David Melville

David Melville, a poet, shares his journey of writing poetry later in life. He talks about his early experiences with poetry and how he was discouraged by a teacher. However, he rediscovered his love for poetry at a country music event and has been writing ever since. He also discusses where he draws inspiration from and how his poems often take unexpected turns. The interviewer emphasizes the importance of creativity at any age and the benefits it has on brain activity. They also highlight the sense of community and connection that poetry brings. David shares some of his poems, including a humorous and updated version of "The Man from Snowy River." Overall, the conversation celebrates the power of poetry and its ability to bring joy and warmth to people's lives. And we'll start recording. And I'll grab a chair over here. Bring it a bit closer to the front of the screen. Of course, this is being recorded. That's not going to make any difference. I've entirely registered. This is fine. I'll just make sure that you register. Okay. Okay, my special guest today is David Melville. And David, I'm really pleased that we're meeting here today to capture some of your unique poetry, which I've heard and really enjoyed at the recent writers' group meeting here in Port Macquarie. So, David, can I, before we get into maybe some of the poems, could you tell our podcast listeners what inspired you to write poetry or tell me about some of your early writing experiences with poetry? Well, as I've mentioned before, my first time of writing a poem was when I was about 15 for the local high school magazine. And the English teacher... It was only a short poem about rain, but she refused to put it in the magazine because she said that I could not possibly have written that and that... Anyway, after a lot of pleading, I think from my parents or whoever, it finally got in the school magazine, but that turned me off poetry forever. I said, no way, you know. So, anyway, not too long ago, about five years ago, I was driving through a place called Maryborough in Queensland and had a sign-up, Music Buster. So I thought, what the hell's that about? So I went in and it turned out to be a country music buster where people of about my age in their late 60s, 70s, were getting up and singing country music songs accompanied either by somebody behind them or they'll play their own guitars. It was quite good, but I'm not a real country music fan. And then of a weekend, they'd have a couple of hundred people there and they said, come around with us. There's a few of these on, you know, every second weekend around Queensland, maybe the southeast of Queensland. And so I followed them around and every Sunday morning and Sunday morning day they'd have a poets' breakfast where people got up and said a poem, read it or said their own poem. And after a while I thought, oh, I can't play any music, I can't sing, so I might get involved in the poetry. So since then I've been writing a lot of poems, my own poems. I don't know anybody else's poems, to my embarrassment. And that's worked out real well for me. I ended up in the long yard at Temworth doing some poems up there this year and another poetry with a fellow called Tom McElveen, local boy. So yeah, no, it's been really great. Tell me, where do you draw your inspiration for the poems from? Well, look, I have no idea where the inspiration comes from, but I might hear a statement or read a story or something like that and start to write about that. But the poem will usually go off on a completely different tangent, nowhere I ever expected. That's what happens. And you just shake your head when it's over. Now, of course, once you write it down, you come back to it a couple of weeks later, you come back to it months later and usually change it, improve it, or you think you improve it, but you do change them. Yeah. So you started, just from what you're saying, so you started really writing poetry later in life? Oh, very late. How old would you have been when you started? About 71. 