole existence. We need a

wholesome philosophy. In "So It Is For Me" there is a

statement in regards to the need for a healthy attitude.

"Happy Awakening" throws off the shackles of

daydreaming and contemplating in favour of laughter

and parties.

Hedonists are the winners in "The Wine of Bacchus"...

Leave your worries behind, don't think of the future.

Have a good time NOW!

"The vagabond’s riches" celebrates our free spirit. In it

a vagabond's liberty is admired for his ability to enjoy

the company of beautiful women, wine and the pursuit

of happiness.

The Wine of Bacchus

There is a fountain of plentiful wine

which flows joyously in a wood

that I by chance discovered one day

for all those who love good company.

My friends and I meet there often,

with tankards of terracotta, to draw,

with avid hands, of the divine red.

And we drink... thinking only of the moment

and not of things which are immortal.

And we sing... in such a place,

merrymaking gloriously:

"In the Garden of Good Fortune

life is always merry,

and we enjoy it all

creating a great uproar.

In Life we do not go wrong

if we love the good times,

the women, the songs,

and certainly, the good wine.

Friends, come! Let's gather together

around this fountain of Bacchus

singing, dancing, drinking

and sending our pains to hell."

Happy awakening

Under the shadows of the dark sky,

from far away, carried by the wind,

a murmur of trembling words

and incomprehensible sayings

shouts unintelligibly in my spirit:

"Don't forget your love!"

I contemplated the bare branches,

darkness and the blue sky

and life singing with youth.

But now, asleep or awake,

I no longer look only at the stars.

Feasts, parties and games,

songs, dances and company

are a part of my life.

What past! What future!

The fleeting moment is all powerful

because it is a source of light and rain,

fog, storms and even peace.

Blotting out pain and sorrow,

I drive joyfully on the city's roads

and I entertain my earthly hours

with beauties who keep my company.

The vagabond’s riches

Vanity of riches unknown,

thoughts of lost illusions.

But what is the happy vagabond doing

after he freed himself from the slavery of Pluto?

He sleeps in a deep sleep

with dreams of perpetual liberty

amidst rowdy gypsy girls

who live in extreme poverty.

Around a booming fire

he routs with the beautiful foreign girls

forgetting past and future

in carefree curiosity.

Then his world confounds

in the red of a glass of wine

like dancers amidst

a chorus line.

Forgotten is the rich gentleman

in his golden armchair,

forgotten is that time past

of greed without joy.

The shining stars are warm,

the bohemian girls are sweet;

it's good the bouquet glass,

it's good its ancient taste.

The fortune teller nearby tells him:

continue your happiness.

And he continues happily to indulge

with time that does not end.

So it is for me

The day is festive

at the break of dawn

Amid the chiaroscuro

I see every shadow disappear.

After me, I leave you,

silent night, a dream.

One far away day I'll see

your beginning in my rest.

Meanwhile I'll give my life

to life as a gift.

As long as I live

I'll cherish all the seasons.

Writing at Night

I find myself again in front of this white paper. So seated

at this small table in my kitchen. I make this fleeting

appearance often because my sleep is interrupted almost

every night. I hear a recall… almost daily, a live desire to

write something to satisfy this restless soul. And I think of

many things…

But is it possible that I am so mad? Who gets up late in

the middle of the night? I do it in order to discover the

quiet that reigns uninterruptedly, when there, outside,

everything sleeps and rests. I remember this habit of mine

even as a child when I used to wake up because of this,

my recall.

I used to always say that writing for me is a passion. It’s a

need of the exhuberance of this vagabond spirit that wants

to roam all the world and also there in the universe, in that

unknown immensity, to cross the all, in order to find reality

and truth. And in fact in this travel from the table you find

yourself, your worth in the middle of these things… amidst

the humans.

They tell me or better I feel that someone could tell me:

“but are you stupid!” To get up in the night for these

monkey-like stupidities! Don’t you have anything to do? But

rest... who do you think you are? Don’t you see the preestablished order?

Everything is in its place in this premeditated place.

And I find myself a little lost once again, and I do my

things and make many plans. I notice that these thoughts

keep me company… because they are the daily voices of

my life. All my world is here present… and it is filed away

in my mind.

I retrieve from my experience, at times I dream, the things

that I want to do and I often relive, here seated, the

various moments that I have already lived. But who cares

about this my travel? But here I must be a realist and say

“to very few”. But I find in this my walk the so many

excursions of life. Every one has many obligations, many

things, many necessities that tie him to an existence, to

one’s own experiences.

Not always have I succeeded in understanding life. But I

have very slowly always found that a way exists, at times

so many roads, that lead you where you want. The choice

that you make depends on where you are going, who you

are. If you are locked in your self importance, if you

appreciate only your existence, you become always more

egotistical. But if you love, if you find inside those

sentiments of wanting to do good, then your walk begins

to take a very different aspect: the adventure that is

brought to you by your imagination becomes important.

And you begin to liberate yourself of immediate things, of

preoccupations, of the various delusions and also of

success, of exhaltation, of your vanity. Finally you acquire

that objectivity to see beyond the there, past the

immediate, past the regulated world. You discover that

inside universe of the emotions, of systems of life, of

wishes, of the very riches of this humanity.

But when you find these sentiments in front of you, pause

a little to give yourself courage. Every each time that I find

myself here, I see two well-delineated points: when I was

born and when I shall die, and all that middle period

where I live. The experience of my already lived life

guides me to research the reason why I am here. And I

begin to appreciate life, the great variety, its confusion, its

fragility. And I look around and I find that everything has

its limit, its beginning, the vainglory, the tall point before

the defeat and the end.

There is a continuous creation of flux and reflux, like the

waves of the sea near the coastline. It’s a continuous

succession of events, of facts and the ups and downs are

there for everyone. But not everyone is at the same point

of life… Each one, every thing, every situation follows its

path. Sometimes one meets at the tall point of a wave,

sometimes one grates the lowest point, touching the sand,

on the surface of things, which we cannot pass over.

Therefore we discover the truth about our own existence

and that of others: it’s a limited existence in its duration

and in its time. And it is at this point where we begin to

value our world, the past world, the world of others and

all the other worlds whether we know of them or not. And

then we value the individual above our emotions, with a

certain objectivity.

But present are always these beautiful emotions, our

interests, our wishes that are sometimes like this darkness

in the middle of the night. They don’t allow us to see well,

but they make us feel inside… they bring us anxieties and

fears, uncertainties and delusions, but also reflection,

peace. Here we find that we can do something for us and

a little for others. Sometimes someone succeeds even to

have his moment of vainglory when he communicates with

others from afar… like with this writing… that gives you

the power to speak as you wish… without restrictions.

And then you see your ideas, your thoughts altogether.

And you read your creation. You can re-examine, admire

and even criticize it. Even change it if you wish. All this

was closed in my mind… and I got up to give it birth in

the middle of the night. Even this writing has a life of its

own… short or long it doesn’t matter… I can throw it in the

waste basket or be proud of it.

Or I can take in my hands this creation of mine and enjoy

its company until dawn when the night, tired of sleeping,

gives way to the day to initiate another wave of life in this

city… in this my world.

Chapter 2

2021-02-02T18:22:00.000-08:00

REFLECTION

We all have the experience of reflecting on what we think,

do, say or dream. Reflection helps us to better ourselves, it

forces us to review facts and proposals, it encourages us to

meditate on our state of being. With the act of reflection,

humans distinguish themselves fom other beings creating in

themselves memories of the past, rationalising the actions of

the present, incorporating plans for the ‘morrow.

In this mixture of thoughts, we find that aid that makes us

progress towards goals that are always more ambitious and

creative. Reflection brings to the individual who practices it

that necessary wisdom which comes from balancing our

reality, our contacts with nature and our relationship with

other human beings and other species.

Who we are and what we appear to others can be two

different things. Reflection makes us understand the

complexity of our existence in its relationship with the rest of

the physical and spiritual world. The following poems are

philosophical reflections that were born out of my being in

lucid and pensive moments.

