Tributes

A real icon

Thanks Sophia, love your dad's work, a real icon and it comes from the soul.

Ron Whitaker , (November 2007)

To the family of Denis Kevans

G'day,

I was surfing the net when only today have I learned of the passing of Denis. My association with him was brief (I played at a folk festival with him at Penrith one evening circa 1990) and bought from him a copy of his anthology, "The Bastard that Squashed the Grapes in me Bag". I've still got it.

I remember Denis as a funny yet passionate bloke. Most of the poems he recited that evening had to do with the rights of workers, and it makes me wonder what he would have said about that situation today, being the major news story it has become. I also remember him singing a song, "Valley of the Waters", which he said was about his home in the Blue Mountains.

I'm sure that many thousands like me were touched in some way by Denis. My condolences (albeit belated) to all his family.

Regards,

Neale Apps , (April 2007)

The Blessing

The men were telling jokes
The ones no-one likes to hear
I was dreaming of your pure pure smile
And the thought that you were near
your laughter it is light to me
It makes a fool of no-one
When you laugh there must be something good
For all the world to see

Wow o wow o my darling
Wo Wo wowo for you
I'll wrap your toe in some bright red dust
And the dawn will make it glow
Then I'll light my little billy
And make some tea for two
And like Gullpilill in the movies
I'll do a dance for you . . .

Remember you told me a story
Remember you sang me a song
Remember the cross that you used
Not long before you died
You said you'd been out walking
And that's what made you ill
I said "it's a bad bad thing that walking"
And I can hear your laughter still

"I'm here to represent humanity"
I said that to you plain
You took out your cross and blessed yourself
And I reckon you were sane
And your cross it wasn't heavy
It weren't but nothing at all
'Cept the fingers you use everyday
to make the sacred form

Now I don't know if it's official
I don't know if it's a lie
If a man fought for humanity
when he lays down to die
if he gets some recognition
From his buddies by his side
That he's raised the hearts of his people
Can he then be raised on high?
We know that you weren't perfect
You had some little flaws
you were more perfect than most of us
Because you struggled for a cause
You struggled for a cause

Tribute to Denis Kevans by Dan Marjason (January 2007)

Damper with Den

Denis Kevans was a committed poet. He took seriously his mission as a leader of other poets. As well, he was a supporter of many related communal artists. Myself, apart from being a keen bush balladist, I am a camp cook. I recall sitting by my burner with Denis in the freezing cold of one moonlit April night when I should perhaps have been in Queensland and he by a fireside in a pub. I had invited several people, but only Denis turned up. He was keen to find out if the damper was any good, which thankfully it was, along with my favourite recipe, Lake Frome Kangaroo Stew. I was concerned that the older fellow was feeling the cold, so I lent him my railway jacket -kept for visitors on such nights. His appreciative exclamations were indeed heartwarming, as I had been stuck in the quiet wilds of Leura without many visitors for some three years.

"By gee, that billy tea is beaut, Blue!" he said as he sipped the rich, stewed tea. When the stew was finished we took it inside and made space around the table to eat. I had not long before hosted a couple of ladies from the gentrified MDC Social Club - all Leura folk, all home-owners, all monied divorcees over 50. I told Denis and he could see my pickle: "Well, this is more the thing. Work up your poems, Blue, and we'll get some folk comin'around alright."

Later, when I was in synch with how the bus ran past my place to his, I would bake up a damper and hoik the whole 10 inch camp oven and walk, apron and all, and by the time the bus came the iron oven would cool. I would get on the bus and go to Valley Way and get out at the little pixie cottage - all the drivers knew exactly where Denis Kevans lived. He was a popular passenger.

Inside, he would welcome me and light up the oven. I recall one occasion he was in the middle of exercises he had been advised to undertake for the benefit of his heart. Then he came out and we boiled tea as the damper warmed in his wooden stove's oven.

"Ah, yes I'm a bit tired... been workin' on a book. Artists, poets of the Blue Mountains. It's called `Galimawfry'.
"Yes... I'm workin on a script for a documentary of namesake, that bush poet Tom Quilty. It's a lot. I bet a book is a lot more. It must be like...." I started and paused for words, and into the breach leapt Denis:
"Like turning over a whale with a teaspoon."