71. Yeah. And I suppose that's a really important thing for this podcast and the listeners of the podcast, because what we're talking about is that your age doesn't impact on your creativity. In other words, it doesn't matter how old you are, you can still learn some new things or demonstrate some things, such as either writing poetry, expressing yourself, playing a musical instrument. It doesn't matter really what it is. And a lot of research has been done, and we were talking earlier on, some work being done at Newcastle University and others about the benefits to your brain and brain activity by things like music, poetry, painting, the creative activities that really are an important part of sort of keeping ourselves active. The other side of it, I think that's really important, David, is, as you know, you go along to the writers' group, as I do, and you have about 20 or 30 people there all coming along, sharing fellowship in terms of, you know, greeting, sharing stories and catching up. So poetry is a great way of keeping communities connected to each other and also recognising, you know, the various cultural activities that we do, whether it be poetry or writing or storytelling. I think it's something that's really important for communities and a way of bringing communities together and keeping communities involved. Yes, definitely, definitely. I think the most important thing that you've got to understand when you go to these, well, like the Port Sturman's Poultry Mob up in the vineyard and others that I've been to, you don't have to be talented. You don't have to be fantastic. You can read somebody else's poem. You can read your own poem and nobody judges you at all. It's fantastic. You know what I mean? As a matter of fact, they give all the encouragement over the world and that's the beauty of it. You don't have to get it. Some people, when they first get there, are embarrassed, of course, but no need for it, you know. That's a really important point because it's the opportunity to express feelings, content, stories, funny stories, and bush poetry, obviously, across a whole range of different areas. Generally speaking, I find that listening to bush poetry acts to help you recall memories in terms of maybe growing up about somebody sharing a story or a poem. The other day I was listening to a poem by Bess Jennings on the choco-vine, the choco-vine growing over chicken pen. Then again, we were talking earlier on about Graham Skilwith, what his poetry... He does a lot of poetry, but when I was interviewing him the other day, he told me a poem about a cucumber. Yeah. It brings a smile to your face and a glow to your heart, I think, poetry. Oh, yeah. I'm remiss here. I can't remember that he died last year, if the fellow died last year, an English poet, but I'd only heard it since he died, but it was a poem about the polar bear coming down to see if anybody's heard what happened on the iceberg because his family were on it. You know, absolutely hilarious. But you get stuff like this. It's really great, yeah, and serious stuff. Exactly right. Well, we want to get some of your poems. So you've got your book of yarns by David Melville. So do you want to share a few poems with us now, David? All right, mate. One of the first poems I wrote was what I call The Colt from Old Liglet. I'd heard The Man from Snow River going around about 100 times, you know, honestly, and I don't know it myself, but I'd heard it so many times. I've seen it done. A bloke got up and said he could do it backwards and did it with his back to the audience, you know. There's a fellow called Greg North who's won the Australian Championships quite a few times, and he does it with hats and scarves and different accents. Fantastic. Just can't think of the bloke's name. He used to have the short version. There was movement at the station for the word had passed around that the colt from old Liglet had got away, so they went and got him back. Then I've heard Lorna Down, and she's a Queensland country music singer, and she sings it to music written by Slim Dusty. Fantastic. But I got to thinking myself, what would the poem be like in 2018 when I wrote this? What would it be like if the colt got away in 2018? It'd be, with all the political correctness and everything going on and all of this, be a different poem completely. So, with apologies to Banjo Patterson and, of course, anybody else who happens to be politically correct out there, here we go. There was movement at the station for the word had passed around that the colt from old Liglet had got away. They changed the name from old Regret to old Liglet because ours were very difficult for the new Chinese owners to say. So they sent a drone out with a camera to see if that colt was about, and they found it in a gully, too steep, too dangerous for the drone to chase it out. This was a job for experts, a job they couldn't do alone. So they called Clancy of the Overflow, horse recoverer's proprietary limited, on their mobile phone. Now it's 2018, and Clancy answers, Please hold. Your call is important to us. We're sure your horse won't go far. Why not sit back and why not leave a message or why not sit back and listen to Clancy recite the whole 33 verses of The Man from Snowy River accompanied by guitar. Off the freeway they came, three quad bikes