Thursday, October 22, 2026

Kurulbrang — 'Kangaroo Paws' — in Kaarta Koomba


As we’ve been spending much more time down in the city/Boorloo this year than is usual for us, I manage to find some respite from traffic and unmitigated air pollution by wandering (often with our son Tim) in Kaarta Koomba (so-called ‘Kings Park’).


Avoiding the colonial statuary and the like, the bush trails offer the possibility of respectful and deep engagement with numerous species of birds, occasional reptiles (emerging over recent weeks) and even the marsupial quenda (‘southwest brown bandicoot’) among the incredible variety of plants.

 

Though profoundly affected by climate change and fire, a complex array of pollutions, by ‘infestations’ and pathogens, there are still significant ecologies around established trees (there are some glorious tuarts and marris), throughout the diversity of the park’s 400 or so hectares.

 

In fact, the poems below are responses to walking among the September flush of kurulbrang, also known as ‘kangaroo paws’... a colonial pareidolia/naming based on obvious resemblance which has been translated into Noongar language as yonga marr with yonga being the grey kangaroo. See this really interesting Wiki Incubator entry for more information.


Kurulbrang ('Kangaroo Paw')




In the broken shade around balga (native grass trees), she-oaks, parrot bush, mungyt (banksias), wattles and numerous other plants, the kurulbrang thrive. During the same walk out of which I wrote the poems below, we also saw a wonderful clutch of donkey orchids. The quenda mentioned in the second poem was digging in daylight on the Thomas Street side of the park before taking shelter in a small hollow log next to the path.... hoverflies zipping in and out of the space. Anyway, it all gives hope, even if there are always the bleak ironies of the ongoing colonialism of display and presentation... and the disturbing actions of electric scooters, electric bikes, and their riders. So, with much respect to Noongar boodja and its people...

 

Kurulbrang in Kaarta Koomba

 

Kurulbrang is omnipresent 

though it would be a cheek

to say rife when so reduced

from its expanse, sandy

beds of perennial aspirants 

to handle the conversion

into simile and declaration.

There's nothing healed

in saying Mangles’ Kangaroo

Paw, though the afterlives

of botanists are arts-

and-crafted into emblems

and patterns of occupation.

So much can be manipulated

in an era of selective discourses

when flags are defended

while all else around them burns.

So last year so last season 

so repetitive that we cease

to see them? Or highlighting

the imitations we set such store by,

the underworld of freesias

so perfumed as to occlude

the city's exhausts — not really 

like doused courtiers

in European courts

trying to impress

their sovereigns,

but so easily adapted

to sociological or scientific banter.

On red cabled stalks bending

around shade and micro-eddies,

the flower-heart’s reach

is multidimensional,

playing to attract and protect,

capable briefly of such dexterity

in alluring multi species interest,

rhizomes storing truths

and truisms.

 

 

Quenda and Hover Flies

 

Quenda edging against 

concrete pathway

            on the west side

            of Kaarta Koomba

knows electric scooters 

and thick-wheeled electric bikes

            will undo

            daylight

so squats semi-active

in bush-shade, hunches 

            before jolting

            and propelling 

into a short-form hollow —

section of tuart tree branch.

            Simultaneously,

            hoverflies

triangulate and deconstruct

the mockery of drone technology

            and those gigaquads

            of empathy

that equivocate across

different computer

            personalities

            while data

swirls in the over-

heating air.

 

 

            John Kinsella

 

 

Sunday, October 4, 2026

Protesting the 'Land Forces' Arms Expo at the Perth Convention and Exhibition Centre Oct 6 - 8, 2026


To stage such an event is a crime against humanity and a crime against the planet itself. It is inexcusable on any level. 

Boorloo experiences ongoing colonialism and its toxic legacies. Boorloo is being used as a staging post for future violence around the world. Unacceptable! 

Peace is the only way. 

Below is a poem written against this event (it refers to the original planting of memorial oak trees in 'Kings Park' — Kaarta Koomba — after the First World War) and here's a short, rough video I made last week when down in the city from within the 'Bishop's Garden' opposite the Convention Centre.