Everyone

finds

in himself

his own truth,

if he looks for it,

if he doesn't hide it

from his sight.

It's there

inside...

like the sun

which brightens the day.

To Live

To live

your life

as you want

is nothing more

than a mirage

in the desert.

People

place upon you

a hope...

which you ignore.

The sparkle

of love

is perhaps missing

from your heart.

Everyday

Every day we see dawn,

the sun, sunset, the night.

Men fill their days

with new experiences, facts, successes.

But there is also amongst them

defeat, delusion, uncertainty.

In the final analysis they are always children

these men who play in this courtyard

with all the other children.

And everyone looks at them from afar

and then analyses them with their human binoculars

like old people who look behind

with nostalgia and indifference.

Drop

The water which quenches

the insatiable thirst

of the little rapacious bird

becomes one within the waves

of the infinite sea.

Insignificant drop

you become important

in the blue immensity.

Under the summer sun

you shine your delicate

puffed cheeks.

Then you disappear into the bottom of the sea,

and there you remain, under the sand,

to enjoy eternal peace

forever.

You’re alone

You're alone

in your world

lit by city lights.

And in your dreams

a chimera

is shining for you.

Look

at the asphalt.

Its surface

is hard.

Only on the grass

will you find the truth

of your existence.

Reflection

You're

dressed.

Don't tell

anyone.

Everyone knows it.

And each one wants

from you

a torn piece

until you remain

naked.

Division

I feel

an hour

of love.

I want to give

everyone

a moment of it.

But its division

only gives each person

but an echo

of my heart.

Instead

My heaven is spent this evening

like that, without saying why. A void,

like an abyss, twirls in me.

I want to speak, laugh, joke,

dance, sing. But no!

I stay here like a statue

motionless in my dark thoughts.

Fixed, like a viper before

it launches on its prey, the mind,

traitor of the instinct, makes its way

in my painful spirit. And it says to me:

"don't worry. Keep on looking at your star,

perhaps that darkness will clear".

And I, drily, disdainfully reply:

"don't interfere! Why do you want

to clear darkness which is so powerful

in the human and enslaved people?"

And, again, an unfriendly, cold emptiness.

Now I don't know when it is spring again,

I don't know whether the life of flowers can

fill again with joy

my nature. And yet

it was spring just yesterday.

The flowers don't change so quickly.

But the birds continue to sing

whilst, in the sky, a solitary cloud

moves vagabond, without a goal.

Instead...

I shall follow Don Quixote

One day I shall find

among the fragments

of my life

some small

sparkle.

Every flame

has become spent

too quickly.

It seems a mystery

that it was so.

Youth has gone

without having brought me

a mouthful of fresh water.

And I drank a lot and

often from the beverages

of the fridge of life.

They did not quench my thirst,

they did not satiate me.

Love has been

a great illusion:

already lost even

before having had it!

Art has been

my most arduous

companion,

but how expensive!

Friendships made

but then destroyed:

loyalty repaid

with suspicion;

generosity replaced

with mean greed.

Then work

smiled at me,

but it too became

egotistical!

It brought the complications

of the human condition,

which tire

the already overused mind.

Where will this

my ship in a storm

find a port?

Where will I be taken

by this wind

which blows so fiercely?

In which direction

will the weather force me

to sail to find

the serene calm?

And then when

I shall arrive, perhaps

I will not be happy.

Then I shall depart

and Don Quixote I will follow!...

Flight of thought

I have seen

my life pass

in a flash

in front of me

like the moon

at night

when it is full.

The full moon

brightens up

in the darkness

and walks

in its moment

of vain-glory.

It dies and is reborn

in a cycle

of perfect timing.

Till when this will last,

no one will ever know...

(Life is like this also).

The sparkle of life

Tell me friend,

have you had a dream in life?

Have you seen near you the joy of love?

Have you known how to love with all your heart?

Things are beautiful in life

when the heart adorns them with love.

Even the child,

when light illuminates life,

has always opened his eyes to see,

to feel the novelty of being.

Becoming a man is nothing else

but a personal experience.

The child we have it always present

within us, in our own truth.

He caresses our thoughts,

reinforces our ideal for better things;

he breaks the wisdom of the cynic

whose smile is bitter in his mouth.

Then when our star

slows down our wishes,

when she calls to herself

the mortal soul of every individual,

the shine disappears.

Flowers only grow in happiness.

* Stella in Italian is feminine

* Star in English is neutral gender

I have used Star as a feminine noun even though

its nuetral gender.

Mother tongue

In Australia

our children chew

the language of their parents

at home, within their domain.

And when they begin their flight

they change their speech with their wings:

and the more they fly in the sky

the more they are not understood.

The more they stay away from home

the more they lose their mother tongue.

It could be that distance

increases discord.

Ephemeral truth

The other day, outside of the window,

there was a sincere boy

who walked alone on the grass,

on the stony pebbles, in the tracks.

Alone he looked at the day and things.

He did not see the humans.

Only admiring the heights

forced him to follow the steps

of his true way: an ephemeral truth.

A worm tires on the road.

The man made asphalt

chokes the sweet path of the meadows!

Which one?

Take it one day at a time

as the song goes. Take it

easy! Don't worry!

Be yourself. So be it.

Optimism is better than

pessimism. It makes you

feel good. Optimism

sees everything in a new

healthy way. It even

refuses to see reality!

It gives you an illusion

of power and self esteem.

Optimism feeds on hope

and dreams, on health

and good care, on

feeling good inside.

The opposite is feeling

in a negative way.

Pessimism is unhealthy.

It sees reality in its own image,

it gives no hope

and no way out. It stands

by itself. lts comments

are depressing. It gives no

illusions. If dreams are

present it leaves them behind.

Nothing is any use. You can

lull in your self pity.

So which one do you choose?

He is only a puppet

There on the road

I see only

a puppet.

What does it matter if the rain

drenches him to the bone.

He is only a puppet

who cares nothing for the world

or nature.

He approaches his end

caring for no one,

not even himself.

Once he walked

together with other... puppets,

but they failed to understand him,

and he them.

From then on he decided to go on by himself,

taking seriously neither himself... nor others.

Australia

Australia.

Dry land,

serene in your desert

with life which pulsates

only at the shouts

of the ancient aborigines:

true Australians,

wise of the land

which owned them.

Civilisation

takes its definition

from the environment,

from the colour of the flowers

from the warmth of the days

which change only

to go dreaming

in the extended plains

lacking in trees

and water.

Absorbed

You are so far away

there, in that town

lost in the plains,

where the dust

dries up the lips,

where the beer

satisfies the throat

burnt by the heat.

Whilst you drink, you tell me:

"I have need of peace",

and you add: "I need

solitude".

"Australia is a land

which absorbs you in its roots,

without you realising it",

I point out aloud.

"Yes, it is really true" he reflects,

whilst his glance

takes him, somewhere else, where,

sure of itself, nature

reigns over everything else.

Cheese in sight

Everyone is like a mouse

in search of cheese,

hidden from sight.

Like the cheese, happiness

is found in places unknown,

hidden away in the heart of people.

The majority of mice in youth

seek the path to cheese

together in peace. And then,

when in sight of the cheese,

they quarrel and fight

'cause greed rejoices

before paradise so close.

Travel and Home

You travel the world,

you see the sights,

they are beautiful...

Things that you’ll forget,

others that you’ll remember...

Time will choose

which ones are for you.

After it’s all over....

you’ll have been everywhere,

seen everything but, strangely,

it’s as if you have never

left your home.

Your world still untouched:

The legacy of yesterday,

the still point of tomorrow.

Tell me if you’ve learnt

something so very dear...

that which will make of you

a better person with whom to live.

Have you discovered a little part

of yourself that you did not know?

Are you happy with yourself

and the area of the world

in which you live every day?

Have you brought back a message

for someone dear?