We pulled the camp oven out and the damper was nice and hot, just right for butter. I asked Den if he liked powdered milk - as it was regarded as a good condiment for billy tea. The stewed tea combines with the powder into a curdled cream finish. He said he would, but asked "Do you think it's bad for your heart?" "Well," I replied, "It may be. I always try to wet it first and give it a damn good stir, so there's no residue."

Then I prevailed upon Den to discuss what he meant when he said he could teach me how to create poetry using the spoken method. He said he stand up, thinks of his subject, and makes up lines from the top of his head. He said he doesn't write it down until he has it pretty right.

I looked out the frosty glass window and said:

"This place... I could get my friends to come and clean it up."
"Gee, who are they, Blue?" Denis intoned with some concern.
"My friend Holly is in Bondi and she is in `Backyard Blitz'."
"Aw, gee no, Blue. This place is over-run and that's the way I like it."

I skipped it, as it was fairly much a joke on my part. We discussed the virtues of keeping obscure literary works alive. "It doesn't matter if you're not famous, but it is nice if someone remembers what you had to say," he said.

I thought it time to go when he said: "Well, I must get back to this book."
So I picked up the camp oven by the handle and headed for the door, saying I had my work cut out for me as well. At that point, Denis shook my hand and, looking serious, said:
"Now, promise me you won't send the Backyard Blitz team around, ay?"
"Ah, no Denis. No chance." I replied, with a grin.

I miss Denis. He was a man who inspired the courage to be a poet or an artist - even a cook. He knew the value of social life, and he would agree that art and life must go hand in hand.

When I opened the Denis Kevans Puddin Boil at my unit in Leura in 2005, it brought back all those memories of being with our old mate, Den the poet Lorikeet of the Blue Mountains.

Bluey Quilty, MA (January 2007)

True friend to Ireland

I have just read a book about the Hunger Strike in Ireland and included in it is A soap on a rope.

I first met Denis on a political trip to Australia on behalf of the Republican Movement in 1991 and became firm friends. I wish I had kept those letters he sent me but as I met him on almost all my 14 visits to Australia I thought, like everyone else, he was indestructable, but none of us are. But his work will live forever and that only happens with Great and Mighty people like Denis.

I sent my own tribute on his death by another party and can only hope it was delivered. I am so proud to have known him and the work he done for freedom and justice in my country is immeasurable. Republicans here in Ireland have a saying

Comrades we have many, Friends we have few

Denis was a friend to me personally and a true friend to Ireland.

Tiochfaidh ar la Jim Neeson (27th August 2006)

Love's Bounty

Autumn reverie:
Late afternoon mist
Rises from the lake
And hovers like a pall
Above the earth.
Red gold of falling leaf
Reflects the evanescent
Colours of the sky,
While overhead,
The plaintive honking
Of the geese
Haunts my memory.

Is it a shimmering tear
Or a soft rain
That caresses my cheeks,
And cascades like glistening
Diamond dewdrops
Down my face,
As I turn, expectant,
In the half light,
Seeking one last
Glimpse of you?

Is it your voice,
Whispering to me
On a passing breeze,
Or only a shadow
Of memory,
Playing on my mind
Like a magic lantern show?

Or is it a last whisper
Of a dying season,
Surrendering the fullness
Of its bounty
To the earth,
As I surrender
The twisting threads
Of our love’s bounty
To the rich tapestry
Of Time?

Liz Rule (31st May 2006)

Poem for Den

In love and harmony and understanding,
We lived our lives together and apart.
And whether I am near or I have wandered,
Know you are forever in my heart.

In the golden hour, we sat and gazed at sunsets,
Or wandered in the Valley in the mist,
And looked upon the starlit sky at moonrise,
And watched as dawn the silent treetops kissed.

We are together though we are sundered
By death's deep gully. Into eternity
Your heart is yearning homeward, ever Homeward.
Forever more your spirit will roam free.

I know the places where your spirit lingers
On pathways that our feet have often trod,
By statuary of stone and twisted tree trunk,
In valleys where we found the key to God.

At mystic hour of night, my spirit wanders,
And finds you where the Blue meets the Gold,
And from that shore, untouched by human drama,
Our minds into the Netherworld enfold.

We are together though we are sundered
By death's deep gully. Into eternity
Your heart is yearning homeward, ever Homeward.
Forever more your spirit will roam free.

Liz Rule

Denis A View From Ireland

I never actually got to meet Denis or speak to him, due to him being in Australia and me being in Ireland.

