On the Opening of Sydney Opera House and the Purchase of ‘Blue Poles’

Begun 1971 in praise of Bjorn Utzon’s dream; finished 1973, in disgust at the loss of Utzon’s dream and the purchase of “Blue Poles”.

Where have all the artists gone?

There was a time when art was art,
A thing of beauty and of joy,
Not jut a toy for arrant intellectuals to play with,
A time when poetry was passion,
But now passion’s out of fashion,
And the word itself means only lust.

There was a time when eyes could read
The tale told by the brush,
When paint reflected images,
And stone the likeness of a bust –
Before the times of change.

But now the times of change are changing.

You old men of the wartime,
Fathers of destruction,
Who burst apart the heart of life,
And poisoned life with fission,
You fathered and you fostered
A doubting generation,
Cynics with out soul to feel
The lure of beauty’s call,
Whose hearts are barren as their hopes,
Poseurs and scoffers all.

You who make a paradox of life and love and living,
Ironically you make of art
The same mocking contradiction.

What else when you know naught else,
But paint despair on canvas?

What else but sculpt in tortured steel
When twisting steel surrounds us?

What else but twist and jar the flow of words
and scoff at rhyme,
When soothing cadence was no part of music in your time?

Artists can only trace the doubts
That turn and twist and wind,
Searching, groping blindly
In each distracted mind,
And poets search their minds to tell
Disordered thoughts that cascade through them,
For they have never learnt to grasp at dreams
And to express them.

But I have walked the barrenness
Of my own lonely mind,
And would not share that wretchedness
With any of mankind.

And I have gazed into the eyes of hope
Born of despair.

I have nursed a child I love,
And seen the beauty there.

Watch, you fathers,
You men who tear at dreams with your despair,
Who plague with doubt, distort,
And make of ugliness a work of art,
Watch!

But I cannot teach my elders
As I learn from my child.

Watch, old men, the way he watches.

Watch him flinging doubt aside.

I shall not show him ‘art’
Nor teach him to respect the twisted things
Your generation brings,
The products of your own sick minds.

This child’s eyes shall wander with the butterflies,
And gaze in wonder at the skies.

This child shall find true beauty on his own,
As any child left to himself will seek the Truth.

This child and others like him
Will teach what they have seen
Through eyes of love.

Then will be no need
For the hypocrisy and greed
That let men feed
On others’ blindness.

You doubt me?

You say that dreams are dead,
And hope is gone, and beauty lost forever?

Listen, then!
There is a shell.

Pressed to an ear
It tells of beauty.
Can you hear?

Within this shell
There swells the sound of music
Bursting wide across a magic harbour,
Echoing through sails,
A sound that hails a nation waking,
Passions roused,
To woo a wanton world.

Listen, then
Hold this shell up to your ear
And listen to a music that is thunder.

And as it rends the skies
The quick and dead might rise
To judge each hypocrite who lies
When he cries “Beauty!”

And they might grasp
At monstrous ‘works of art’
And tear them down
Around the ears of every clown
Who dares pretend he creates beauty.

And those who know true beauty
Might put their words to music
That would stir men’s very souls,
Until our souls are free
To sing and soar and fly,
And burst the sky with music,
‘Til voices ring like angels singing
Resounding round the world,
And the world would stop to listen.

Then hold the world up to your ear
and listen.

You will hear
The sounds of hope and love and laughter.

Despair will cry in vain
And fade into a whimper,
And men might dream again.

Begun 1971 in praise of Bjorn Utzon’s dream; finished 1973, in disgust at the loss of Utzon’s dream and the purchase of “Blue Poles”.

Where have all the artists gone?

There was a time when art was art,
A thing of beauty and of joy,
Not jut a toy for arrant intellectuals to play with,
A time when poetry was passion,
But now passion’s out of fashion,
And the word itself means only lust.

There was a time when eyes could read
The tale told by the brush,
When paint reflected images,
And stone the likeness of a bust –
Before the times of change.

But now the times of change are changing.

You old men of the wartime,
Fathers of destruction,
Who burst apart the heart of life,
And poisoned life with fission,
You fathered and you fostered
A doubting generation,
Cynics with out soul to feel
The lure of beauty’s call,
Whose hearts are barren as their hopes,
Poseurs and scoffers all.

You who make a paradox of life and love and living,
Ironically you make of art
The same mocking contradiction.

What else when you know naught else,
But paint despair on canvas?

What else but sculpt in tortured steel
When twisting steel surrounds us?

What else but twist and jar the flow of words
and scoff at rhyme,
When soothing cadence was no part of music in your time?

Artists can only trace the doubts
That turn and twist and wind,
Searching, groping blindly
In each distracted mind,
And poets search their minds to tell
Disordered thoughts that cascade through them,
For they have never learnt to grasp at dreams
And to express them.

But I have walked the barrenness
Of my own lonely mind,
And would not share that wretchedness
With any of mankind.

And I have gazed into the eyes of hope
Born of despair.

I have nursed a child I love,
And seen the beauty there.

Watch, you fathers,
You men who tear at dreams with your despair,
Who plague with doubt, distort,
And make of ugliness a work of art,
Watch!

But I cannot teach my elders
As I learn from my child.

Watch, old men, the way he watches.

Watch him flinging doubt aside.

I shall not show him ‘art’
Nor teach him to respect the twisted things
Your generation brings,
The products of your own sick minds.

This child’s eyes shall wander with the butterflies,
And gaze in wonder at the skies.

This child shall find true beauty on his own,
As any child left to himself will seek the Truth.

This child and others like him
Will teach what they have seen
Through eyes of love.

Then will be no need
For the hypocrisy and greed
That let men feed
On others’ blindness.

You doubt me?

You say that dreams are dead,
And hope is gone, and beauty lost forever?

Listen, then!
There is a shell.

Pressed to an ear
It tells of beauty.
Can you hear?

Within this shell
There swells the sound of music
Bursting wide across a magic harbour,
Echoing through sails,
A sound that hails a nation waking,
Passions roused,
To woo a wanton world.

Listen, then
Hold this shell up to your ear
And listen to a music that is thunder.

And as it rends the skies
The quick and dead might rise
To judge each hypocrite who lies
When he cries “Beauty!”

And they might grasp
At monstrous ‘works of art’
And tear them down
Around the ears of every clown
Who dares pretend he creates beauty.

And those who know true beauty
Might put their words to music
That would stir men’s very souls,
Until our souls are free
To sing and soar and fly,
And burst the sky with music,
‘Til voices ring like angels singing
Resounding round the world,
And the world would stop to listen.

Then hold the world up to your ear
and listen.

You will hear
The sounds of hope and love and laughter.

Despair will cry in vain
And fade into a whimper,
And men might dream again.