A kind whisper for their ears?

Tell us that in the niche

of our heart we shall find

all the world, that in

our fanatsy we can

see things that are more beautiful

than the jewels of the sea.

Because, after all,

the most fantastic thing

is the world of a person

happy with his lot no matter

where this happens to be.

Time

Time is a disposable commodity...

if you use it wisely

you can actually gain

a double quantity!

If you waste it...

don’t worry

you get another chance

to repeat the same mistake!

Time is only a song

that needs to be well sung,

but if you are in disaccord

then you have a broken chord.

If you don’t care

time will let you be

a silent partner

in eternity.

Who have you been?

When you are close

to your end

what will you say to your God?

Perhaps you will remember

those moments most dear

and closest to your heart.

Perhaps you will tally up

the sum of your good

and bad actions.

Perhaps you will think

that you were clever

in your life.

Perhaps the past

you will not even see

fleetingly.

Whatever will be your end,

you will have been you:

unique and alone.

Realization

This morning the elms

on Royal Parade

looked naked to me.

I felt suddenly

cold in my bones;

and even my spirit was dead.

I thought:

it too has a right

to its rest.

New illusion

My dark hours

flee into time,

whilst the storm

abates over the sea.

Even the small bird

has stopped flying,

and now, happy

to retreat, seeks

a nest, thinking

of the betrayed little bird

of his dreams

Oh you,

treacherous day

in the past,

become a traitor

once again

to bring back

to the present

the old illusion.

The Spring

of our dreams

is sweet!

The hopes

of once

are beautiful!

But faded

are now the memories

of this swallow

that in vain wants to

still aim for

the heights of the sky!

Vanity

In my youth

one day I learnt

that good and bad people

have all a quality

that is called vanity.

Everyone wants to communicate

to us what they know;

they believe that everything

that they are thinking of

interests us,

but they are wrong: We don’t want

to know anything,

we already know everything.

Why listen to someone else

who is like us,

who is human like everyone?

I am still young

I sense in the air

a smell of ageing.

Outside, there in the street,

I meet a beautiful

young woman

who looks beyond,

and not at me!

Going further down,

and I hear a friend

say to me... “Do you remember

when we were young...”

And then I see my children

who have already grown up

and they have an air

of wanting to conquer

the world, without me!

Perhaps it is only

my body,

my appearance,

that is ageing.

I don’t care:

I am still young.

The Autumn Harvest

The Autumn of my

life arrives

where the fruits

of past summers

begin to appear,

ripe.

And I gather them,

these fruits,

one at a time

so that they don’t rot

on the laden tree.

I would almost

defer to another

time this harvest,

but nature

doesn’t allow me.

And then that internal

truth presents itself

warning me

of the reality of fruits.

There is in each one of them

that magic moment

when they are

ready to be picked.

Taking them, too early

or too late,

prohibits you to enjoy them

at the peak of their maturity.

The happiness that every

fruit gives comes from

the rich natural taste

of the harvest made on time.

And the other happiness

you will find donating them

to those who don’t have any!

Sharing your fruits

with others, your neighbours,

becomes almost a necessity!

And it is in this generosity

that you find the crumbs

of your future winter.

Memories are

the only things

that will remain

to keep us company

in eternity.

Missed snowtrip

A lack of physical strength

renders the willing spirit powerless.

And yet the dreams and the mind

change the arid days

in fields, pulsating with people,

of snow just fallen

from the humid sky.

The image, like a golden

statue, remains fixed in time.

And fixed, like a statue,

I will always have with me

the unlived memories of

when I, with a sprained ankle,

went up, with my friends,

to see, to touch the white

of the mountains.

Yes, it's true. Even this year,

amongst them, I lived a memorable day:

I sang, I joked, and I laughed

with everyone, with everyone I spoke this year.

And amongst these memories, I saw once again

those dreaming eyes, and those loved features.

Even longer will live the moment

of this sprained ankle.

It will remain with me forever,

it'll stay amongst the crowd of the past

which, like a sharpened arrow,

cuts into the wings of time.

It betrayed the willingness, the missed desire,

the company and the lost memories.

But there is always an alternative:

finally the most beautiful things

are found amongst those people

who know how to live every moment

and the events which have never happened.

On the beach

On this breezy, bright

sunlit day, on the beach

you see all types, of all ages...

of all shapes, of all sizes.

There are the toddlers

shyly approaching the reflux

of incoming waves.

Older children have a thing

with sand... they make

all sorts of constructions:

some simple, some elaborate

but all made with deep intent.

Groups of teenagers are

involved with summer's

national sport: cricket...

or play frisbie, baseball, soccer.

Their eyes are often attracted

by some girls parading

quite happily forgetful

of their feminine fight

for shared equality.

The twenty year olds

are either running

or showing off their

taut, trim bodies,

like self assured

peacocks on the sand.

The thirty something are found

with spouses and children,

looking after the little ones,

using their watchful eyes...

as doting parents.

Yesterday's bronzed youth

is today's middle aged walker.

They walk alone or in twos

or in threes or more,

showing signs of decay.

There are only a few exceptions

and these are noticeable

only by their pretence.

Then you see those

in their fifties or sixties

all independent, exuding

an air of security,

of acquired self knowledge.

They don't seem to care

about others and look after

themselves and their company.

Here and there the over seventies

make an appearance looking on

knowingly at each age group,

engaged in their own beach mood.

When you go next time to Lorne

behold this game of human life

displayed in front of your very eyes.

I am sure that it will always

continue to manifest itself

each year, just like the waves

pounding into the shores..

The end and the beginning

It came:

the end.

To then

begin

again

another cycle.

Like the sky

fills with clouds

and it rains.

Then it clears up

suddenly.

Like the ship

on the high seas

reaches its port

which then sails

once again.

Like the child

who grows up at home.

He then becomes adult

and he goes away.

To then return

when he is ready.

Chapter 3

2021-02-01T18:39:00.000-08:00

School Life

As the end of the school year approaches in Australia,

schools (especially secondary schools) and all those who

are involved in school life (students, teachers, parents and

support services), are in the midst of winding down the

educational year. There are tests, assignments, work

requirements, examinations and an array (both subjective

and objective) of assessments which lead to reports,

certificates, profiles, end of year activities and the

holidays!

The intensity of this period of school fervour is made easier

only by the thought that the days are longer, the year's

work is almost over and the festive season is around the

corner!

"In lieu" is a phrase used in school circles to mean that a

teacher has to take another class when her/his senior

students have gone... to sit for examination or to go into

the workforce! Theoretically that time should be reserved

for this year's evaluation or next year's planning and

organisation.

"Ethos of exams" reminds us that the technique for

assessing a students' acquired knowledge or skills during

the year creates an "ambience" all of its own!

Since I have spent most of my life at school (first as a

student, then as a teacher), it is only fitting that I should

have a number of poems relating to school, education,

children, colleagues, feelings, failures and successes ...

and much more!

School is a village of activity within society - it is a place

where parents entrust their offsprings to professional

educators ... in a sense it is the place where learning

occurs continually and in the most formative years of

a person's life.

The basic requirements for a student are his/her curiosity

for learning and for relating with others.

It is the school's task to ensure that everyone involved

provides a safe and secure environment for learning and

interacting.

Of course, the ideals are not always met, and school can

be a very trying place for whoever finds it difficult to

manage all the situations and demands within this

microcosmic community. 'School Bell' recalls the military

type precision adopted in schools in order to have this

place running on schedule; 'New school' and 'In class'

demonstrate some of the difficulties that a teacher could

face when first beginning in a secondary school; 'A sweet

afternoon' and 'Glimmer of Hope' touch on some of the

positives found in the day to day life in a school

environment.

The Pedantic professor

My little professor

you're a parrot.

You're a dove

which flies in the world.

You're a stork

which brings its young

on a pedantic road

that leads to the pigs

of father laziness.