I first came across him in a secondhand book shop in Derry, through a copy of "Ah White Man Have You no Sacred Sites" This mentioned "The Great Prawn War and Other Stories" Several years were spent trying to get a copy, the phrase "rocking horse shit" springs to mind at this point. Then with a lunge equaled only by the drowning man grasping at the straw I wrote to Denis to see if he knew where I could get a copy, expecting at best to get the name of some Aussie bookshop. But by return, well almost return, there came a copy through the post with a note enclosed from Denis and surprise, surprise no invoice. Shortly after a CD arrived "Should Have Been A Champion" this was followed very closely by an invoice as they say every man has his price, or at least his CD's do. This was about five years ago.

There followed correspondence over the years which due to Denis's use of illustrated aerogrammes have given me a knowledge of endangered marsupials second to none, well at least here in Donegal where the only marsupials we have are politicians and they aren't in the least endangered. Eileen and I got great interest and amusement out of his letters, not only from their content but also from the fact that his ancestors must have been shipped of to Australia guilty of bad handwriting. He was one of the few people I have known of with worse writing than me, so we had many happy hours deciphering the contents.
What came from his letters, which bore out his poetry, was his love of life, mankind, Australia and Ireland. It was always a big day when one arrived, like buses either late or several together. We had just been remarking that as it was nearing the end of January we were about due a Christmas card from Denis. So it was quite a shock to read on the Internet, all be it very late, that he had died the previous August.
What to do about his memory, surely make his poetry more widespread, have supportive prizes and awards but most of all follow his example. Support what's right, if only in small ways, be happy and be nice to people (even the politicos it's one of the few things that they can't cope with) but most of all remember him.

Steve Menarry, Cloughbolie, Co. Donegal Ireland.

Uncle Den

You always had a kind word for me
Not just a great wordsmith and orator
But gentle loving uncle, bestowing
Words of wisdom, grace and dignity.

With Jacko shedding his mortal coil
You stood beside me, we cried
We laughed, we talked, we walked
Along the emotional tightrope we toiled

Your are gone, I miss you both
So much, so much, I breathe
Deep, and vow to keep you
Close to my heart, next to Jack

To me Denis stood larger then life, as a public figure I greatly admired him, and he was the most intelligent man I have ever met.

On the personal level, his love, compassion and support carried me through dark periods of my life. I am forever in gratitude.

On politics and social issues, I can only encourage one and all, grab the baton and run, pick the ball up and head for the 'try' line. There can never be enough people to 'stand up' for Social and Environmental Justice'. Small pebbles thrown in large ponds ripple outwards and outwards.

Denis you taught me that, my loving uncle.

Keiran Kevans

The Poet Galah meets the Poet Lorikeet

The time had arrived to face my worst fears
By testing a poem in front of my peers
Full of misgivings I mulled over the words
Sizing them up with the others I'd heard
My stomach was turning, I'd been given the wink
And was up on the stage before I could think
And there was reminded how slow rises fame
When the compere had trouble pronouncing my name.
I corrected his error, much to my dislike
While stretching on tiptoes to reach to the mic.

I'd recited the words back home with no sweat
But in front of an audience was bound to forget
For sake of security I'd come with my screed
But was shaking so much I barely could read.
Then I looked to the faces and my heart skipped a beat
For right in the middle sat the Poet Lorikeet
To be rattled by this you might think a bit odd
But where poetry goes this fella is God.

I steadied myself tried to focus my thoughts,
Looked for the few friends giving moral support
Then gathering together my bundle of nerves
I set out to find what this poem deserved.
My halting words echoed out over the crowd
And I shuddered to hear them sounding so loud.
The minutes on stage seemed like hours had passed
Then the audience clapped. I was finished at last.

Did their applause show approval
Or manners polite?
Did my rhyme convey meaning?
Were the sentiments right?
A nagging doubt hovered til I realised
The Poet Lorikeet had tears in his eyes.

Bev Stewart

Did'ja Know He Was a Champion?

Did'ja know he was a champion,
At boarding school the best
In Latin and Greek
And football an' cricket the star.

Did'ja know he was always true,
Sticking by his creed
Against all the greed
That's drowning us anew.

Did'ja know his feat with ball and bat
50 years on are unequalled
Across the great GPS
The bursary boy, the wharfie's son.