Reclaim

            against the ‘Land Forces’ arms expo at the Perth Convention Centre 2026

 

Cameras will penetrate the faces

of those who lift their hands

to make peace signs, to object,

 

on this ‘reclaimed’ wetland,

the Perth Convention Centre

making its claim to the world’s

 

war-work. That it would break

humane conventions, would shatter

bodies across the globe,

 

fits with the agency

granted to weapons, those

euphemisms of culture and nature.

 

Under the reflections of mining towers,

fossil fuel empires, the cycle

of making and dissolution

 

will be in the purview

of arms dealers

and their companies.

 

Wreathed by traffic,

the arms expo sales junket

will animate glass,

 

concrete and steel.

The homeless have been

‘moved on’, and told

 

they’ll be ‘catered for’,

special powers legislated

to protect the oh so polite

 

death-zone artistes manqués

going peacefully about

their business, while heat-

 

stressed trees planted

for the war dead

on Kaarta Koomba

 

try to photosynthesise

bewilderment

as long dead oak trees once did

 

when a gunshot marked the first

memorial plantings

over a hundred years ago.

 

And now, expeditionary forces

promoting deft warcraft

highlight the sheen of weapons

 

before they explode,

before they deliver their verdict

on the life-industry of flesh and blood,

 

before they reclaim the world

for the inanimate, feigning

an organic sensibility.

 

 

            John Kinsella

Sunday, August 23, 2026

In Memory

Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander readers are informed that the following text contains the name of a person who has passed away.

It's almost a year since Charmaine passed, and I want to mark this with a poem that was written at the same time as the sequence I posted for 'CPG' in October last year, after Tracy and I had gone on to Charmaine's birth Country and paid our respects to her spirit and to those of her ancestors. We send Charmaine's family and her people our best and wish to honour her memory, always.


Fringed Lily at Eradu

 

Defies the drift

of clearance

 

and establishes

a zone of intense

 

expression, fringes

vibrating with vocalisations

 

of story and curiosity,

of insect visitation.

 

Afterimages burn

deep to remind us

 

when seasons are forced

to work with the blanked

 

sandplain, to reach

far back into seedbanks,

 

to remember

the flourishing.

 

 

            John Kinsella

 

 

 

Sunday, August 16, 2026

Health and Activism

            John Kinsella


Activism is rarely without stress, but if we believe in the cause we are working for and towards, some of that stress is alleviated by the act of doing. At least I’ve found that to be the case. I don’t mean that one expects that ‘success’ will alleviate stress given most often ‘success’ is either measured in tiny increments, or is constantly beyond reach, but rather that the ability to persist, and believe that improvement of negative conditions might eventually come in some way, instils or restores a degree of equanimity. Activism is, essentially, an act of belief.

 

However, systemic bodily breakdown, or ill health in general, will inevitably result in a compromised ability to maintain activist intensity. Whatever the cause of a health issue, it's certain that stress will make it worse or at least harder to recover from. And, indeed, stress might be at least part of that health problem in the first place. We are stressed by the issue that leads us to act, we are stressed while acting, we are stressed worrying about aftermaths. It is an obvious loop.

 

I mention all this because though it wasn’t the cause of my stroke/s per se, seeing the extent of the damage done by Main Roads, Western Power and contractors to habitat alongside Toodyay Road — clearing and works that now extend for 25 kilometres — certainly increased the stress on my body prior to stroking. I am not suggesting direct cause and effect, but there’s no doubt in my mind that my distress accelerated my vulnerability before any preventative action might have been taken. I have rarely been as upset as I was some months ago (after seeing what was being done to bushland we knew so well, had observed so closely for so long), when things started to go physically very wrong for me. Medically, that’s all subjective, but I also know my own body and how it responds to shock — to such horrific external stimuli.

 

My prime regret in all of this, apropos of the destruction, is that I had just started a campaign of recording, writing, corresponding and was on the verge of co-ordinating with others in an attempt to halt/redress the works, when I collapsed. Each encounter with the damage led to more distress, more efforts to record what I was witnessing, to write poems that might help as intervention.

