The Softest Sigh
Ian Arkell’s poem tells of a magic sound.
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Ian Arkell’s poem tells of a magic sound.
…I wonder where you keep your memories.
Are they all thrown together in a jumbled pile somewhere in the recesses of your mind?...
Novelist and columnist Ian Arkell reminds us of the secret rooms in the basements of our memory banks.
Ian Arkell’s poem speculates on the love life of a jungle hero.
“Some people seem to have a problem accepting that stuff happens. Deaths, assassinations, accidents, disappearances, the lot. And they always look for a secret agenda,’’ writes columnist and novelist Ian Arkell.
"When I was back visiting Australia during the Mary MacKillop canonisation circus, I couldn’t believe the frenzy surrounding this latest PR exercise from the Catholic Church. I’ve always taken Australians to be a fairly rational, level headed and sensible people, but I’m beginning to have serious doubts,'' writes Ian Arkell.
Ian Arkell paints a vivid word picture of a sunny Sunday morning in an attractive Belgian town.
"I'm an atheist, with flashes of agnosticism and periodic doubts about my disbelief. So my writing in this regard is sometimes paradoxical,'' writes Ian Arkell by way of introduction to this profound poem.
...But I’m looking for a distant relative. A Doherty, a long way back on my mother’s side. A scribbled note in a family album about Thomas going to Australia to become a monk...
In this evocative article and poem Ian Arkell tells of his search in Western Australia for the grave of a 19th Century ancestor,
...I read most of his articles regarding his views on religion and watched most of the debates in which he criticised the record, role and excesses of religion within our society. He was an atheist, perhaps too strident for many, perhaps too vitriolic for others, but nevertheless a man committed to his beliefs and the inequalities around us...
Ian Arkell expresses his admiration for journalist and author Christopher Hitchens who died this month.
“With age comes introspection, which can be a dangerous thing,’’ writes Ian Arkell as he muses upon the profoundest of all questions.
“If you subscribe to any sort of evolutionary theory then you have to ask yourself as to what we’re evolving? Is this as good as it gets? And do we really deserve such a beautiful place as the Earth? Any half-smart landlord would have evicted us centuries ago,’’ writes columnist Ian Arkell.
Columnist Ian Arkell was a million miles short of being impressed by Baz Luhrman's film, Australia.
Ian Arkell's poem suggests that maybe love is meant to hurt.
“I have never spoken to anyone who is dead. Well, you know how it is at a party. You spend time chatting someone up for a while and end up with much the same result. But technically I haven’t. I suspect dead is dead,’’ says columnist Ian Arkell.
“What it is that grabs people when they read a story?’’ asks columnist Ian Arkell. “Do they ever think about why they like it?’’
Ian Arkle is overfaced by an ad which pops up on his computer screen.
“Yet despite my lack of faith and anger that surfaces from time to time, I seek out the Church in each new town, each tiny village and sit there for a moment and feel renewed,’’ writes columnist Ian Arkell.
Columnist Ian Arkell declares “There seems to be no sense of economic morality around the world and absolutely no ethical imperative to look after workers while maintaining a profit for shareholders. It is indeed the ugly face of capitalism.''
Ian's comments come as people around the world take to the streets to express their anger and fear at the way the international financial crisis is unfolding.
Ian Arkell brings a moving and memorable account of a final meeting between a mother and her son.
Ian Arkell tells a tall colonial tale with one of the best-ever punchlines.
…Perhaps due to my lack of understanding, or sensitivity, or whatever, we were never destined to be close. There was always a bridge that he was unable and I was perhaps unwilling, to cross. So there was never that connection that a father and son ought to have…
Ian Arkell regrets his failure when he was younger to understand and communicate with his father.
...Impaling’s had a bad press. And for many of the residents of the castle it was a fun time. Sort of grab the wife and kids, pack a picnic lunch and get there early while there’s still space. Maybe have a beer and meet up with some old siege buddies...
Ian Arkell contemplates ruthless days while visiting castles in Germany.
Ian Arkell’s compact poem tells of a flaw that led to an open door.
...to believe that Al Qaeda has some sort of monopoly on the use of terror would be to ignore historical fact as America and its allies have a long record of using terror as a defacto arm of foreign policy. Maybe not directly or in a way that is either obvious or commonly reported, but used nevertheless...
Reflecting on that day when the world changed Ian Arkkell brings a timely reminder that a life lost to indifference in any country or under any circumstance, is also a tragedy.
"The wind is gusting in from France round 80 kilometres per hour and the season has changed overnight. On television the weatherwoman smiled as she pointed to little icons of dark clouds and lightning bolts and suggested that it might be best to stay in bed for a few days.''
Columnist Ian Arkell faces up to a spot of storm therapy.
…as payment I would be given a code, or series of codes that would explain the meaning of everything, all the existential stuff – life, death, what possessed McCain to choose Palin, why McDonalds cut their breakfasts at 10.30 and, more importantly, how to program a DVD…
But frustrated columnist Ian Arkell has forgotten the “power’’ numbers presented in a dream.
…What can I say about the Tower? It’s brilliant, the focal point of Paris. But when you visit, get there early as the queues can be scary. The trip up to the observation section is maybe not as fast as Montparnasse but a lot more exciting…
Ian Arkell brings an exciting invitation to tour the French capital.
“A lot of people get a bit tetchy when you start talking about religion and I’ve never understood why,’’ writes Ian Arkell. “Is it because they know they’re on shaky ground and that in a lot of cases they’re leaving themselves open to ridicule?’’
Ian Arkell’s poem captures those sunny, lazy days on the beach.
…Edmond Verricke’s home is barely large enough for his sick wife and their two small girls, one of whom is only three weeks old. So far the family has been lucky and has survived by hiding in the cellar during the thump, thump of the shelling, which killed orphans and livestock alike.
But the Verricke family is allowed only one room, the remainder taken over by a Sergeant and several soldiers. The Sergeant is a huge brute of a man…
Ian Arkell tells a memorable story of wartime – and survival.
...I’ve come to France to visit two relatives I never met. My father’s uncles. They both joined up on the same day and wound up in France shortly thereafter. Two young blokes from New South Wales, visiting overseas on the trip of a lifetime. Guess they would have been excited. Max and Eric Arkell, both boys from the bush....
Ian Arkell sheds a graveside tear for two men who lost their lives in the war to end all wars.
(And here's a big welcome to Ian who will be writing regularly for Open Writing. Do watch out for further articles in the series Arkell's Ark - Editor)