Did'ja know all the kids loved him
They called him Poppa Kevans
And he soothed the loneliness
And created laughter for us all.

Did'ja know we all respected him
As Poppa, poet and parrakeet
Jacko the weightlifter champion
Muso and Denis the poet freak.

Did'ja know they were heirs
Of Irish kings of music and song
And they gave all so grandly
That we might sing along.

Did'ja know Denis and Jacko
Did'ja catch 'em in the slips
Or did you sing their songs
So sweetly on the lips.

Did'ja know 'em on the paddock
Or on the building site
Like another lost mate,
The Paddington Colt, who could fight.

Did'ja know Den's engraved
In brass tablets over mountains blue
Where the wind sings the brothers' tunes
Champions' songs ever strong, ever true.

Did'ja know those kings of rhyme
Did'ja know those brothers
Were mates of mine
Did'ja know they were champions two.

Bob Cummings

Dovetailing

I came near you
as I heard your voice
rising above the fog
of a pondering crowd.

Your words, white doves
your words, tirades against war.

Ideology
the matchmaker
boarded us on the boat
of an elusive revolution
with captain the rainbow.

We walked on the golden sand
the restless water kissing our feet.
Enchanted, we entered the woods
and on a cross road our hearts dovetailed.

Stay by me my love, you whispered
and I tripped into the realm of a rosy mist.

Yota Krili

For Denis

He shoulda been a champion
that green ban fusilier
and now his city is of green
and his train of treasures here

He saw blue swimmers in Balmain
and a ghost in the Opera House
A song of hope for the Wollemi Pine
Moss’s gentle fingers and hey come on Souths

The woodchip man and Mitchetll
the monuments so tall
and concreto it looks beeebutiful
around the mountain’s wall

Blow leaves across the suburbs
of the radiation state
Denis you are a champion
and to everyone a mate

Roger Walter

Den

Who Will Write The Songs?
Of Beauteous Mountains Fair
Or Of Sunlit Hidden Valleys
Which Nurture Plants So Rare?

Who Will Paint Word Pictures?
Of Sydney And Her Shores?
And Of The Green Ban Wars?

Who Would Let Us View His Soul?
And In The Wonder Bask
And If You Needed Help From Him
You Only Had To Ask

Who Will Soliloquy Of Waters?
By The Rivers Flowing Hair
And Fill Us All With Laughter
At His Son Et Luni’ere

Who Will Remember All Your Rhyme?
Long After Life’s Defeat
We Will Denis Kevans, Our Poet Lorikeet

L Heylen-Norfolk (23/8/2005)

For Denis Kevans

Walk close by my spirit
In a friendly mountain fog
Remember pubs and cafes where
We shared some verse and grog
Then lead me to a campfire
Where the dark is soft and still
And your words will burn as bright as stars
In the evening’s blustery chill.

Speak to me of struggles
And the hopelessness of war
Scourge the farce of politics
Then speak to me some more
Rage at those who ravage
Mountain bushland for their gain
Help the flickering forms in the campfire
Speak our planet’s grief and pain.

But anger’s a cruel master
For all fragile, caring souls
It can flare and then extinguish
Like the last of the campfire’s coals
So take me as if my magic
To a sunny afternoon
Where a lyrebird watches waterfalls
Beneath a crescent moon.

You sing out to the forest
But the lyrebird gives you shame
The other birds form picket lines
To claim their real names
And from the coachwood canopies
Darug and Gundungurra gaze
And guide the white man poet
To your future restful days.

And where from our bushland gardens
Where your verses are still said
To the sea that’s like spumante
The land recalls your tread
What are we humans here for?
What did the monkeys back?

Walk close by my spirit
Till I meet you down the track.

Walk close by my spirit till I meet you down the track.

Lyric by Don Morison 23 August, 2005

Ah, Denis, I am searching for the site sacred to you

Ah, brother, I am searching for the site sacred to you,
Where you can tread so lightly and you can whisper poems too
Where the wattle and the bowers of your native creeks and flowers
Cast your works across the mountains as the gentle raindrops do.

Here in these Blue Mountains you came and wrote the song
Of this melancholy landscape to which we all belong
You talked with me a lot in rich embroidered repartee
The works, the temperaments and celtic longings
Carved the beauty that we see.