kicking up a row. There was Clancy, there was that skinny little kid, and there was that Sheila, and we're not too sure what he brought her for. Clancy stood up for them, stood up for that girl. He said, oh, he stood up for that kid. He said, that kid has written BMX bikes, and that's what's made him tough. The girl she has from Queensland, where they bring them up tough and they breed them rough. Now it's 2018, and Clancy stands and solemnly acknowledges the traditional owners of that gully and the Dreamtime visions everywhere, promises faithfully that he won't ride over any sacred sites that might happen to be there. Oh, they took it a cracker pace towards that dangerous gully. We sat back and watched the visions coming from the drone to our telly. The first to fall was the kid. Four flat tyres about five kilometres out. But we weren't concerned. We knew that Clancy and that Sheila could turn that cold about. Oh, they hit that gully at a cracker pace. Sparks flew like lightning as they hit rocks and stones and more. This was quad bike riding at its best. This was quad bike riding at its utmost. This was quad bike riding like you've never seen before. Then the girl stopped. We zoomed in to see what was happening there. She's looking at the camera. It's an ad. She's promoting a range of Clancy of the Overflow underwear. Oh, now we were concerned. Would the problems and the stresses and the strains of the last few weeks keep Clancy from the fray? You see, it's 2018. That's right. Clancy's come out. Yes, Clancy of the Overflow is gay. But Clancy kicked on. Ignoring workplace rules and regulations that said he had to rest. Clancy found that cult. Clancy passed the test. Clancy was the best. Now, to calm that horse, Clancy hit it with a tranquilizer dart. And then when leading that horse, catastrophe struck. The quad bike stalled and then it wouldn't start. But it's 2018. And who comes racing into that gully to save the day? That's right. That bloody Sheila, screaming and shouting, I demand equal pay. Well, poets and writers don't write sonnets and poems about Clancy and his dangerous ride into that gully. No. We watch rerun after rerun of that Sheila leading that horse out and embarrassing the man they now call Nancy of the Overflow on the telly. Yeah, that's great. Missed the line, but... That's all fine. Doesn't matter. Okay. So... That's really good stuff. Yeah, yeah. As I said, a little bit politically incorrect these days. That's all right. We'll have it right. It'll be fine. Yeah. Okay, so we'll just try and take the head off the air, mate, so it's comfortable. I'm all right. The heat doesn't worry me at all. No, I love it. Okay. So tell me about your next poem. What's it about and what's the inspiration behind it? Well, look, everybody that writes a Bush poem has to write a poem about Adani. And, you know, I've read lots of hilarious poems and I thought I'd have a shot at it. And this poem that I'm going to do next is how it came. But before I do it, I always like to tell the story about... The missus got a new phone, so she texts me. If you're sleeping, send me a dream. If you're laughing, send me a smile. And if you're crying, send me a tear. So I text back, I'm on the dummy. What do you want me to send you? Oh, yeah, we had a dummy. Oh, not like the dummies they have today. None of these remote control flushes, warm seats and sprays to keep the flies away. No, my old man used to dig a deep hole. Then he'd put a corrugated structure over it. And for comfort, he'd put a piece of wood across the middle with a hole and that's where your bum would fit. Oh, us kids used to cut up newspaper squares and didn't we make some? We'd put a piece of wire through, hang them up on a three-inch nail and that's how you'd wipe your bum. My mum took me to the doctors. She said, oh, goodness gracious, me woman, look at that kid's ass. It's black, it should be pink. We worked it out, it was from wiping me bum on the newspaper. It was the stain from the printing ink. You know, sometimes the smell from that dummy would get so bad the flies would try and stop you opening the door. Dad would pour a bit of petrol in, he'd light it and those flies would disappear with a whoosh. Dad went to their town one day and mum said, hey, that dummy's on the nose, get yourself up there and pour some petrol in. Begrudgingly, I dragged a full jerry can of the stuff up and I poured in the whole tin. Dad came home that evening and went up to the dummy for his usual sit. Oh, the petrol, gosh, I'd forgotten all about it. Well, Dad used to like to sit on the dummy. He'd light up a smoke. When he'd finished, he'd lean forward and drop the durry in. Oh, yes, we laugh now, but