What’s the use

What's the use

to remain here in silence

to stupidly look at

a man who speaks

and who says nothing.

I don't listen to him,

I don't understand him.

Then, why remain here?

I don't know,

I'll never know.

One day I'll understand

that that man there

earns his keep speaking

of irrelevant things

to every day living.

But men like that one

have made of me

what I am today.

They have taught me

to look beyond them:

to look at the brilliant stars

of my youthful dreams.

One day he'll be nothing

like me and you.

One day he'll be a solitary

soul who will not have to

speak whilst looking at silence.

What is the use of this stupid cycle

which allows this useless, futile

life to continue?

In the meantime there will always be

men who will speak up

and those who will listen to them.

But what's the use to remain here

with these mute people,

with people who would like

to be outside

to breathe the natural air

of this autumn day.

Then... and now

Years, changes, caf, campus,

strangers, lectures, friends and you

is all I have in my room

when, together with myself and

reading Farrago* on the carpet,

I see ambition, wars and apathy.

Nice Farrago! Strange bullshit!

Few letters, bitter and sweet,

plenty of politics, slight mentions

of sex, sport and religion!

Look! Think! Judge!

Above all, love thyself.

Be in peace... with apathy!

* Student Newspaper at

the University of Melbourne

Apathy, silent eloquence,

you have grown wise and old with me.

Now a desk, paper, bic... and memories!

Every time my mind runs away from me,

I see the lot of you in front of

a pie and chips... a chick,

a knife... a chick, a fork... a chick,

a paper dart, multi coloured letters

and coffee.

Oh no, my friends, love the moment!

Love the present, 'cause you see,

tomorrow... tomorrow you'll be me!

New school

Do you have a biro?

I have no paper.

Where is the ruler?

I've lost my exercise book!

My books are at home.

My bag was stolen.

You say these endlessly

student.

When will you grow up?

Learn to do what everyone

must do...

be independent.

Free yourself from excuses

and join the real world,

the world of adults

where excuses cost a lot

and ignorance is no excuse.

Grow up quickly... learn how

to learn... listen... listen...

sit... sit... studyyy...

Ah, what a bore...

to be an adult!

In class

My class is noisy

the students are rude

you could say they are crude.

What should I do?

Let them grow wild,

show no respect

to anyone close to me?

What is the answer

when they are so nasty

and throw abuse

at each other

in front of me!

Should I punish?

Or shouldn't I even

ask myself this question?

The world is black or white.

There are no colours.

Students are disrespectful.

You must show your teeth,

the only way...

the only way..

A glimmer of hope

Finally a glimmer of hope.

Shining in my student's

workbook is the truth.

It's not my task to force learning

but only to monitor it!

To penetrate darkness

you need light... a light

that shines with warmth

from inside.

End the tyranny of ignorance.

Begin a world of peace...

a peace radiating from within

one's own positive experiences.

To share these with others

by realizing one's potential.

Through self fulfilment

there is no jealousy of others

but an appreciation of others'

contribution to the enrichment

of all in the community.

A sweet afternoon

On a sweet winter afternoon

we sat there in the teachers'

lounge room.

I bought some “cannoli”*

and some real italian cakes

and you all brought biscuits,

lollies and dried

chips.

We all sat together

around a small table on the couches

and Carolina was seated

there on the floor.

We made some conversation

whilst you were all there

a little ill at ease

in that somewhat

foreign atmosphere.

These are

the first experiences

of something new...

and there are so few

of these at school!

Perhaps it would be better to live

together for a few months,

to get to know each other better

in moments like this

sweet winter afternoon.

* Italian sweet

School bell

The bell rings,

another period begins.

We move to this sound.

Our time is spent

in an environmental warp.

There are times when

we want to fly away:

to break this monotony,

this life of rigidity.

To be travelling across

the Nullabor or is it maybe

the Savannah of Africa.

To watch the sky and the hills

from a mountain in Katmandu.

To drink fresh water

from a cascade in Queensland.

To travel the cities of USA

Or could there be a possibility

of working on an oil rig in WA.

Or be the manager of BHP

just for one week?

Or exchanging places with the PM?

Changing your routine, at will,

like switching the channels

of your TV set.

This bell continues to ring

every 50 minutes, precisely,

to draw us back to its fold.

*Western Australia

** Broken Hills Proprietary - Australian Company

The ethos of exams

From a quiet room I see

four flags flapping in the wind

from the Blues' scoreboard.

The top of the trees look like

green clouds in contrast to

the grey clouds of the sky above.

Here and there, tall gum trees

and the top floors of a skyscraper

(towards the Parkville side of Sydney Road)

intermingle with the rooftops

of those up market Victorian houses

amidst the light poles of the streets below.

The wind causes the flags to swing

just like it does with the waves of the sea;

but the only thing that breaks this silence

is the incessant noise of the ventilators.

Occasionally I meet the eyes

of those who may need something...

but it is quiet... like I've never

seen them altogether before;

they are preoccupied, keen to do well

in an atypical tense atmosphere.

It is that time of the year!

In lieu

means "instead of",

it means another place.

It can be like a reward:

if you've taught HSC* all year

and your class has finished,

you get another class.

In lieu

keeps you in training,

it helps you meet new students.

So when you think you're free

in lieu gives you a chance

not to do what you've been

trying to do all year!

In lieu

keeps the Ministry's morale high.

It helps save money

and ensures that all teachers

are dutifully occupied!

In lieu

is like a "hello"!

It greets you in the morning.

It makes your day thinking !

"Gee! I'll meet some old faces today!"

or "How nice! Our wonderful

year 8 or 9 or 10"!

*The last two years of secondary education

In lieu

occurs during that peaceful time

of the year when the years 11 and 12

are doing their exans!

And all the other classes are quiet!

In lieu

is a small piece of paper

which is given to you nicely,

as a gift, to be cherished

for a few hours of the day!

Everyone likes in lieu.

It's a pleasure camouflaged

as a duty.

Voluntary service

In this bureaucracy

there is space for everyone.

You can do this

or that in every hour,

in every season.

There is always someone

who doesn't do anything

whilst there is someone else

who is ambitious

of entering the circle

of the priviliged ones. And for this

they make him work at his expense,

in his time.

It's all so very simple. If you want

to go on top of the pyramid,

you have to show

that doing things

doesn't tire you out...

that your loyalty

belongs to your work... and not

to your family or

to your recreation.

Your future is assured

if you don't mind voluntary service.

I have no choice

In this class

that's not so big,

so quiet

when I am alone,

I have seen

so many faces

which now I don't

even remember.

There were the good

together with the bad.

Were are they now?

Have they changed?

Certainly. That's life.

But what am I still

doing here?

There is so much living

there outside past

that park of very

green grass.

Have I perhaps still

so much to do in this room?

Is this my work?

To remain here to supervise,

to help or to admonish,

to teach?

But if those who want

to really learn are

so few!

Outside there instead I could

direct, command,

make my way in society!

Or fail, try to find

the minimum of happiness!

Here I feel

like an acrobat

who walks on a tightrope

between two skyscrapers in the city.

I dare not look on either side,

but I walk straight ahead

and keep my balance.

Vocation

Everything appears noisy,

exciting...but boring.

Always the same with these

students who don’t want

to do anything of what I want.

Everyone wants their freedom

to act, to do, to chat

of other things and not of what

they should be doing.

I want that they speak

this other language,

that they read it often

and willingly, that they write it

almost daily,

that they love it!

But no! For them it is only

another subject amongst the many

that they have chosen, to avoid

other things that interest them

even less of this Italian language!

But the grain of hope

is always present. Because

the teacher knows that the seed

can flower again at other times,

in other Springs.

And even when I think

that I have failed, with the passing

of time, this experience

sometimes brings some really

unexpected fruits! So is the nature

of my profession,

of this, my vocation!

Farewell, Mr Hamer!

Alas!

The man is here

before his peers!

Looking back he can only see

the stream of students, colleagues,

parents, citizens and others

on whom he left his incredible mark!

