Poetry by Pip Wilson

Page 13

All poems Copyright © 2001-now, Pip Wilson, Wilson’s Almanac

 

 

Feb 3, 1967 Ronald Ryan was executed at Pentridge Prison, Victoria, Australia and his body buried in an unmarked grave. The killing of Ryan caused such outrage in the land that no one has been killed by Australian lawyers or politicians since, not that we know of, anyway.

It was a killing that helped the Premier of the State of Victoria, Henry Bolte, win an election, but it split the community deeply, such that no politician or judge ever again dared take anyone's life. 

The judge, who had to impose a mandatory death penalty, was summoned by the Premier, who was soon to go before the electorate. Bolte asked the judge if there was any chance Ryan might have been innocent. The judge, who believed Ryan guilty, could have won a State reprieve by telling a white lie, but as a Roman Catholic, he felt he could not deceive the premier. He chose, rather, to allow a man to be executed. Years later, the troubled judge said on TV that he prayed to Ryan each night. I wrote a poem about it because I think this incident says a lot about people and belief.

 

 

I could not tell a lie

(Based on an anecdote; avowedly a true story)

 

The judge sat through the weeks of trial

and sentenced Ryan to hang.

Premier Bolte sent for him

and asked him if this man,

this Ronald Ryan was truly guilty,

or was there “some way out,

with the election coming up and all” -

said the judge “No reasonable doubt”.

 

So Ronald Ryan’s neck was stretched;

the judge spoke to the press:

“I could not tell a lie”, he said

“I’m of the faith” he stressed.

 

And further pressed on how he felt,

said the judge “Ryan had the right

to absolution, he’s now in heaven.

I pray to him each night.”

 

 

 

Moonflower

"This will be a moonflower," I told her.
We stood in awe of the unfolding.
In the garden of disappointments where
the roses bloomed long on the summer brambles
and died in the barrenness
when the soil had cringed beneath the toxic sky.
Moonflower alive!

"This is a moonflower," we marvelled in the nacreous glow.
"And we know," we whispered aglow in creamlight.
"We know, just for tonight.
And as sure as we stand in the fallen Eden of childhood dreams,
these beams, this impossible beauty
will wither and sere when the Other appears."

"You are woman, I am man –
hold on though we can through the mists of night –
stare though we might, admire though we might,
hold on though we might,
the planets will turn, moonflower will burn.
But there will be no tears when the Other appears.

"Days, weeks, months or years –
whatever – this love (not cinema's sham)
– true friendlove –
unaltered, forbidden when the remover appears
from out of the clouds; from out of the crowd.
But we won't shed a tear.
We'll have had our fine flower. Love the sun!
"When the tentative tendrils coil up to the sun,
moonblossom will die –
we two shall go on
but the bloom will be gone.

"This is a moonflower. Look hard!
Look fast! Drink it in while it lasts!
Before morning comes!"

 

 

 

 

 

 

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