You cast words at us and threw them
Over cliff and down the vales
Where they rested on the mosses and the logs in dim lit swales
Words that are larger by far than the libraries full of books
and meaning embellished, all will relish
The feelings and truths in our Bluey’s nature nooks

You understood the Chaos of Emotion
And the strength and order given to us by an undisturbed nature,
Where the Moss’s Gentle fingers paint the sleeping boulders green

And there the meter broke as my eyes swelled up with tears
As I see the tracks you’re now travelling, more than fifty thousand years.

Wyn Jones (3 Sept 2005)

That Long Winter (for Denis Kevans)

That long winter
Whittled us down
Wore us to our weariest tears
Under the cold iron dust cast across the sky,
Within warming walls, the pub’s dining room,
After the evening crowd has trickled out
the halls of the streets one bleak and hollow,
We had black beer and fiddles playing there,
Women dancing jigs, I sang the blues;
Keeping a vigil for the frigid hours.
Denis, mole-eyed, seeming shy to the light,
Sodden with recent sorrow in his body,
Rising to recount his parable of horsemen,
Summoning those horses with flexing
Fingers, riding in his widening eye.

I missed my train and walked entrail-cold streets
Isolate in those black wave mountains.
The dresses, the fiddles, the poems locked away
”Keep on going son.” He said to me
On a summer evening’s ebb moths before
In the streets I was laughing.
Yes. I keep on going.

The strong winter
Sucked us of sap
Left us dry and white.
Our breath, our bread, our water
Turned to wormwood. Our protests fell on stone.
The wars fail, the floodwaters break in;
Lies ate up the landscape like locusts,
Stripped us to our rag-and-stick shapes.
So many of my lights have flickered, flared, fallen
lately one more makes little distance
As if some spiritual cull is occurring
Only the strong will be left to fight.

This savage winter
Sharp as surgical steel
Years in span
Stealing away our song-spinners.
A lady said to me, in that same dining room,
We need more poets.
It could not erase my opinion
Poets are out of place in this epileptic era.
Now I find I have no more grief left.
No longer can I be a foreigner to the sun.

That hard winter
Held our voices hushed
But now my silence and the season
Have both broken.

Roderick Heath

A tribute to Denis

Our dear Denis Kevans
has gone to Heaven
to meet the great Muses
with no need for excuses

He did quite a bit
our dear Lorikeet
and we’ll always remember
his kindness and wit

Now we can imagine him in the sky
looking down he’ll still inspire
It’s likely he would ask us not to cry
’cos he’s already organised the choir

Lyre bird’s singing amongst Boulders Green
And . . . no Concreto to be seen!
B y o o t e e f u l
All green!

So long dear friend – we’ll miss you so
We’re all so sad you had to go
Your sparkling words we’ll always treasure
to have you here was such a pleasure

Maureen Grant and Jenny Rich (1 September 2005)

Hi there

I had quite a lot to do with Denis in recent years. Although I never got to actually meet him, felt I knew him quite well.

I am a conservationist on the far south coast. In 2000 my group, Chipstop, organised a poetry competition called the Forests 2000 Poetry Prize. The aim of our campaign is to end native forest woodchipping and close the Eden chipmill.

The judge was Judith Wright. Denis was joint winner, with a poem which is now posted on our website at: http://www.chipstop.forests.org.au/poetry.html#theanzacsincense

It was a great poem and happily, the first of many that we were able to publish in our quarterly newsletter (I am the editor of the newsletter of the Bega Environment Network.)

Once Denis realised that we were keen to publish poems he was very generous in sending an envelope full from time to time. They were always well received. He always enclosed an encouraging note in support of our campaign with the poems.

Only a short time before his death I received some poems and was very sad to learn that these would be the last.

His passing is a great loss and he will be sadly missed - much further afield than many realise.

best wishes

harriett swift

On the 10th of July 1985 the Rainbow Warrior, the flagship of Greenpeace, was bombed while in Auckland Harbour New Zealand. The ship had been sailing to areas of the South Pacific affected by French nuclear testing. As he went to retrieve his gear, a second explosion killed the ships photographer, Fernando Pereira. I wrote this song shortly after this event. I sang rainbow warrior and dedicated it to Denis Kevans on the occasion of his sixtieth birthday at Blackheath folk, he was wearing a rainbow coloured jumper on the night, as I recall. He encouraged me to sing.

Dan Marjason.

Rainbow Warrior

Red, orange, yellow, green, indigo, violet, blue…….