Who would not remember Mr. Hamer

for the flourish of language,

the richness of expression and,

above all, the precision and the wit

with which he chisels every remark,

every speech, every letter!

It's not always what he says

that surprises you... it's the way

he comes across that astounds you.

When he stands in the tradition

of a "Churchill" or "Dante" or, perhaps,

"Homer"... (this last one must have

been a distant relative...).

At Princes Hill he has the reputation

of being a man of letters.

In the tradition of the "philosopher"

he is frank in his opinions...

he fears not the wrath of men

for they are mere mortals!

From the law he takes his stance:

at many a dinner party he has not

resisted the temptation of devouring

a fair quantity of strawberries

and ice cream sprinkled with

lawyers and lady friends.

For the last eighteen years at this school

he wore a robe of literature and history

whilst disguising his real self

as the man of languages and music.

He can put a tune or two together,

he can speak a few languages...

English, Dutch, French, German...

a little Italian, Spanish, Norwegian...

let's not forget his readings in

Latin and Ancient Greek.

Emile stands tall in his understanding

of the universal man towering above

the bigotry of chauvinism.

He deals with men and women without fear

or favour... he is not well known

for his humility, but then everyone

has a fault or two.

The itching mentality

Once upon a time there was a team of doves

which shook hands whilst holding their buttons.

One said: "tickle me here",

the other wanted his hand there.

They felt a sensation under their armpits,

sometimes they felt it even on their skin.

One day they went around with pen in hand

to hold a poll on a very strange phenomenon.

They had developed this very bad itch

which had to be healed at all cost.

They wanted all the hardened smokers transferred.

Those who continued had to be punished.

It still wasn't Carnival Time

but the itching had become almost general.

Then for democracy they formed a committee

to give the smokers the rabbit's hole.

That is that small office

next to the staffroom.

The moral is this: when

you don't like someone,

find an excuse to move him from there

The general itch

Do you remember that general itch

when they wanted to steal our little room

with the excuse of the smoking policy?

Now listen to this...

we no longer have that little room

and they have actually thrown out

of the school all the smokers!

We now go up and down

the stairs like angels.

And, the smokers, like lepers

gather together in small groups

in the laneways and in the streets

away from our neighbourhood.

You see them draw up smoke

from their mouth which breathes

the polluted air of the city.

The moral is this:

some go up

and some go down.

Thunder and lightening

On a calm lunchtime

when the school was at play

the weather felt warm

the rain was in the air.

Then suddenly a thunder

and lightening in the distance

shook the quiet of the day.

We settled to the drizzling rain

growing in intensity until

another huge thunder exploded

followed by whiplashes of lightening.

Amidst the core of our atmosphere,

our students yelled, screamed and shouted

as if judgement day was approaching!

Humans are overawed by natural events

that carry within them elements of danger.

We are a metereopathetic lot reacting

and groping into our memory to verify

our fear with stories of victims struck

by a killer lightening or collapsing dead

frightened by the power of a loaded thunder.

Even our fauna was all a fluster reacting

to this phenomenon... with dogs barking

cats meowing and running along the gutters

of the school rooftops, and birds cowing.

Nature's Autumn weather brought a last gasp

of its youthful character to our students

succumbing to its magical outdoor concerto.

The real subjects at school

They say that at school

you study many subjects:

languages, mathematics, history,

geography, sciences, arts,

music, physical education and others.

But I tell you that these

are only many, many excuses.

The real subjects which you study...

I see them very, very differently.

The student has to follow

the system... and obey!

He has to confront himself

with adults who want

to control him.

He has to meet other students

in order to socialize and adapt;

or even to fight and win,

to impose his own will!

Or be the victim of abuses

from those primitive teenagers

who are still lacking in civility

The true subjects at school you learn

quickly after the first days in class,

when you have to remain seated

and you cannot do what you want.

And when in the corridors or open spaces,

or in the gymnasium or the oval

you are alone and without friends;

you have to survive and use ingenuity,

your very own means in hand

in your very own first society!

And the teacher, were is he?

Let’s learn

Let’s learn something everybody!

That there is the sun that warms the Earth,

that brings light onto everything.

That there is the ocean, the sea, the lake,

the river, the stream and the puddles;

that there are fish of every species.

That it is steam that bring water back

up there into the sky when the rainbow appears,

but also the clouds, rain and the snow.

Let’s learn that there is ice

on tall mountain peaks, but also the smell

of flowers, fresh grass, of animals.

That many shepherds live in the open

when in summer the fireflies shine

in the night under the stars and the moon.

Let’s learn now something about

human beings who live in the world:

the ones who care for each other.

Those who help and smile.

The ones who don’t want to make war,

who try always to reach out to others.

Let’s learn together everyday

to bring to every person, to the people,

comfort, harmony, well being.

Let’s learn finally that humanity,

which is fragile by nature in the infinity,

has only so much, much need of peace.

School and TV

We want to make our school civilized:

that is, we want everyone to be polite.

We want to have the most of freedom.

We love when others are courteous.

We want to teach in an environment

of collaboration where students

develop their own self-disclipine.

We want that students do not fight

with each other, that they do not shout

or scream or misbehave.

We want to see a nice atmosphere

where each person can do what

he/she wants (let’s not forget

our ideal of equal opportunity).

When the students behave well,

you realise that every boy can do

what he wants, that every girl

succeeds in doing what she pleases.

The reason for this progress

in the behaviour of students

can be attributed to television.

They follow her more closely

than they do with us teachers

who are present in class!

Listen to how the students speak

of this great educator: everyone

follows his own favourite program,

of which he speaks with great interest and respect!

We have been replaced by a more important

instructor! But we, teachers,

will not give up to reclaim

our presence and influence in schools.

What shall we do? Find a solution!

Maybe we should use our images

of teachers to go to air,

to communicate with our students,

since they are more willing

to listen to us when we are no longer

there in class physically, as a person!

It’s a novel virtual teaching,

without emotions! If you really

want to teach in this virtual reality

you must be prepared to face the reality

of a new telematic, visible, objective

teaching style! You, teacher, will have

a greater impact on those

that want to really listen to you

or eliminate you with the click of a button

to turn on or turn off the television set!

It’s so true!!!

Your eyes are the window

to your soul. Yes, this is true

especially when one of my student

avoids my stare, when he looks

sideways or rolls his eyes in the air!

That tells me that he is not up to date

with his work, that he doesn’t care

about this subject, that he is merely

in this class to warm his chair!

I ask him to look into my eyes

and he realizes that he cannot escape

his obligations, his responsibilities!

He cannot make excuses or move in his seat.

It now seems silly to find new ways to meet;

for, alas, our eyes have met, and now

he knows the truth, he knows what to do!

All this happened because deep in his eyes

there was a portion of his soul that told me

that he didn’t know any better, that he was

still too young, too unaware, immature!!!

If you are lucky to meet your soul,

you finally meet up with the yourself

that can be better, that can be great,

that can do, do well and succeed.

Go for it!!!

Cop This Out

Don’t let me stop your learning,

open your books on the correct page.

Don’t let me stop your Lettura and,

when you are bored, Conversare e Parlare.

Don’t forget to Scrivere a postcard from

our favourite spot in Melbourne town,

or from the ocean waves of Lorne,

or the Twelve Apostles or Warrnambool!

Don’t let me stop you

opening your books.

Don’t let me stop you

doing revision!

Don’t let me tell you

what to do in Italiano,

you know how to say:

‘Ciao, buongiorno ed arrivederci!”

Your amici are everywhere

and you’ll see them in Lygon Street

drinking a caffelatte and sharing a bacio or two!

Sit around and tell stories of your nonno or nonna,

and their wonderful cucina and molto buon vino.

Take pride in your pasta with salsa, e le salsicce,

e le cotolette con insalata, e un gelato al cioccolato.

E Buon Appetito. Grazie. Altrettanto

Don’t let me stop you

opening your books.