 

Around that time I had just done an activist reading for an environmentalist group and was delighted with their engagement, enthusiasm, deep commitment, and their local successes down in the city. I had high hopes of linking with them in this more northern, ‘rural’ protest. And then I stroked and went silent. I wasn’t ‘there’ when I most needed to be, even if I could have done little to stop anything in reality (I am more than aware of my limitations to influence the machinery of development!).

 

I came close to my physical demise, and it’s a long haul back to the way things were before I stroked... if ever that will be the case. As soon as I was basically functional, I started writing again and addressing the issue. I did not, however, belatedly follow up on an earlier reply to me by a senior figure in Main Roads who defended the road works (modern roads stuff) while insisting that other parties were also involved (i.e. Western Power and a gravel pit company). He did, I have to say, mention that he’d be willing to meet and hear what I had to say.

 

That was a strange sort of ‘progress’, and I hoped that it might be the start of a serious conversation which in turn might lead to some kind of cessation of works. This might seem deluded, but all environmental and rights activists have to cling to the hope, the belief, that both individually and collectively they can make a difference. I doubt the Main Roads person ever wondered why they never heard back, but this was the reason.

 

So, I say again, when I started my campaign I realised that it was probably ‘too late’ for any effective prevention other than through a mass physical protest (which I had hoped would eventuate if I got people peacefully motivated), but I have never let that stop me and I never give in. I work through pacifist justice methodologies, and refuse to ever say it’s too late.

 

I am still writing about the issue, of course, but I can’t do anything in person — in situ — and I can’t organise larger campaigns or even contribute at this stage. This ‘compromise’ in my activism has been deeply distressing to me and yet I’ve had to come to grips with it. My disappointment in the lack of any ‘on the ground’ opposition (such as there was over the Roe Highway extension in the Beeliar wetlands) has been challenged by my own inability to act as I would if I could.

 

I would, if I could, be present — holding a protest sign, speaking with people, trying to convince them to down tools, to oppose from within the works themselves. People can’t change what they don’t see, and most of those ‘making a living’ have other more dominant considerations in their lives. I get that. I respect different ways of seeing and we all need to co-exist, but sometimes information that benefits the environment is not transmitted in the most effective way — and by that way, I mean through showing how care for the biosphere is essential to who we all are, and what the future might be. How empathy for all life is also respect for ourselves.

 

Having said all this, I expect no one else to be doing what I consider my protest work — we all have to make our decisions regarding how to act according not only to our consciences but our ‘means’. Protest is not a simple thing — and there have been degrees of this over the years by various groups regarding this road ‘realignment' which have led to less damage than would have been without such behind-the-scenes protest attempts and advocacy for the natural habitat. What it would have been like without such interventions I can hardly imagine. The horror.

 

In order to survive, I've stopped using Toodyay Road — the witnessing (any more than I have) is too much for my health at present. Will I ever use it again? That is always the question — the potential for irony is overwhelming. The damage done, it is too easy to accept the new ‘reality’. All road-making has resulted in damage, most of it extreme, but this ‘project’ was never ‘necessary’ in any way and was a work that, once developed, was never going back. Too many vested interests, I feel. I have written about how wrong I think it is on all levels on this blog prior.

 

Also, displaced wildlife (as I am told by others, aside from personal observations) is so at risk that it is a dynamic I wish to avoid. All roads in the country entail this risk of fatal or injurious encounter with animals — that is part of the general horror of vehicles and the fact we all need to measure our travel in terms of ‘necessity’ or otherwise with regard to the brutal facts of global warming (and, unfortunately, electric vehicles have certain obvious and harsh environmental impacts as well) — but at the moment, on that stretch of destruction, risk of car-animal contact is particularly heightened. Animals killed by road-work machinery, with survivors then wiped out by traffic.

 

None of this is an excuse for ‘failing to act’ — that would be disingenuous given what I’ve been through (as well as my family who have been so supportive) — but it is an explanation for all those who follow this blog and care about the state of the planet, and the well-being of all life on it. To be as physically well as possible is part of my activism — I need to be able to do all I need to do. But whatever the state of my health, I will do what I can for as long as I can, always.