Rainbow warrior, rainbow warrior
People of peace, sometimes die
Rainbow warrior, rainbow warrior
People of peace, sometimes die, sometimes die….

Rainbow Warrior, rainbow warrior
People of peace are coming alive,
Rainbow Warrior, rainbow Warrior
People of peace are coming alive, coming alive….

John Lennon said all the worlds got to be together
Hippies cried, “mother earth’s being scarred!”
Dreamers searching for ways to be practical

Change must come
Change comes hard
Bodies….before bulldozers
Little boats….before bombs
Peace….remains a vision
If dreamers have the courage
To dream on

Rainbow Warrior, rainbow warrior
People of peace are coming alive,
Rainbow Warrior, rainbow warrior
People of peace are coming alive, coming alive.

Just like, America needs Russia
Just like Mohamed Ali, needed Jo
Just like all fighters need their enemies
To strengthen their arms and to box in the world

Men….need a little more woman
Woman….need a little more man
Images….seem the only thing living
Leaders act like dummies in some great cartoon…

Rainbow Warrior, rainbow warrior
People of peace are coming alive,
Rainbow Warrior, rainbow Warrior
People of peace are coming alive, coming alive…

Greenies stand for redefining progress
Straight ahead, full blast
Not the only way to go
Seeing men fly by
Leaving their neighbours

The moon stopped…
To consider revolution
Money….not the only form of profit
Weapons….not the only form of defence
Hands could spread across the ocean
If democracy was deep
We wouldn’t fear the colour red

Rainbow Warrior, rainbow Warrior
People of peace are coming alive,
Rainbow Warrior, rainbow Warrior
People of peace are coming alive, coming alive.

Red, orange, yellow, green, indigo, violet, blue…….

First and Last Words

"The Blackheath Folk Club is excellent", I was told.
Folk Club?
I hadn't been to a folk club in ten years,
Not since I lived up in Queensland:-
An hour or more to get ashore from the 'Geopotes',
The muddy suction-dredger I worked on, way out in the bay.
Then:- walk a mile through the balmy-night streets of Gladstone,
To find a poky little room full of talented folk,
Above a dark, deserted butcher-shop.
It was a rough round-trip!
Two bouncing hours in a high-speed launch,
And climbing back on-board my ship at 2 am in a big sea,
Up the swaying Jacobs Ladder,
Was risky,
But it was always worth it.

It was a rough round-trip!
Two bouncing hours in a slow-speed train,
Through the Blue Mountains:- black at night,
And climbing up the icy footbridge-steps in a freezing gale
Was risky,
I wondered if it was worth it.

Stumbling through the thick fog,
I found a small, open door below a dark, deserted library.
Stood stupid, stark staring in, at a poky empty room,
Feeling foolish on the frosty footpath;
Chattering teeth clenched my coat around me.
Wrong place? Wrong night? What folk club?!
There was no-one in there!
Or was there?

Suddenly a short, stocky figure in short, stocky sleeves
And a white beret:-
Appeared down in the room -
Sighted me and immediately -
Barrelled up the hallway -
Storming straight towards me -
Bounced out the door -
Aimed directly at me -
Shot straight through the mist -
Headed right up to my face -
So he could see my eyes and I could not avoid his -
Confronting me with his first gruff words, he growled:
"Do you write poetry!?"

Do I write poetry?!
What sort of a question is that!?
What a strange thing to ask a stranger on a dark, foggy street!
Who is this guy, anyway?!
Is he clairvoyant or something!?
How the hell did he know I wrote poetry!?

"Err....well..." I stammered, "I have written poems....years ago....but....."
"Can you read one tonight!?" he snapped!
"Oh.....no!" I pleaded, "I...err...I haven't got any copies with me and....."
"Can you bring one with you next time!?" he demanded!
"Oh....well... err.. maybe if I can dig out a copy of one...perhaps I ....."
"Can you bring one along next time and read it!?" he insisted,
"Will you do that!?"
"Yes" I blurted, just to get him off my back,
Whereupon, he swung round and stormed back into the little empty room.

Of course I had no intention of doing such a risky thing.
On the rare occasions when I had read
My long-lost, unfinished, esoteric poetry
To a few carefully selected people:- I received very mixed reactions!
So I sighed relief and soon, people began to loom,
Out of the fog and the gloom, and I followed them into the room,
Which eventually filled to capacity!

