Orphaned Islands (Un)poetry

It was flattering to be with him
the sole PhD on staff
that buoyant superiority of being the chosen one
a child and parent. No one else. Exclusive.

Code red. Almost harvest time
a tobacco farmer has identified an unidentified disease
only one paddock
a single angry pimple on a clear complexion
isolated outbreak or farmageddon?

Father and son – farmer and apprentice are waiting
the PhD is a local boy made good
he speaks their language and knows their history
as they know his
the companionable ease of a family physician of many years.

Enquiries of mothers and brothers
daughters and fathers and new offspring
sport, weather, commodity prices.
“ Now this problem.”

Fields of tall, proud, green nicotine
one of diminished height, acne splotched
“ like dog balls,” says the expert
commencing a series of questions.
Temperature, irrigation rates, humidity. Anything unusual?
Puzzlement trails into a head scratched afterthought
“ spray rate?” 35 mg per litre the reply
is that the specified application? They think so. Better check.

Correct. In bold green letters on a white container
expertise couldn’t be certain
but fungal infection cannot be dismissed
accompanying sample bags are filled
for forensics.

At the lab, samples are thrown into the incinerator
open-mouthed astonishment… shouldn’t they be analysed.
“Its spray damage.”
Wasn’t spray applied at the appropriate rate?
Exactly. Farmers don’t talk of milligrams or litres
but of handfuls and bucket loads.
Too much has been used. Face-saving is what this is about.

10 days later a letter is written.
Tests inconclusive.
An isolated outbreak.
Probably fungal.
Monitoring recommended.
A placebo for red faces to friends and bar room associates
they have their affidavit.

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Research was different now he admonished
the past of my fleeting career
flabby
and long toned lean.
Outcomes were what counted. And could be counted.

Funding these days competitive and mercenary
publication was authentication and verification.
The paper shufflers wanted to see papers
not so much one’s name in lights, as ink.

Publish or perish the mantra of the modern researcher.
Market forces controlled, grants, tenure, promotion and redundancy
keyboards untouched for several years
were tapping out innovation, hounding editors.

One paper in a recent periodical truly elegant
the predicted and observed matched exactly – precisely.
The data absolutely compliant to the command of hypothesis
distraction springs to attention. Suddenly respectful. Wanting to know.

A highly original piece of research
examined the distribution of light in an orchard.
Proximity of windbreak trees reduced light
and
increased shadow.
Two outcomes for one funding. Cost effective.

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Grandad was a refugee from prejudice
emigrating to hope
arriving in the new land with the tools of his profession
wheelbarrow, pick and shovel.
No resettlement or orientation
a train to the wilderness
and then to work
extending the line beyond where he had been set down.

He never spoke of it
but the men with him bequeathed two facts
it was very hard work. And he a hard worker.

The adopted country brought modest prosperity.
Success?
Only if his children and grandchildren
didn’t earn wages of sweat
education the key he said.

In the new century
a grandson is elevated to the bench
a judge descended from a man
who departed a country sanctioning persecution.

Swearing in is to take place in the city I live
a dark time
at the point my cousin’s ambitions are awarded
mine plunged to depths – lower than before. Or since
the large family contingent unfaceable.

When in doubt, a famous attorney advised
say nothing
difficult with seven voicemail invitations
and my parents booked to fly in.

Honesty.
I went to his office
and spoke the truth
confessing failure in the presence of new, old success.
It wasn’t easy

He was my mother’s godson and favourite
I told her of visit and my planned absence
“ he’d have been kind and understanding,” she said
“ making it easy for you
he’s good like that.”

“He was,” I assured her.
He wasn’t
I was someone with a problem – not his
a pain in the butt
a loser.
I left feeling very small.

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