Saturday, August 15, 2026

Reading St John of the Cross's 'Song of the Soul'


Graphology Materialism 45: Mandyooranup

 

‘Su origen no lo sé, pues no le tiene,
            mas sé que todo origen de ella tiene,
            aunque es de noche.’

                        San Juan de la Cuz

 

 

Higher than most local terrain

            and overseeing the river.

 

I might reroute via carapace

            and feather, float on the strong-

            smelling limestone flower.

 

Tradies, working on an avenue’s

            mansions, take in the view

            and process their doubts.

 

Eddies over the river, slicks

            of surface tension, night

            held in by repetition.

 

Each point a renaming of renaming,

            the true name resonating

            as I drift back, floating.

 

Restoration of habitat, telescoped

            crane whose counterweight

            swings out over medusas.

 

What umbrage a god will take

            in my seeing you as the essence

            of matter, adjectival declensions.

 

A flotilla is neither the waterbirds

            gathering or leaves on the water

            as canoe paddles flicker.

 

Where the channel is deepest

            the heavy fish measure

            strokes towards sunset.

 

Always the fast boats cutting the skin

            and dispersing a prism

            with ‘natural’ frosting.

 

Keeping to the eucalypt’s wide shadow

            even when the sun is low,

            steps under the cliffs.

 

This is my prayer, San Juan de la Cruz,

            not far from Carmel with its walls

            and strait view of the street.

 

 

            John Kinsella

 

 

 

 

Friday, August 14, 2026

Writing on Stolen Noongar Boodjar

 Graphology Materialism 42: against the trends of opinion polls

 

Each loss means fewer palindromes

as fresh ‘observations’ stall before

            reaching midway through the sentence,

            collapsing back to where they came from.

 

And though we were closer to the rawness

of that ‘first wave’ of dispossession,

            those striated curves in sandstone,

            we still leave a more damaged land

 

than when we arrived. A loadstone,

the colonial gathers and accrues

            habits of various terrains and skies,

            nuances its modes of dismembering —

 

museums collecting then apologising,

compressing time into different manners

            of presentation. Some ‘artefacts’

            and body parts are returned, others

 

sit in archives waiting to be rescued.

Out of the flower-press an extinction

            shows vivid colours... if only... it might

            have been tapped as a panacea...

 

It seems so brutal laying it all down

without disclaimers, remediation —

            simply underpinning

            with footnotes,

 

reinforcing with bibliographies

            and appendices.

 

 

            John Kinsella

Sunday, July 19, 2026

On the Trauma Caused by Hancock Mining, Gina Rinehart, Pauline Hanson, Colonialism, and the Residues of the White Australia Policy



Graphology Materialism 34: reportage


Public submissions concerning Hancock Iron Ore’s

amended application for the rights to use a helipad

built into the roof of their new headquarters

on Ord Street are open until the end of the month.

 

It’s now proposed that the chopper will track Thomas Street,

edging Kaarta Koomba which the imperial powers

call Kings Park, and that it (according to the applicants)

won’t sound much louder than a kitchen appliance —

 

part of a promo package aiming to get Perth City

counsellors onside. A previous Lord Mayor

‘emceed a private event’ for Gina Rinehart,

far-right poetaster of colonialism and mining.

 

That fact is potentially incidental to the issue

at hand, but an aviation-fuel stench hangs

over the process. At present, the billionaire

is hosting Pauline Hanson at a resort in Sicily,

 

just after the far-right leader spoke to a far-right

British podcaster and lamented the passing

of the White Australia Policy. Contemporary

materialists are at pains to distance

 

philosophical materialism from rampant

consumerist materialist values. They insist

that everything that is relates to the occupation

of space — directly or indirectly. If pitted against

 

religious mysticism, then ‘the material’ must be a ‘radical’

departure. Likely, they don’t understand how certain

mining entrepreneurs in Australia work materialism

through settlerism to suit a consumerist agenda.

 

How they differentiate between spirituality

by identity and creed, the value placed on

God’s relationship to an amenable historiography?