The Blackheath Folk Club was indeed excellent! (It always is.)
So excellent that I resolved, then and there, to come again next time,
And as I bid farewell to that Supreme Master of Ceremonies:
The beret-bearing Denis Kevans,
And followed the crowd back out into the fog,
I suddenly realized he had me over a barrel!
For to come along again I would have to bring one of my poems,Well, I said I would!
And I would have to read it out; as agreed!
For I had entered into an agreement with Denis Kevans,
To perform an impossible task, and so it must be done!

And so it was!
A month later I read a poem!
And lo and behold, they liked it!
And Denis said it was good, and demanded I write more!
Time and time again he told me it was good,
Time and time again he growled, snapped, snarled, persisted,
Urged, encouraged, compelled, insisted I write more; and I did,
For years he directed, demanded, instructed, commanded,
Ordered and relegated, implored and delegated me to
Recite my poems more often; and I did.
He was still growling orders at me over the phone from his hospital bed!
As we joked about the seriousness of his medical predicament,
He suddenly insisted I write a poem immediately!
And submit it before a deadline a couple of weeks away!
I was carefully non-committal.
So he kept insisting, demanding, instructing, commanding!
But in the middle of his vehemence,
He suddenly went very calm and quiet, and softly said:
"Enjoy what you do mate, enjoy it while you can. Will you do that?"
"OK mate" I said,
And we bid farewell, for, as it turned out,
The last time.

When I heard he'd moved on to The Big Folk Club In The Sky,
(Where, I daresay, he reigns supreme as the Ultimate Master of Ceremonies),
I was deeply saddened.
How I miss his growls and snarls, his orders and directions,
His songs and poems, his wit and humour, his enthusiasm and passion.
The laugh that burst forth from him when he relinquished control,
Cawing like a rare, native bird.
The muffled giggle that gurgled up out of him,
Like the bubbling mountain streams he loved.
That leprechaun grin that slowly crept across his face,
When he thought no-one was watching.
His overgrown garden, so wild and free,
That it merged with the bush behind his home:-
His ramshackle, old, wooden, house with its warm wood-fire and
Wall-to-wall carpet of manuscripts; every one a work-in-progress.

I wonder how many other people he has inspired, supported, encouraged,
Into bringing something of their inner world out onto the stage of life.
For this I am eternally grateful,
His inciting spirit will always be with me:
I can feel his reassuring slap on my back now,
Even though he is gone and I miss him dearly.
In the midst of my sadness and gratitude,
I suddenly realized he had me over a barrel!
For with his last words to me, he set me an impossible task,
Which I agreed to do, so it must be done! Well, I said I would do it!

"Enjoy what you do mate, enjoy it while you can."

"OK mate."

Denis was a Champion!!

Colin Steele, September 2005

Our dear Denis Kevans
has gone to Heaven
to meet the great Muses
with no need for excuses

He did quite a bit
our dear Lorikeet
and we'll always remember
his kindness and wit

Now we can imagine him in the sky
looking down he'll still inspire
It's likely he would ask us not to cry
'cos he's already organised the choir.

Written for the Denis Kevans Wake, Carrington Hotel Katoomba. (Apology, lost author's name)

If Only

I think there is a tendency to put Denis Kevans on a pedestal, but it is important to recognise his many shortcomings. After all, he did have some serious failings, like clinging to a lot of loony-left ideas and silly, unproven concepts such as socialism, love of humanity, faith in human nature, tolerance, fairness, acceptance, justice, forgiveness, empathy, compassion, love of nature and a strong commitment to ending its destruction and to the preservation of its beauty. Not to mention his idyllic belief in unlimited human creativity, his pathological drive to express and disseminate the truth and to encourage the development of human potential, and his unrealistically contemptuous suspicion of petty bureaucracy, oppressive authority, corporate power, military might, ideological cronyism etc.

If only he had let go of some of his more romantic notions and adopted the more post-modern, pragmatic attitudes of enlightened self-interest, avaricious competitiveness, ambitious greed, Neo-Darwinian intelligent design, smug indifference and ruthless moral superiority. If only he'd learnt healthy ways to cope, like how to project his inner fears and failings onto scapegoats, how to treat weak and powerless minority groups with the disdain and enmity they deserve. At least he should have learned how to make himself richer by forcing others to be poorer. If only he'd disciplined himself with regular, devout self-righteous worship to dispel self-doubt and really believe God was always on his side. If only he had developed more practical social skills, like how to make his eyes water at the drop of a hat, or how to feign concern by making his brow look like a furrowed field whenever he was on stage, especially when a camera was in sight.