Don’t let me stop you

doing revision!

Don’t let me tell you

what to do in Italiano,

you know how to say:

‘Ciao, buongiorno ed arrivederci!”

Don’t tell me that one day

you are going to Italy.

I don’t believe you want

to go on a gondola in Venice

or visit the leaning Tower of Pisa

or walk on the slopes of fiery Vesuvius

or sing on an ancient stage in Syracuse,

or walk sul Gianicolo in Roma at sunset!

Don’t let me stop you

opening your books.

Don’t let me stop you

doing revision!

Don’t let me tell you

what to do in Italiano,

you know how to say:

‘Ciao, buongiorno ed arrivederci!”

You don’t know English well. You think that’s enough!

So, don’t tell me that you don’t want

to learn another language - that’s too bad!

You told me that you might develop due lingue

in your mouth; you might find it hard eating

your spaghetti: you may roll a tongue in your fork

and swallow the other in the gullet!

Ma tanti auguri lo stesso. Impara, impara, impara!

Don’t let me stop you

opening your books.

Don’t let me stop you

doing revision!

Don’t let me tell you

what to do in Italiano,

you know how to say:

‘Ciao, buongiorno ed arrivederci!”

Three Girls from my School

Three young girls by their lockers

are taking our their books for class.

They are chatting, laughing and are happy

because they are young and have no worries.

Nous chantons tous les matins

quand notre professeur vient par ici.

Nous voulons qu’il nous regarde

parce que que nous sommes ses favories!

But the teacher is worried because he is late

for his form assembly. He walks past

quickly through the crowded corridor

and he smiles as he says: bonjour, mes jeunes filles!

Nous chantons tous les matins

quand notre professeur vient par ici.

Nous voulons qu’il nous regarde

parce que que nous sommes ses favories!

To attract their teacher’s attention

the three students decide to sing him a song.

Their serenade is now well known

throughout the school and it goes like this...

Nous chantons tous les matins

quand notre professeur vient par ici.

Nous voulons qu’il nous regarde

parce que que nous sommes ses favories!

Flickering Darts

Behold the feeling of men

apart from the rule of law.

See those instincts in the raw

playing games of survival.

What endurance there is

when the spirit is alive!!!

There goes the mean dagger

of cronies who, like witches

in the night, brood over

the black pot of discord,

taking out potions of venom

and, with their spoons, flickering

them onto those effigies

of men, in their mortal remains.

The Body may suffer standing

pain and anger, but the spirit

rises to an almighty scream:

“Vendetta! Vendetta! Vendetta!”

Then you see those cronies

with their spirit naked, inflated,

floating in space like balloons

of Montpellier! Our revoir! Adieu!

End of the Year

They come each year in hordes

and, like fury, they take all

and leave, like leaves

on an autumn tree.

There I stand, desolate and alone,

awaiting the coming

of another season.

“Like leaves on an autumn tree

they left me!!! Never to return

to this same year, to this set

of classes and activities!”

In the Lake Mungo Region

The bones of people

living in the Lake Mungo Region

have been there for 60,000 years.

The bones of people

buried in the sand dunes

of the Lake Mungo Region give us

a clue of the aborigines’ story.

In the sand dunes

of the Lake Mungo Region

there is a skeleton.

“I am a skeleton

in the sand dunes

of the Lake Mungo Region.

When my bones were full of flesh,

I inhabited this land,

drank from the waters

and listened to the stories

of my ancestors from my elders.

I hunted, gathered fruit

and fished. I walked

about with my group

and saw lizards, emus

and kangaroos.

My friend Mulwala

painted in a cave

our ancestor hero, Bunjil

and his dingoes. Mindeye,

the rainbow serpent,

helped in the creation

of our mountains and trees,

of our flowers and water paths.

We lived in our land

awaiting the changes of weather.

We lived with our people

knowing that Mother Earth

would one day take us back

into the Sky World of our ancestors.

We lived, we loved,

I am now dead

so that you can see

which kulin* once upon a time

were owned by the lands

of the Lake Mungo* Region.”

* People

** North of Mildura, Victoria

The Fire of the Aborigines

They say that ‘Fire’ were Alpha and Beta Centaurs,

the two star pointers up there in the Skyworld

where two young brothers, Kanbi and Jitabidi,

lived in a camp near the Southern Cross.

During a famine in that part of the Universe,

all the heavenly heroes of the Dreamtime sought

refuge in various planets of the Constellation.

That’s how Kanbi and Jitabidi arrived in Australia.

In this land of megafauna where diprotedons lived

alongside the big possums, emus and kangaroos,

the two newly arrived brothers found that food was

plentiful and their ‘firesticks’, Alpha and Beta, were useful.

One day during a hunting in progress the two firesticks

that had been left behind in the camp became really bored,

so they chased each other and finally struck their heads...

and caused a bushfire, forcing all the animals into the open.

You can just imagine how happy the local Aborigines were

when their hunters rushed with their spears and finished the game!

Kanbi and Jitabidi were so annoyed that their fun had come to an end

that they sent Alpha and Beta straight back into the Heavens!

Today these star pointers fired my inspiration, this is true, but for

the kulin in my area and all the other Koorie people out there ‘Fire’

is sister and brother, it is a legend and a symbol evermore present

in their Culture: it still helps in hunting, cooking, dancing and living!

History

Who tells it has it.

It’s inside who remembers it.

There is also in it whoever is recognized.

Those who are liked by others are there,

who has really done something more.

Who has simply written

some verses… sometimes an encyclopaedia!

There are the many angles

of the prism of facts.

There are also those

who have done nothing.

Or who have imagined too much.

Therefore, there inside, you find

also the illusions and delusions

of who thinks that he/she has done

but in fact he/she hasn’t…

History is how

it is told

and who tells it.

History is important

for the important…

But history belongs to all.

Wondrous beauty...

and literature!

Art, Literature,

films, cassettes,

video, DVDs

give everyone

a sense of the beauty

of this life.

Humans strive and thrive

on the glory

of it all.

All this information,

communication offer

belonging, togetherness,

happiness!

Art and Literature

have no price!

Just ask

my printer!

The accidental writer by Tom Padula – 2008/9

2021-01-31T06:57:00.001-08:00

It was February 1968 and I was sitting at one of the tables

on the first floor of the Baillieu Library at the University of

Melbourne, next to those steel shelves full of books. I looked up

across the room full of tables on the opposite side, with not

even a dozen students with their heads down. There she was,

a serious looking but beautiful young woman, who had barely

raised her head to think.

I thought that it would be interesting if I could just get up, go

over to the table and have a chat with her. I was in need of

conversation and perhaps female company… or rather

someone that I could hug… to make my university days more

interesting! I did not get up and walk across to that table

immediately. Rather, I wrote her a poem called ‘Curiosity.’ If I

could just come across to you with confidence, talk to you and

get to know you… a simple, straightforward poem, not even

very long, a page in fact.

So with my poem in hand, I walked across and asked her

to read my note. She did and we had a conversation. But I did

not see her after this ever again. The poem however remained

amongst my notes. I discovered the note by accident a few

weeks later. This made me think about the power of writing for

myself, because up to that point in my life I had written purely

for my teachers.

Volume 2 English 2/9/09 10:41 AM Page 12

To think that writing would then become my companion, my

friend as time went by! Whenever I felt the urge to explain

something to myself or describe a sensation or even just to play

with words about a particular sentiment that I felt in my life at

the time. The notes and pieces of paper, sometimes even a

serviette, which I had used to note down something ended up

in my pockets or among my assignments. Occasionally I would

gather them and put them in an exercise book called Thoughts

and Reflections. Then again, months later I would look back at

what I had written and ponder about what all this really meant

to me.

It became important in my life to view what I had written

almost by ‘accident.’ Yes, I had become the serial accidental

writer. The amateur writer… the writer from within who would

occasionally just drop everything else that I was doing… to

continue this journey of self analysis and discovery. I found it

interesting reading what I had written. It was almost as if it was

someone else who was being moulded by this act of voluntary

‘involuntary’ writing.