When down in the city, we stay near where the Bell 429

 

helicopter hopes — intends — to land, settle, take off. Those blades

will so easily slaughter words, lines, stanzas from the ecology

of thought, and interrupt patterns of wildlife

just managing to hang on despite the city’s pressure.

 

Oh, and ‘Sturt desert pea’ shades will waver over windows,

themselves chopped by shadow while filtering the sun.

 

 
            John Kinsella

Friday, June 5, 2026

A Poem On Laurie Anderson's 2026 Tiny Desk Concert


Graphology Recovery 14: Laurie Anderson’s May 2026 Tiny Desk Concert

 

Between phrases,

interstices

 

of rejuvenation

& counterpoints

 

to cataclysm.

Fewer streets here.

 

Of differing

commencement

 

inside

this infarct

 

where I’m told

it will always be night

 

but it’s not. Dogs across

this valley collate

 

angles

of voice

 

while roused sheep

offset

 

those risible

clouds

 

adoring room to gather

or dissipate,

 

manoeuvre ordinary

attributes

 

of soar. Glimpse

of a barn owl

 

overflying

late afternoon

 

ahead

of its night.

 

 

            John Kinsella

Tuesday, May 26, 2026

The Indian Ocean Defence and Security Conference and the Government's Call for an Arms Hub in Western Australia


We already live in a militarised state here in Western Australia, with the Stirling Naval Base (it makes me iller than I already am just writing this name) and its 'key' role in the developing AUKUS nuclear submarine horror junket, but the latest effort of the Cook government (pseudo left-lite... essentially populist and not based on consensual politics in any real way) to create an 'arms industry hub' reaches new levels of appalling. 

As much as 'overuse' of adjectives horrifies certain writing teachers, so too the underuse allows the militarists to push their way through to outcomes that serve their violent, profiteering orientations. Further, they make every use of propaganda methods that they can, from the 'subtle' behind the scenes approach, to the grand announcement designed to appeal to an imagined 'majority's' desires and 'requirements'. 

Missiles are the key selling point because we have all seen the 'power' they have to rule from a distance, but this pitch to arms companies to tender for such a hub is 'inclusive'. Wars across the world serve to illustrate this, just as drone-manufacture and software have become a passport to trade viability.

When in 1956 G. E. M. Anscombe coined the term 'scare quotes' with reference to irony and specific usage in Aristotle's writings (see Mind: a Quarterly Review of Psychology and Philosophy (VOL. LXV. NO. 267, January, 1956; p.3), she might have been more than aware of its Cold War and active war implications (but this is guesswork on my part). Scare quotes and adjectives can barely expose the brutality and shortsightedness of Premier Cook and his compadres' thinking in this; with even the lightest challenge from a press conference journalist asking if to create such a hub meant that he was happy to be an arms dealer, he replied that he saw himself as a 'jobs dealer' (though roughly direct representation of speech, this actually deserves no quote marks beyond an accusatory function). 

The Perth Convention Centre we hear is heavily policed for this stanza (quote marks? my term...) of the Indian Ocean Defence and Security Conference, to ensure the war talk and arms dealing can go along without interruptions or too much visible opposition. We hear the police will intercept those approaching, we know that national media will play down questioning. 

The Labor government sell of jobs, jobs, jobs has a corona of run-on employment about it: the threat of war creates work, and war itself demands everything (including control) of and over a community. The recent fossil fuel crisis (ongoing, as it can only ever be) has roused receptivity to fever-pitch susceptibility. Even the Tesla drivers yearn for the byproducts, just as Musk delivers his racist, polluting discourses via the SpaceX rockets and his broader industrialism. Yes, this is a conflation, but it's all about conflations. That's capitalism at full tilt... a martial metaphor. Oh, Tesla Cybertrucks are part of the 'targeting' program of the US military.

In the consumer-materialism of a 'resource rich' state (as they call Western Australia: scare quotes again but with a different inflection), such jobs obviously promise the sustaining of some lives at the expense of others. The translation of weapons into death is a far-away problem, until it isn't! And to heap more destructive pernicious corrosive and glib adjectives onto the whole, it is barely surprising that the town of Collie is being suggested as a feasible location for this arms hub. 

