Scattered Images in My Mind - Solitary Journey of a Desert Poet

I approached an old man

sitting under an ancient boab tree

'He is a magic healer',

its withered leaves whispered to me.

I saw a questing traveller

thirsty for new sights -

roaming throughout the western desert.

A reflective individual

living under the austere codes

of a nomadic life.

An intriguing figure,

this Aboriginal man,

who stands at the heart

of desert beliefs and rituals.

Yet he went out to learn English,

study poetry

and marry a well known poet

from mainstream Australia.

"It was a love match",

he said to me

with a twinkle in his eye.

"I was born in the mid-1930s

at the remote site

of Tjamu Tjamu,

in the Gibson desert

dunes

of Western Australia."

"When did you start

to write poetry?"

I asked.

"As a child

I roamed the desert

with my family group.

My father was

Maparnajarra,

a magic doctor,

who taught me

to rely

on the gifts

of insight and intuition

that lie at the heart

of traditional healing

that is full of magic words.

Poetry is also about words.

Words, words, words...

my wife used to say:

When I have a poem published,

I'll feel like a poet."

Then it was.

Then she used to say:

"When I have a book published,

I'll feel like a poet."

But it did not change anything.

She was always chasing words.

It's still just about

the next word

on the page.

She is dead now,

but her poetry lives on.

On paper,

as you

'white people'

have a need

to write

everything down."

"I know, what you mean,"

I nodded:

"Dylan Thomas said:

'Poetry is

what makes us

laugh and cry...'

The earliest poets,

those travelling performers,

rhapsodies, bards or troubadours,

used spoken words to entertain."

"For my people,

poetry is about

conversation.

'Narrative poems'

are possibly

the oldest type of poetry,

and are still performed

as communication

in desert communities

where many of the people

still could not read or write."

"I loved your storytelling,"

I said,

remembering last night

in the camp,

with a crackling fire

and this poet's voice -

the only sound

in the emptiness of the desert.

"I loved your imagery.

The flexible rhythm

in the tension and the harmony..."

"While still young,

I was marked out for training

in traditional healing.

It involved solitary journeys,

encounters with spirit beings

and the acquisition of acute

sensory powers.

I could see

distant locations

and detect body auras

of troubled patients,

using magic words

to soothe their suffering.

I see poems as a sort

of personal healing.

It's a means

of sharing

frustrations

or joys

about the world."

" You are one of those desert men

with a strong sense of form and style.

Your striking face,

full of wrinkles

and deep lines

has become well known in the media.

Young budding artists

queue to visit your camp -

with their modern camping equipment.

Do you welcome this fame

and intrusion into your solitary life?"

I asked, watching his face turn to me

in surprise.

"Fame brings money.

It would be pointless

to pretend

that I don't welcome

the mainstream recognition

that came my way

so late in my life."

He nodded, looking

at his worn out clothes

and the bush humpy

behind.

"And yet I am,

like all healers,

set to one side

of my own society.

I am a helper figure,

oddly devoid of selfish feelings,

generous with my Western acolytes.

I see myself as a part of

a collective.

I am closely bound

to my community.

I, myself, suffer from

the familiar collapse

of the old desert people -

caught up in the cycle

of modern community life.

He stopped talking for a while

and looked deeply into my eyes:

"But not everything about my people

is traditional.

I travel far to distant towns

such as Kalgoorlie and Alice Springs.

I've seen the drinking camps, courts and jails.

My healing powers,

nor my Western fame,

can help my community -

which is barely functioning today."

" How did you meet your wife?"

I quickly changed the subject,

unable to withstand his gaze.

"When I was still a young warrior,

I travelled across

a wide stretch of desert

to the vicinity

of Warburton mission,

where I learnt English

and was sent to Perth

to study more.

There I met and married my wife.

After some years based there,

I went back north with my wife

to the region of Patjarr rock hole -

one of the core sacred sites

of the western desert.

We helped establish

a new community there.

I was among the crew of men

who cut and graded

the long road into Patjarr

from Gunbarrel Highway.

My wife is dead.

I have no children.

The Patjarr community

is empty now."

I looked up at his sad face,

following his gaze

across the sand.

He started to recite one of his poems,

communicating life in the desert world -

full of grace and poise.

So many traditional words,

in his ancient language.

So hard to understand.

On other hand,

so many words of depth,

the pure expression of his identity:

prompt, lovely, yet unresolvable -

a gateway into absolutes.

They are a testament

and a mystery

all at once.

I approached an old man

sitting under an ancient boab tree

'He is a magic healer',

it's withered leaves whispered to me.

I saw an Australian poet

with no volume of poetry published.

Yet he was known as one -

roaming throughout the western desert,

a reflective individual

living under the austere codes

of a nomadic life.

Anyone can write or say a poem.

No matter how a poem is written or said

No matter where a poem is written or said -

There is one element

that is the same...

EMOTION