when the blast went off, mum said, sounds like your dad's been on the prunes again. Well, that blast sent about 10,000 birds up into the air. You could see the flashing Darwin, Perth, Melbourne, and it lit up like air. We raced there, but the dummy was gone, never to be found. We looked everywhere, but we couldn't find Dad anywhere else. An airline pilot said that he saw him go past. He had his pants around near his ankles, his bum was on fire, and he had a surprised look on his face. Reckons that if he'd have been travelling any faster, he'd have reached outer space. We got him back a couple of weeks later, a bit bemused. Been to the moon or so he thought. You know, to the day he died, he reckons he'd been rescued by NASA and made an honorary astronaut. We finally cleaned up most of the poo. Oh, you'd be amazed at how much of the house that went through. We can't find the tractor. We figure it's under all that rubble. But once we get the fences back up and the house back on its stumps, we'll find it, no trouble. You know, that blast left a crater big enough to put a septic tank in. Now we've got an inside dunny, it's got a pull-the-chain flusher, and it doesn't smell or anything. Mum brings those toilet rolls home from the store, you know, you can get them from the store. And I'm the family hero, because no one's bum gets black or burnt or sore anymore. True story. What's the next poem you're going to share with us? Well, what about, do you want a serious one? Yeah, give us a serious one. Look, I'm really not sure how this poem on earth got going. And I suppose one of the problems, you'll notice when I've written these poems out, I've said poems or yarns, because my poetry doesn't exactly comply with the rules and the regulations of metre and rhythm that Bush poetry should. So any proficienos out there or whatever, they'll realise that when they hear it. But anyway, a serious one is about a father and son. So, it's your dad, son. Yes, I know, it's been 35 years. Yes, yes, the nerve to call you has taken quite a few beers. Yes, I know, son, I know, you've got your own family and I don't rate. Oh, come on, son. Come on, it's never too late, it's never too late. I just thought you and I might get together, we could take a chance. We could do what we once did, eh, son? We could watch the Brolga dance. Yes, I know, son. I went a-droving and I never came back. Yes, I went a-droving, son. Son, life led me down a different track. The call of freedom, son, the ability to just get up and go, the call of the bush, son, well, it gets to you, you know. Yes, I knew I'd lose your love, the price I had to pay. Yes, I thought I'd be forgotten, I thought about it every day. But, son, I've pushed cattle across the Kimberley when spring flowers were in bloom. I've rescued horses in Kosciuszko when winter storms came in too soon. I've watched dry rivers and lakes dry up in summer and swarm with fish and bird. And I've watched sunsets in the autumn when there wasn't another sound to be heard. Oh, no, son, no. I did not know your mother had died. Yes, I should have kept in touch, I should have tried. But the call of the bush, son, it was just too strong. Oh, no, son, no, no. I can't say that the choices I made were wrong. I just called on the hope that you and I could get along. You see, the doc says I'm on my way out, son. I haven't got that long. Oh. So you're going to hang up, are you, son? Discontinue this call? Well, I guess I won't get to see her, eh? Won't get to see her at all. I'll just pick myself up and drift back to the bar. Try not to remember. Try not to go back so far. I'll try and imagine that you and I took a chance. We stood shoulder to shoulder, son, and watched those brolga dance. Goodbye, son. Tears in my eyes. Oh, yeah, that's a, what, what do you feel, humorous next, or? Yeah, maybe it's a humorous, that's a beautiful poem. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it is a good poem. People like that one. What about a couple of me silly poems? Yeah. You like that? Yeah. Yeah, this one. We still recording? Yeah. Drought, drought. I was in the pub when I spoke to an old bushy about the drought. He said, get me a beer and I'll tell you what a real drought is about. But first I'm going to tell you something to which you'll relate. There's not many flies around because it gets so hot they evaporate. Oh, those bad droughts can drag on for more than 100 years. No point crying. You'll find there's no water for tears. It gets so dry the kettle can't pass anything but bulldust. So dry the corrugated iron on your dummy can't rust. So hot your hens lay hard-boiled eggs and I don't know how. It's so dry powdered milk will come out