We learn that as the workforce transitions from its focus on coal mining, jobs lost will be jobs found (hand in hand with tourism and the natural environment?). The hard labouring base of mining and all it evokes in class struggle workers' rights achievements, even if those struggles meant something very different and more 'positive' in the times when they were so fervently pursued, is exploited by the implied correlation that one dirty industry can easily translate into another. Now, some miners might feel this way, but I am sure many others won't (even if someone like me opposes their very work base in the first place due to the rampant ecological and climate damage it causes). 

Human rights are human rights. Our histories might be different, but we need to start from a premise that we all deserve to live without direct or oblique threats. The arms industry is an industry of threat.

A personal note to all this, as it so directly affects the colonial gazetting I spend so much time in... I have been seriously ill of late and am hindered regarding what I can do in speaking out as this is happening, and I am hoping this short statement contributes to the groundswell of opposition. Missiles and mining, military vehicles and mining, first aid kits... and mining. These are binaries, they're part of the language of a conference that requires much ongoing background activity, and that defies anyone who contest its murderous reality. 

In Australia each state and territory is manipulated as a synecdoche for the people within its voting catchment (of course). So when Western Australia (meaning the government and specific lobby groups) calls for missiles, it's 'the people' who 'want them' because jobs mean not only sustaining one's own life (and family), but also destructively enhancing 'prosperity' through consumerism. Individuals and families destroyed by these activities (directly or indirectly), have no say and are not going to have a say in any way.


     John Kinsella

Wednesday, April 29, 2026

Support to All Those Suffering from Repression in Georgia

I post this poem in support of those I know in Georgia, and for all those who are suffering under its repressive Georgian Dream Party government. For information on what's happening there, you might start with the Amnesty International report on human rights in Georgia here. I especially send this poem to those imprisoned or harassed for their belief in freedom of expression and for their peaceful resistance to tyranny, and will work for their release using my pen, even if it's at a distance. Poets are always among those whose voices are crushed by the institutions of power, but poets speak beyond borders and will be heard. So many younger people are deeply distressed by the reactionary shifts in their life situations, and need to be heard, to be understood, to be affirmed.


A Pacifist Sends Support to All Those Suffering from Repression in Georgia

 

I have never visited Georgia,

though I have seen how pictures

of mountains and their valleys

can evoke both the fantastical

and pragmatic, how the comforts

and tensions of family

can be illuminated,

how distance between

village and city

can be both a stress

and relief. I hear talk

outside the global news

services and their selective,

delegated, weighted stories.

And I hear charged voices

arising from many

streets, houses, work-

places, parks, burning

with anger and frustration

but galvanised, polyphonic

through power-lines, through leaves,

a choir of terrain and its people,

gathering across altitudes.

I sense those after-image fragments

reaching out over the sea —

a mist with clarity —

coalescing to stir

all sacred places.

Lines of pain stretch out

from prisons, their speakers

hidden away, smothered,

and I know those, too.

You are heard, people,

you are heard. I send

this back in the hope

that it acts as a talisman —

to  help keep you safe,

to show that we care.

 

 

            John Kinsella

 

 

Thursday, April 23, 2026

Poem in Memory of JH Prynne

 

No Ultima Thule, No Coda

 

            im Jeremy

 

Obituaries will slant

towards inclination —

            in this

            de-realming,

wood pigeons bombilate

and you watch their

            history

            with application.

Roasted root vegetables

were more than an invitation,

            and the ferry

            was work

across speech bubbles

of reflection: what holds

            an identikit

            against conspiracy,

swayed in the circuitry,

limited to outreach emoticons.

            What will

            become

of that manuscript (monumental)

of love poetry (deprogrammed)

            shown

            beyond

the fallout of the Financial

Times? Contractions

            from the epoch

            of typewriter:

less space for questioning

before punctuation

            seizes

            the tiller.

Offering company, hinting

chimeras — drizzle

            arcing efflorescent

            powerlines:

how power is sourced,

distributed, made in reliance.

 

 

            John Kinsella