Biography of David SmithWhite
Currently unemployed, I am a former Braille Librarian and secondary school teacher, now living, in genteel poverty, in the city of my birth, Sydney. I am a graduate from The University of Sydney and have a B.A. and a Graduate Diploma of Education.
What interests me about poetry is the discipline required to write it. I love the challenge of strict verse forms, the need for simplicity, clarity, and economy that such structures demand. I look upon my own verse as a craft, not as an art. It's not that I think that my work lacks poetic resonance (that is a judgement others will make) , but I draw far less from the well of inspiration than from the sewers of perspiration, if you get my drift?
What I fear, in this new age of instant publishing, is that the refinement of the raw, creative impulse will be lost; we should remember that poetry is a conscious literary form designed to communicate to an audience, and whether it succeeds or not, should be the touchstone of it's literary value or worth. As a journeyman, you can help your work succeed, by using every available tool at your disposal, whether this is metre, rhyme or free. There are no rules. Whatever works, works!
Now the new Sedition laws make it possible that any implied criticism I make about Australia's involvement in Iraq or other similar neo-colonial or imperial adventures will be classed as encouraging 'disaffection with the Government' and thus could potentially subject me to seven years of incarceration in an Australian gaol. So let me say at the outset I intend no 'disaffection with the Government', but must admit that any criticisms I make are of 'government policy', only!
It may be of interest to some that I am a nephew of the Australian writer, Nancy Phelan, who is herself a niece of the Australian writer (and Poet, listed on this site) Louise Mack!
260106 I note here that a second cousin of mine (Malcolm Mackerras) has today been awarded an Order of Australia for services in promoting Australian 'political communications', whatever that is!
Good one, Mal!
David SmithWhite's Works:
David SmithWhite Poems
In my own remembering, I can see so many things. Days of bliss were much too brief. Longer nights of pain and grief.
Chants In A Million
God is the father. God is his son. God is the victory that all evil shuns. God of the mighty. God of the weak. God is the mystery that all searchers seek.
Come stalking, come stalking, my pristine and perfect Cat. Come sly, silent, and with deadly intention, to kill with a cool, breath-taking invention.
Song: A Dog's Life
The life of a dog is a dog's life. It is pain. It is suffering and grief. The life of a dog is a dog's life. Full of fear and gnashing of teeth.
The History Of Now
The recording of culture is history; but our culture is more than that. It's the world of human action, and the myths we make of the fact.
Song: A Much Traveled Road
Oh the folly I showed, when I unraveled the code, on that much traveled road called love. Where the marvels bestowed, be the gift or the goad, on that hard graveled road called love.
Don't waste your money! Don't throw it all away! Or gamble with mistress chance, on some unlucky day. Accidents are waiting: in ambush and surprise. Facile gods are feting, and rolling cosmic dice.
A Letter To Hilary
Oh Hilary, dear Hilary; you must not think ill of me, though this letter be tardy, it is mercifully short.
Simpson And His Donkey
On the beaches of Gallipoli, in the Straits of the Dardenelles. The cliffs hung like tattered scenery, on a circus carousel.
A Song Of Hope
I refuse to be depressed, 'cause I'm totally obsessed, with the feeling that I'm really lying. It's an idea that I detest,
A Major Modern Miracle
I am the very model of the modern computer miracle, I've communications seminal, original and digital. I know the solid-state of things and can quote the bits statistical,
A Rapt Rap (Wrapped)
Do you consider that life is as bitter as the cold on the darkest day? Do the white winds of winter burn you and blister, do they fade all your colours to grey?
A dark paranoia dogs my steps, goes for the throat, leaps on my chest, brings down it's prey and rips my flesh, baying at the moon.
Do I Still Call Australia, H...?
To ' I Still Call Australia, Home' by Peter Allen -
Song: Mata Hari
The firing squad was ready,
to shoot you Mata Hari.
The sun had barely
kissed the morning sky.
To a courtyard, dank and muddy,
they brought you Mata Hari.
A famed exotic beauty was to die.
As their troops drowned in the slurry,