of your cow. So dry your dog's tongue sticks to the roof of its mouth it can't bark. And your shadow hides and won't come out till it cools down when it gets dark. Your pea dries up before hitting the bottom of the dunny. And bats start wearing sunglasses because it gets that sunny. Oh, there's dust so thick crows fly backwards scooping it out of their eyes. And that dust so high it causes satellites to fall out of the skies. Why it got so hot inside the pub me mate's toupee caught on fire. And me dog drilled, yes me dog drilled when we all started the first fire. Oh, then the worst thing happened and it made your knees tremble with fear. Drink slow and your glass would dry out before you finished your beer. So buy me a schooner and I'll tell you about the worst kind of drought. I'll keep pouring on the bullshit, you just keep making it. Your shadow. True story. Is there a few more like that? Oh yeah, little ones like that. There's a few more. Little ones like that. I was sitting next, what about Gunner, Gunner yeah. I was sitting next to, to a mate in a pub one day. Why don't I tell you quickly the things he had to say. Oh, gonna have to pass on that beer mate, got things to do. A few minor jobs for the missus, well more than a few. Gonna fix that old Dunny's seat so she can sit down. Gonna flush the water tank, the water's an odd brown. Gonna do up the back room, you know she's preggies again. Where am I gonna put me grounds? Outside in a bed. Then I'm gonna put a door on that Dunny the neighbours been looking in. Gonna put some glass in the bedroom window, a drought's been happening, a draught's been happening. And I'm gonna nail down those loose floorboards on the kitchen floor. Stop her tripping over, not gonna hurt herself anymore. Then I'm gonna mow the lawn, have I done that for a year or two? Oh no, gonna give that a miss. I'd have to pick up all that dog poo. Well those old Corot sheets, there's a front fence there, gonna look swell. And then I'm gonna unblock the septic, it's full and it's starting to smell. And those pink weatherboards, you know the ones I got from the tip? I'm gonna fix the bedroom ceiling with them, that's gonna colour it up a bit. Then I'm gonna take the missus out, haven't done that for years. Into the pub, she's not drinking, but I'm gonna have a few beers. Wait, wait, wait, wait, get a beer. All that stuff's gonna dig into me drinking time. I'll get the missus Chinese on the way home, she's gonna be fine. Patience is a virtue, and good things come to those who wait. That's what I'm gonna say. Cheers mate, close call that. But I am gonna get around to it, one day. One day. Just while you are saying your poetry there, I was just looking for my phone. If I can get a photo of you, is that okay? Yeah, good mate, I'll do a dog one next day. Yeah, do a dog one. I do a lot of dog ones, but... If I do all this now, I don't forget about it. Maybe just a bit like that one. So David's going to give us a dog poem. Yeah, yeah, I do a lot of dog poems. When I started I did, mainly because I had a dog then. But I'll tell you a funny story, which I always liked to do before I do a dog poem. I was travelling out back of Queensland and came up to one of those, buddy, you know those little shops that sell petrol, tractor tyres, milk, everything. You know, the only thing in town. So I went into the shop and no one was there. The bell rang, but no one was there. And then I looked on the front desk, on the front counter, and it's got, Beware of the dog. Oh, scared the daylights out of me. Jumped back, nearly had a heart attack. Anyway, when I looked down, there's an old Labrador line on the floor. The lady came out, I said, oh, lady. I said, look, see that sign there, beware of the dog. I said, it's just about given me a heart attack. I said, one, shouldn't it be on the front door? And two, look at that bloody old dog there. Ooh, I'd have to beware of that. She said, mate, till we put that sign there, everyone tripped over that dog. I'll call this one the grid. Bluey was a dog that could muster, oh, and he could do it well. But he became notorious for his god damn awful smell. Bluey would walk around quietly passing wind. Lucky he gave warning. Bluey always grinned. Now, when Bluey grinned, rodeo clowns lost their smile. Emus would run and fly for a hundred mile. That smelled so bad, people would run and hide. Legend has it, one bloke stayed to commit suicide. Oh, he'd grin and other dogs would hold their breath. Fleas would jump off them, preferring to fall to their death. Oh, not only did it smell obnoxiously, it came out with enormous velocity. You'd stand behind Bluey and miss that grin. If the blast didn't kill