So let me tell you were this writing has taken me over the

last forty years. This is how long it took me to finally put

together a book with my name on it, as author! But don’t be

fooled. I have not looked for a publisher. I decided to pay for

the publication myself. An act of self flagellation publishing or

is it rebellion? Or have I done it again? Have I become the

Accidental Author?

Tell me future reader of my works, if what I say gives you

something in return.

For having taken the time and given me the honour of your

company during moments of your own self discovery, become

part of this Association of Accidental Writers. Enjoy yourself!

Volume 2 English 2/9/09 10:41 AM Page 13

Before the beginning

Days earlier in the same Baillieu Library of the University of

Melbourne, when the lawn outside had not yet turned into a

carpark with planted lawn on top, I was looking through the

windows and admired the very welcoming environment I found

when I arrived in this country, Australia, only a few years

earlier. I was now enjoying this earthly paradise. God came to

mind after picking up a book by Nietzsche. He was saying that

God is dead. ‘How do I know the truth,’ I asked myself? How

does anyone know?

The seeds of inquiry can be planted in a young mind and

awaken so many thoughts, so many variations of the truth

about anything. In this atmosphere I sat down, took paper and

a pen from my bag… yes, the Library was still an open,

welcoming place and students were entrusted to do the right

thing! I began to write ‘The cry of a sceptic’ my first poem…

the reason why I called it a poem was because I felt something

came out in a non rational manner. I did not do any research

on this topic. I just wrote what I felt. What came out from

within… and it made sense!

So the need to pursue a particular line of thought, a

reflection about our existence or, more precisely, my own

existence, became an extension of me that came from within. I

felt I was imprisoned between the walls of ignorance of my

body. Was there some truth about humans having a soul? If the

soul was there, where did it come from?

Why are we born? Why do we live and what is the purpose

of dying? When mortality only produces ‘waste of effort’. How

can we make this world an earthly paradise? Why are there

conflicts, wars, destruction but also kindness, understanding,

friendship, construction? So many questions about so many

things! It would take a life-time or perhaps two to get to know

only a few of the answers.

Volume 2 English 2/9/09 10:41 AM Page 14

Maybe that’s the beauty of writing. It’s like taking a journey

and, at the end of so many pages, you can end up in so many

different places or conclusions. A bit like life itself or culture,

where you can have totally different environments.

It was then that I decided that I definitely loved my new

village, this University ground, the holy grail of my young adult

life where much happens to you before you are released into

life itself: into relationships, the work environment, your

economic situation, a new family, children, trying to grapple

with realities big and small of a life in continual progression

and evolution.

Memories of earlier times

Already I could see the differences in places and time. I

remembered and felt vividly my childhood years… in that small

town in Italy… in Montemurro of the 1950’s… where my life

took the first steps… I also remembered ‘Moliterno’. The town

30 kms from Montemurro where I attended the ‘Scuola Media’

that introduced me to Latin and French, to History and Maths,

to all the other subjects taught in Secondary Schools. This was

my first real migration experience within my own Region, away

from my family.

Then I ended one migration period to experience a second

one… in Australia, to meet up with my father, to begin life in

another country which used English rather than Italian as a

national language! So much had changed… I reflected whilst

sitting in that chair in the Baillieu Library! I asked myself: ‘How

can I proceed…” So much had already changed and I was

only now 20 years old!

“How can I proceed without an appraisal of who I am?

How come I have had to learn another language?” The

answers to these questions occupied my being. It’s better to

look back now with the benefit of hindsight and try

XII

Volume 2 English 2/9/09 10:41 AM Page 15

to understand the tensions from within, the state of mind of… a

potentially confused individual who needed clarity for the way

ahead.

Did I have clarity? Of course not! I wanted to be a lawyer

without even knowing what this profession prepared you for in

the future. So I spent a lot of my time going over vocabulary

lists in order to learn English, and to understand the

complexities of expression. I was indeed attracted to literature,

but not passionately. I was attracted to much of my studies but

without that sense of purpose that makes a really top student. I

studied because I had to and I wanted to keep my place where

I was. I enjoyed those moments at University because of the

freedom that I had when I was not at lectures and tutorials or

my part time jobs!

With the need to meet other students, to make my presence

felt, to find some familiarity amongst so much that was new to

me, I began to frequent the Melbourne University Italian Club.

Soon afterwards I joined a theatrical group called La

Filodrammatica and became more involved with my part time

jobs in order to buy a car and maintain myself with my extra

expenses, even though I lived at home and only had a bus stop

ticket to pay for. But as everyone knows University life is not

cheap for someone who has to meet the peer expectations…

with smoking, lunch in the Cafeteria, the cappuccinos and pies

and chips… going out. The list of personal needs increased as

time went on… to be an adult requires some substance!

The end result of my socialization and part time employment

as a waiter did not have a real impact in my first year at Uni.

I passed all the four subjects and even managed an Honour in

Italian (expected!). This success without much trying actually

gave me two good outcomes … I received a Commonwealth

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Scholarship and the Law Faculty allowed me into first year Law.

I was a very happy individual. So I began 1969 with great

expectations… my aspiration to succeed would be sorely tested

in the year when Armstrong set foot on the Moon!

I performed reasonably well in all my written and

conversational classes in Italian and French. I also had Legal

Studies, Criminal Law and British History.

Loss and Regaining of Confidence

The University year began with great expectations. Finally I

was in the Law Faculty and I continued my language studies in

the Arts Faculty. The Commonwealth scholarship money began

to arrive. I felt absolutely on top of the world!

Within a few weeks of lectures and tutorials, I realized that

I needed to settle down to hard work if I wanted to succeed. I

did just that in part… but as the year wore on my circle of

friends grew, my involvement in La Filodrammatica took

valuable time from my studies. Money was needed to run my

car, to buy cigarettes and occasionally to go out… three, four,

five times a week! There was not much time to sleep.

So the studies began to suffer… with assignments given less

time than they should have received. In order to go dancing at

the Cavour Club, at the San Remo Ballroom, at the Hawthorn

Town Hall, plus the play rehearsals twice a week and the

Friday and Saturday nights working as a waiter at the dinner

dances and weddings at the San Remo Ballroom, Riviera Hall

and Little San Remo in North Melbourne; this busy life began

to take its toll.

I did try hard to maintain a balance and resolved to do

more near exam time, but it wasn’t to be! The calls to work as

a waiter became very repetitive, the rehearsals were time

consuming and social life was hectic. The boys and girls at the

Melbourne University began to congregate in the cafeteria to

play cards, billiards and talk! What a wonderful life! A life full

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of fun, joy, new experiences, new relationships or rather

chasing new relationships… because the girls at University

were pretty focused about what they wanted. The boys were no

match for them. One of the girls told me… “I came into the Law

Faculty to get myself a lawyer.” I resolved I wasn’t ready for

marriage to anyone! My father had married at thirty three! As

a result I also looked for company outside of my usual

University ambience!

The outcome of this year of great memories resulted in my

passing only one subject! Italian II. I did not even pass French

II, a subject which I loved! I had played so hard and had lost

my way so badly that I lost my place in the Law Faculty and

also the Commonwealth Scholarship. But I was earning more

money as a waiter! I was absolutely down in the dumps in

December 1969. I slowly recovered by beginning to write

regularly in my Thoughts and Reflections Exercise Book. I

analysed why I had failed and how I could regain my losses.

So in January 1970 I went to see the Administrator of the

Law Faculty and pleaded with him to let me do the year again!

He said that he couldn’t… the Legal Studies and Criminal Law

lectures did not want students who had failed in the

examinations to repeat the year. He offered some advice. “

Listen Tom, get your Arts Degree and then I’ll let you into the

Law Faculty again.” This he could do since you could study for

another degree without there being any restrictions under the

Post Graduate Study Scheme.