Who knows, with all his abilities, plus regular coaching, he could have been Prime Minister!

Colin Steele

Blog Tributes (from the diogenesian discourse blog)

Dave Riley said . . . Yep. Hooroo Denis. He gave so gnerously and never missed a political beat in his life. Always came up smiling and always hit back with song or poem.

Our own poet lorikeet! (September 02, 2005 2:47 PM)

diogenes said . . . Yeah, I met him at a Poets' Breakfast. He is unforgettable. I'm sure he lives on in the hearts and minds of everyone who has met him. What saddens me is that I see his kind dying out and not being replaced by anything nearly as potent. (September 02, 2005 11:26 PM)

Brownie said . . . thanks for those great verses. Vasco's brother Warra da Gamba circumcising the world! (September 08, 2005 11:12 PM)

I am very sorry to hear that we have all lost a great warrior. A warrior and advocate for humanity, the environment and fairness. And an advocate of the Greater Blue Mountains.

May I send my sympathy to Denis' immediate family but also to his wider family of poets, singers, campaigners and environmentalists.

The Poets' breakfasts throughout the land will not be quite the same without Denis, but the breakfasts will always be there, as will Denis's warm support for new writers young and old.

Bob Debus
Member for Blue Mountains
Attorney General
Minister for The Environment
Minister for The Arts

Poetry night at the Parakeet Cafe (A comedy poem, (over the top delivery)

Writers and poets of varied persuasion
converge on the Parakeet like a mini invasion.
With poetic offerings to read or recite
they jostle and hustle to get to the mike.

While eating lamb cutlets they rhyme their couplets
then struggle with rhythm and metre,
and a cold winter night they clamour and fight
to be close to the warmth of the heater.

They get up on stage to have a bash
while still eating their bangers and mash,
and some in the audience may feel forsaken
because they're still waiting for lambs fry and bacon!

Broken verse or open prose
the Parakeet is the place where anything goes.
The bawdy jokes are quite a hoot
but can cause people to choke on pumpkin soup.

The "Poet Lorikeet" of Australia
emcees this paraphernalia.
Denis Kevans has national acclaim
but finds this lot hard to tame.

He keeps a list under his cheese-cutter cap
of would-be poets he intends to rap,
and if content and delivery you are lacking
then it's Dante's inferno for you … in Latin!!!

The coffee machine also likes to compete
by hissing and gurgling while you speak,
and the washing-up back in the kitchen sink
clatters and clashes to help you think.

Shakespearean sonnets and soliloquies
digest rather well with roast beef and peas,
while for dessert there is always black forest cake
with servings of Coleridge, Wordsworth and Blake.

And in the corner above the floor
floats a table set for four,
where Henry Lawson bides his time
with T.S Eliot drinking wine.

Banjo Paterson comes drifting in
with C.J. Dennis and his Ginger Meg grin.
Now in the silence beyond the words
not a whisper their 'muse' disturbs.

The poets of the Parakeet keep good company
people come from near and far to hear their poetry,
and if it's a bit of culture that you seek
then come along and join us at Cafe Parakeet.

Dedicated to Denis Kevans by David R Hill

The Weaver

A weaver of words has passed this way.
A weaver of words has gone.
He wove his part of the cloth of life
And left us to carry on.

He wove the ease of the eagle’s flight
With the shining stars in the sky of night,
The dripping moss and Wollemi pine
Stand woven close in bright sunshine.
His “trains of treasure” still roll on
But the weaver of words has come and gone.

He wove of war and he wove of peace
And he hoped that conflict would soon cease.
He wove of caring and promises lost
And asked if someone would pay the cost.
He asked who, of us will right the wrongs,
But the weaver of words has come and gone.

He breathed so deeply, through “lungs of green”,
Then rebuked us sternly, for what he had seen.
He wove the loss of a poor man’s home
And the rights of workers, still to come,
And the fight for honest pay goes on,
But the weaver of words has come and gone.

A weaver of words has passed this way.
A weaver of words has gone,
But the cloth he wove was the cloth of life
And with it, we carry on.

Noel May, September, 2005

In memoriam for Denis Kevans.