you, the smell would do you in. Dogs were blown off their chain, vanishing, never to be seen again. It could blow the barbs off a barbed wire fence. Nothing could survive Bluey's flatulence. Oh, not all bad. Those windmills producing electricity doubled their capacity. The dreaded coronavirus was eradicated. Cane-toed numbers were nearly annihilated. Tropical storms were pushed out to sea. Bushfires snuffed out saving life and property. The undertaker fed him baked beans if business was grim. And the best exterminator found nothing kills cockroaches quicker than him. Well, Bluey's gone now. Past wind too close to a bushfire. He'd be in orbit if that flame coming from his mum had shot him higher. We smile when stories are told about Bluey's and his grin. But we thank the good Lord for getting rid of him. I know the reason I'm sort of holding back is when I edit out, I've got all these chuckles in my gut. Oh, right, yeah. So they're very, very good. What's your next project? Mate, I wrote this just recently. Tell me the title of it. I just can't think of what came up, but it came up about koala bears, you know. Someone said, I did a poem and they said, no, koalas aren't bears. So I wrote this poem. Now, it might be, hopefully it's all right. Okay, it's a children's poem. So, he was one year old when Climber the Koala was told he wasn't a bear. So with his koala heart broken, he became quite outspoken, reckoned life wasn't fair. Gone were all his koala dreams and his koala schemes of being a superhero drop bear. Now he couldn't climb up a gum tree where no one could see him drop to save lives everywhere. Climber had always liked to mention that it was his intention of being the bravest drop bear of all. He was going to save a tree or a forest maybe. Why, he'd be the first superhero they'd call. Oh, he so wanted secretly to climb to the top of a tree then drop down suddenly. Dropping from great heights to scare the daylights out of developers and loggers. So they'd all flee. Also, while wearing a cape and a gown, he intended to drop down to scare feral cats and dogs out of their wits. Saving animals, birds and lizards from losing their gizzards and being torn to bits. He was going to fill bad guys with dread once word had spread that Climber the Drop Bear was around. Basically he wanted to ensure that we all felt secure and everyone felt safe and sound. Now it was Koala's father that caused the drama by informing him he wasn't a bear. Look up the family gum tree and you won't see a panda, a polar or a grizzly anywhere. Now I don't want to get legal but you're a marsupial and you're called a koala my furry friend. You can search koala high and low and read any book you know but you'll find no bear at the end. Now Climber's mother while putting him to bed had repeatedly said this drop bear talk was nonsense. Why right from the start I thought you were smart so please try and use common sense. I should not have to tell you that there aren't any emu jumping around like a kangaroo. Why you'll never see a wallaby climbing a gum tree or flying then dropping on you. But Climber wanted to do what his parents told him not to and jumped like he's super heroes. Then he landed with a thump gave his head a bump and blood trickled from his nose. Well he was now in a muddle realising this dropping thing was trouble especially the fall. So his mother patched his head and tucked him into bed and smiled when he said I'm a koala mummy not a drop bear after all. Very good. Do you like that? I've never said it before it was interesting. Very good. What about a war poem? Yes. Yeah I suppose that's another thing a lot of war poems and bush poetry. This one I don't know it's a bit long but anyway we'll give it a shot. It's called Anzac a different perspective. This is a true story about a bloke I never knew. He was educated and smart, smart enough to know a thing or two. He fell for that famous kooey call back in 1914 so he joined up to fight for his king. He'd just turned 16. Now the army should have taken one look at him and said no no not you son we'll take someone else instead. But no they stuck him in uniform and encouraged that war disease. And then when he was trained to kill they sent him overseas. Now at fighting he was good and the men found him reliable. No fear in battle no holding back he led by example. So they promoted him to sergeant and sent him off to fight again. And please realise being made a sergeant that didn't happen to many men. Wounded and decorated he thought he'd done his country proud. And when leaving mates held him high and sang Auld Lang Syne quite loud. Now it's 1918 and people are proud their sons had gone to war. They'd saved