I enrolled in three arts subjects: Italian3, French 2(again)

and Australian History(2). 1970 was a good year… I curtailed

some of my social life, worked fewer hours closer to exam time,

but I was even more involved in the theatrical productions of the

Italian Drama Society... my skills of organization and

communication were increasing rapidly! I still met my friends

from the Law Faculty but I was the only one who had not been

able to get back into the Law Faculty!

Volume 2 English 2/9/09 10:41 AM Page 18

As the year passed I became more determined to protect my

place at the University… as a result I handed in my assignments

on time and enjoyed settling down not only to the work but also

to my own writings… poetry, some philosophical reflections

and how to approach life in general. I even published a few

poems in the La Piazza Magazine of the Melbourne Italian

Students’ Club. The theatre involvement gave me an outlet for

self expression and improvement in the use of the spoken

language. The hesitancy of my first year English language use

had gone… fluency came with practice and extra studies. So I

passed the year… but this time there was no scholarship… and

I did go to see the Administrator of the Law Faculty again… but

he repeated the refrain “get your Arts Degree first and then I’ll

let you into the Law Faculty again.”

1971 arrived… I had finished Italian 3 Honours… so in

1972 I ended up with French(3) and Marketing in the

Commerce Department. So far I had Italian 1,2,3. (Honours),

French1 and 2, Philosophy1 Honours, British History(1) and

Australian History(2)… my French(3) Subject would complete

the Arts Degree requirements. Marketing, a commerce subject,

I studied out of personal interest since I was involved with the

Italian Drama Society. Here I remained as an actor and one of

the administrators for three years.

The end of 1971 saw me passing two subjects. During the

year I had gone to do some tutoring and teaching in Italian at

the Minerva Institute, a small private school in Swanston Street,

just down the road from Melbourne University. The money was

better than in waitering! At the end of that year I felt that at 23

years of age I was getting too old for Law and further studies.

A Diploma of Education course would help me get a job as a

teacher. Professor McCormick felt that was a good course of

action for me. He also wanted me to do further work in

History…

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I began 1972 at the Melbourne Teacher’s College, next

door to the University of Melbourne, with a view of completing

a teaching qualification in Languages (Italian and French) and

History. My involvement with the Italian Drama Society had

grown exponentially… I was the only one left in the Marketing

and Administration roles for the group… everyone else came

only to rehearse and be on stage. My work was appreciated

by my lecturers at the Melbourne Teachers College and by

Professor Colin McCormick at the University. I had begun to

feel more comfortable with the potential of this work, which

had been and was voluntary work.

In December 1972, I met my future wife Nella and in

February 1973 I began to teach at Thornbury High School

where I introduced the teaching of Italian. My colleague and

friend Sandro Martino was in Italy for the first half of that year.

He had been one of my teaching method teachers the previous

year at the same school where he taught French and History,

Needless to say with a new girlfriend and a new job, my

involvement with the Italian Drama Society began to wane and

it came to an abrupt end in early May 1973. By June of that

year I was engaged to Nella and we married on the 23rd of

December 1973.

In 1974 I enrolled at the University of Melbourne as an

Italian (4) Honours Student with a view of getting my

Preliminary Masters Degree. I joined the Victorian Association

of Teachers of Italian and became a Committee member. By the

end of that year Stefan Kasarik, Headmaster of the Saturday

School of Modern Languages (SSML), became Secretary of the

Victorian Association of Teachers of Italian (VATI). He took me

under his wing and in 1976, he became President of Vati and

I was the Secretary of the Association. He was a very

organized and capable administrator of this School which

included a number of centres across Melbourne. He was

responsible for me becoming the first Consultant of the

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Teaching of Italian in Victoria with the Education Department,

seconded to the Curriculum and Research Branch. He also

gave me the job as the first Italian Coordinator of the Saturday

School of Modern Languages.

In a few short years I had gone from theatre to education as

a marketing and practicing teacher of my subjects. In 1977 I

revised the Italian ALM text and workbook, an Audio Language

course for Harcourt Brace and Jovanovich, a New York based

Publishing House in Australia. I had also begun to teach at

Coburg High Evening School, conducted two workshops for

prospective primary and secondary school teachers at the

Melbourne State College, worked at Thornbury High School

and as the Italian Consultant for Victoria… I had become a dad

in 1974! The life of freedom had by now fully disappeared.

The next few years saw my very substantial contribution to

the teaching of Italian in this State for which the Governments

of Victoria and State Governments across Australia can truly be

proud. They led a charge in opening up the hearts and soul of

this great land to people from across the oceans … it would

take a few more decades to extend this also to the Indigenous

Australians. The commitment for a better and more humane

approach to people within their cultural and linguistic

backgrounds continues to this present day.

My work at the Curriculum and Research Branch, my

contacts with the Italian Cultural authorities and

representatives, my continued visits in schools and other

institutions and promotional work at the practical level in

schools and other institutions, together with the fact that I was

able to muster the energies of so many colleagues working in

classrooms and providing leadership to others, saw the

movement grow … with the resulting increases in the teaching

of Italian at the Secondary and Primary levels of Education.

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In 1979 I had become a dad for the third time… I was also

the President of the Victorian Association of Teachers of Italian

and of the Federal Committee of Teachers of Italian working

closely with the Director of the Cultural Institute in Melbourne

and urging the authorities to further their links with the country

of origin in order to bring about a qualitative improvement in

the teaching of Italian and in the relationships between the two

countries.

What a journey in a decade! One which I have not

forgotten but which inspires me still today after forty years of

activity!

In the meantime my poetry output did not stop… I continued

to jot down ideas, write poems, try to connect reality with my

aspirations… to search for the truth, for fairness, for ways in

which we can share our knowledge and skills. It was an intense

period of love, commitment to ideals, working to improve my

lot and that of others, for the greater good of all. It was a fun

if at times perplexing emotional and practical journey in search

of my own identity in a duality and multiplicity of experience.

In all this time, the writing continued to serve me well… the

accidental writer had begun to appreciate the importance of

recording one’s own actions for one’s own benefit… and also

for others. The art of written communication is an important tool

to be kept and cherished.

The skills developed as the practice grew… I had to write

up newsletters, letters, lesson plans, prepare articles for

newspapers, give impromptu speeches, organize and

communicate what needed to be done in small and large group

situations. I also had to write reports, give my views about

certain issues… the art of writing for others leads you to

simplify the type of language you use. You realize that clarity

and the short, sharp message is valued in one’s relationship

with people from all walks of life, young and old.

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1979 was truly a momentous year for me as the

organization of the work of the Federal Committee of Teachers

of Italian became a part of its brief to expand and provide a

qualitative language service across Australia. These were the

times of the development of Radio and TV networks that would

revolutionize the cultural imprimata of this country.

Today Australia has enjoyed many decades of tolerance

and growth within Government policies of all political

persuasions… extreme views have not taken a hold despite a

number of movements aiming to polarize and cause prejudice

and racism. Maybe all that happened in Australia and

especially in Melbourne and Victoria was a premeditated

ideological push towards our acceptance of globalization as a

reality in our modern world.

When I travel these days… wherever I fly over different

continents and countries, I recognize in the nations below their

cultural contribution in my daily life. For this I am immensely

grateful. More so because our children have become truly

cosmopolitan and comfortable in their acceptance of others

and cultures different from their own. I am also grateful for the

fact that these same children are strong believers in their own

inherently diverse identity… recognizing the different flavours

of their moods, thoughts and emotions coming from different

geographical areas of their family history. There is no turning

back.

The dreams of my youth have been realized. I am content

with the fact that I feel that my working life has somehow

played a positive part in this development, in which all people

have the right to say:

“Planet Earth: you are my world.”

The Accidental Writer continues to stumble across more

poetry that accompanies him in his walks through the reality of

living. For now, enjoy these poems on Love, the Seasons and

Sentiments… Buona lettura!

Tom Padula – April 2009