the mothers and children who could ask for more. Let's have a parade our heroes can march and we can cheer them all. Let's celebrate the Anzacs those brave men who bade that call. So he marched in that first Anzac parade down that cheering street. While those that had been saved waved flags and threw flowers at his feet. But the next day he was called out a parade and quietly spoken to. We've had complaints and what's more they all relate to you. We're taking the stripes and releasing you from this army. You can keep your medals at least those you got for bravery. Oh his army mates didn't complain, help or cause an uproar. Turning their backs they let him leave through the army's back door. Not one mention of what we're now told they'd been fighting for. We're Australians, you're not, the war's over, we don't need you anymore. See the people who watched the march were in uproar. More complaints to the press, the army, the politicians than ever before. How could you allow him to march on such a great occasion and to lead white Christian men, it was a blight on our great nation. Oh he wasn't angry, disappointed or upset, he'd expected it you see. Because you may have worked it out by now, he was an Aborigine. Now the Anzac parade has become an annual event. He and others like him still wait to be made citizens by the government. He's in the crowd watching the soldiers, their Anzac pride shining through. When a soldier yelled out, there's our old sergeant, he should be marching too. But the parade moved on as he turned his back and stood still, thinking. Those men don't realise what they did and perhaps they never will. Now that came from something I heard on the ABC radio while I was travelling through Queensland. They were going to make a movie about this bloke. I should know his name but even now I'm not even sure if it's true. I never heard another word about it and that was a couple of years ago. They were going to make a movie about this Aboriginal fellow who was the first person to march, Aboriginal to march in the first Anzac parade as a sergeant. But I never saw it or heard another thing about it. Hopefully, maybe some of our listeners may know who it was. Yeah, whether it's true. A little bit more about that really important individual. So David, you've given us a good range of poems. Have you got maybe two or three short ones that you'd like to share with us? Maybe a couple of funny ones. You've given us a couple of funny ones already but just maybe a number two or three. We could, what about, this is a bit, it's not funny but you know what I mean, it's just something. I don't know where, I have no idea where this came from. I probably saw something like it and decided to do it. But anyway, the menu. A dinky dye, true blue Aussie tucker, the faded menu red. There was another menu in Chinese, I don't know what it said. The dishes on that menu were Aussie as Aussie can be. Brought memories of me mum's cooking flooding back to me. Kangaroo tail soup with an added garnish of cassowary. Wood smoked platypus in a red-backed spider fricassee. Cured emu eggs blanched in the feathers of a cockatoo. Followed by a tasty consomme of wombat and wallaroo. Glazed koala powdered with flowers from the wattle. Lathered in goanna juice fresh from a convict bottle. Pan-fried witchetty grub skewered on echidna quills. Sprinkled with bottle brush in a bed of frilly lizard frills. Kookaburra boiled in gum leaves down to a laughing stock. With added yams, great barrier reef clams and dust from Ayers Rock. Beer battered dugong with Murray cod round the outside. Yabbies laid on tea tree leaves, warm damper on the side. Dingo shanks in a quokka sauce grilled over a flame tree. Brolga legs soaked in eucalyptus served on leaves of lily pili. Tasmanian devil stuffed with gum nuts cooked in a didgeridoo. Followed by a creamed bandicoot, bilby and magpie stew. I called the waiter over and pointed to that menu. Those Aussie dishes, I'd like to try one or two. Oh, so sorry, this new Aussie restaurant, that menu out of date. You want Aussie food? So sorry, you're fifty years too late. You wait, I get you Chinese dish, very good. You try? Nah mate, I'm off to the servo. Gonna get a fiat income, dinky die, true blue Aussie, meat pie. Now David, some of our listeners may want to find out where they might be able to hear some more of your poetry. I think you've got a YouTube channel? Oh no, I've got a Facebook page, David Melville Poetry Selfie. I don't know whether you've got to friend me or what. Yes, okay, so we've got a little bit of information on that. Years ago I put a couple on YouTube under David Melville, but they're a bit rough. They're early stuff, but that's about all there is. Or come along to the Port Stephens Poetry, it's 4 Sunday at 12 o'clock at the vineyard up there. Yes, okay. Now, to give you a chance, have you got one or one favourite you'd like to share with us? Well, I don't know about a favourite, but I get around the country music festivals and there are certain ones that people like. I'll try and give you this one, what is it called? Counselling, yes, counselling. And I usually tell them a story of something that happened to me before I do this poem. Tell us the story. Well, mate, years ago I was married by myself and I'd got into an overnight sleeper. I forget exactly where I was going, but it was an overnight sleeper. And by chance there was a married woman of about my age who'd been booked in the same sleeper as me. It was uncomfortable, but the porter had said, Look, we can't do anything else for you, you've got to put up with it all, get off the train. So we both agreed, right, I will, only one night, why not? So I got up the top bunk, she got in the bottom bunk and about 2 o'clock in the morning I went over and I said, Excuse me, excuse me, I said, I'm freezing up here. Is there any chance that you could get me a blanket? Of course, they were in the cupboard. Are you awake? She said, Yes, I'm awake, I'm awake now. She said, But I've got a better idea. She said, Why don't we both pretend we're married? Well, I went, Oh, well, yes, yeah, sure, sure, I'll be in that. She said, Good. Well, get down off the bloody bunk, climb down and go over and get the bloody blanket yourself. Fifty years married and the missus says it's counselling or a divorce. I replied, Can I think about it overnight? She wasn't happy, of course. But she made an appointment in the afternoon to arrive for that date in town. I put on my boxer shorts, my football jumper, my thongs and she had on a frown. So when we got to the counsellor, I tried hard to show some form of remorse. She sat herself down, pulled out a box of tissues, getting ready, of course. Then the counsellor said, Your wife's sick of the divorce. Why do you think that's so? Oh, I played along and sobbed into her hands. She doesn't love me, you know. Well, the stunned mullet look on his face, of course, and that sensitive reply. Just for a fleeting moment, I could have sworn I glimpsed a tear in his eye. But nah, like a professional, he comes back with, What caused love's loss? Oh, this is all starting to piss me off. So I come back with, Who gives a doss? Well, it gives me a look like I just shot his dog that says to the wife, I've worked it out. I see the problem. Why don't you tell me a bit about your life? That's when she started going on and on with this litany of lies. Oh, there's too many of them to repeat. So I'll try and cut them down to size. I was lazy. I was angry. I was mean and sometimes downright obscene. Always pissed. Always argumentative. Always trying to cause a scene. Her washing machine didn't work. She put the garbage out. I didn't take her anywhere. Oh, I butted in then. That's not too darling. I take the garbage out when you're not there. And as for me drinking, I'll give it up. I've done it at least 20 times or more. And then I'll get another washing machine from the Sally's like I did before. Well, when she finished, they were both into the tissue books. Tears in their eyes. I dozed off. Why, I have a sleep every afternoon. I thought she'd realise. Now, by way of an apology, I gave her a bracelet, which she did not appreciate. Something about the inscription, please do not resuscitate. Well, shortly after that, you know, the missus died. The doctor told me it was slow suicide. He reckoned it was from living with me too long, as if we needed that clarified. Well, it was just lucky that years earlier we'd purchased adjoining lots in the cemetery. And I visit her in the plot that sticks to the plot that's been left there for me. A simple, loving inscription on a silver plaque. You rest in peace, dear. And I've gone to the trouble of scratching underneath it till I get here. Did I mention I'm on the loose if there's a shoelace around who's available? Oh, as long as she can cook clean, get a beer, do the business, and like me, talk sensible. How do we get any feedback on that? Yeah, that's a strange one, though. I just started doing that a couple of times ago, and the people loved it. I don't know why. I think that'll do. What have we got, mate? We've got a few minutes, haven't we? Oh, jeez, you've got a lot. Yeah, mate, I don't know what you're doing. See, how long does your program go for? Well, we've got 50 minutes, mate. I think we've done well. Yeah, no, that sounds real good. That sounds real good.