The Physiology of Poetry

The first thing you must know about reading poetry is that it is unlike reading any other kind of text; not an essay; not a novel; not a newspaper article. Poetry is read as if it were read aloud. When it is read aloud - recited - it is, in essence, performed. The sound of the spoken word is as important as the content. Poetry resides at the primitive intersection of expression and meaning, vocalisation and intention. Language emerges from the body's capacity to produce sounds and to gesticulate (with hand gestures, body language, and facial expressions). When language takes the written form, we often neglect this essential embodied foundation. When reading poetry it is important to remember that it is grounded in the body: the lungs; the heart; the throat; the tongue; the lips; even the neck and back muscles. Posture matters in the recital of poetry - both real and silent - and the understanding that follows from this embodying of the poem.

The act of reciting silently to oneself I call "self-recital." The name, however, implies more than just reciting to oneself; it entails a recital of oneself. In reciting a poem, the reader is imitating or mimicking the poem and the creative processes that constitutes the making of the poem. Following this line of thinking, one might more appropriately say the reader recites the "self" of the poem through this imitation. I must stop here on this point, however, before it gets too abstract. Two things have been asserted thus far that need reiterating: first, reading poetry entails an act of recital; second, and related to the first, reading a poem entails imitation, or mimesis. When we read or recite the poem, out loud or to ourselves, we mimic it. 

So far, this won't help your understanding of poetry; what I have said is very abstract. Persevere: it will make sense shortly. What i have posited doesn't answer the most common complaints about poetry from novices. "I don't get it!" "I don't understand poetic metre." "Why does poetry rhyme?" "Why doesn't this poem rhyme!?" There are different issues at play here, but all these issues revolve around how poetry makes the meaning that it expresses. As I said above, poetry derives from a primal site of human meaning-making: the body. This is why poetry is performed, or acted out, even in self-recital. 

Rhyme and metre are merely devices that help the poet to shape and contort the language (meaning and expression) he or she uses. To the reader, these devices, if and when they are used, are like stage directions; the reader shapes and contorts himself as he or she tries to mimic the poem. By contortion, I am making a physiognomic connection: the mouth, the face, the tongue, the lungs, the eyes, even the neck and back muscles of the reader take a different shape to mirror or mimic the poem in order to reproduce the meaning-making process of the poem. These contortions in the act of self-recital are not obvious, of course. Nobody twists their features so dramatically in a way we would recognise as physical "contortions." The contortions I mean are neurophysiological. The imitation of poetry is subtle and internal. 

The devices that are used to contort and compress the words and sounds of the poem are often misunderstood, and because they are misunderstood the reader's mimetic relationship with poetry is greatly diminished. Here, I will address rhyme and metre, arguably the two most commonly misunderstood elements of poetry. Rhyme, in particular, has an insidious effect on our experience and understanding of poetry. Rhyme is often seen as a basic poetic device, when nothing is further from the truth. Rhyme misused destroys poetry and our understanding of it. 

End-rhyme, for instance, can give the impression that poetry must be read "to the end of the line"; that is, poetry should be read to "hit" the rhyme so that the rhyme is emphasised. This is not the case, certainly not with blank verse or free verse, not even with all rhyming poems. Poems do not have to rhyme, but plenty of good poems do. "Reading to the end of the line" is entirely the wrong message to take from the effect of end-rhyme. Metre, for example blank verse, is used, in part, to subvert acquired reading habits. More specifically, however, metre is used to compress the speech pattern of the poem in order to achieve rhythm. Importantly, rhythm is established so that it, too, can be subverted, changed, altered. A rhythm that does not change is monotonous, and poetry written as such doggerel.

Rhythm from line to line tends to remain consistent, albeit with variations, called hypermetric features. Simply because the rhythm is largely consistent doesn't mean you stop at the end of the line and start again at the beginning of the next. The rhythm wraps around from one line to the next based on the sentence structure. As such, you don't read to the end of the line, you read to the end of the sentence. The compression caused by the metre emphasises the rhythm of reading, but you still read for the logical unit of thought: the sentence. This raises the further question of grammar - while we have considerable flexibility with grammar in poetry, we cannot wholly ignore it (although some have tried). Punctuation, for example, plays an important role in signifying rhythm. In primary school, we are often taught that the comma signifies a "short" pause or breath, while a full stop signifies a "long" breath. This description, while questionable in the teaching of technical grammar, is useful for reading poetry. 

Where the metre provides the tension and compression required to produce a consistent rhythm, and rhyme can help to enforce that rhythm, punctuation and grammar help to structure and signify, or flag, the rhythm to the reader. When reading a poem, imitating it in the act of self-recital, we read in "parcels" of two to three words. The metre, specifically the basic unit of metre the foot (2-3 syllables), at a fundamental level, and punctuation and grammar at a level higher (and rhyme at a level higher still) all contribute to the way we perceive and subsequently comprehend the poem. The poem is a dynamic of these (and other) elements. Reducing the poetic experience to any one element is counterproductive. 

There are a few points to take out of this discussion:

1) Reading poetry is a form of performance, a recital or self-recital, which is predicated on an act of imitation. 

2) This act of imitation is an embodied act. Poetry acts upon the body in subtle but significant ways. 

3) Poetry employs a number of devices, including metre, rhyme, and grammar and punctuation, to compress and contort language for effect.

4) The reader mimics these contortions in order reproduce the meaning-making process of the poem. 

5) In imitating the poem, the reader must take a couple of things into account:

5i) Not all poems will feature all the possible elements of poetry. Not all poems rhyme for example.

5ii) In order to experience the rhythm of the poem, we don't read to the end of the line, but to the end of the sentence.

5iii) Punctuation and grammar helps to provide "stage directions": a comma indicates a short breath, a full stop a long breath, semicolons and colons somewhere in between. When they are used, question and exclamation marks indicate the appropriate inflection. 

One last point is worth reiterating, and it relates to the process of reading itself. There is a disparity between the way we perceive words on the page and the way we speak them. When we read, our eyes dart rapidly from side to side, movements called saccades. Because of this, we don't actually read word by word, we read in parcels of words, two or three at a time. When we speak, however, we speak in syllabic progression; to be understood, we have to enunciate our words clearly (speed of enunciation differs with familiar, mature native speakers). 

Poetry, as an act of imitation and recital, requires that we read at a pace that allows us to enunciate the words in syllabic progression; but because of our faster reading habit (saccadic rhythms are the reason we can skim read) we have to resist the urge to skim or scan quickly. If this happens, the effect of the poem is lost. This is one aspect of poetry's subversion of acquired language habits. Importantly, the saccadic rhythm of eye movements helps us find the beat of the poem. A metrical foot is 2-3 syllables long. We can, in fact, perceive the metre of half a line quite easily, with a little practice. The punctuation on the page helps to slow us down even further, because a foot usually does not cross punctuation marks. 

Hopefully, I have conveyed the complexity of the poetic experience, but I have not overwhelmed you with it. There are simple things to keep in mind in order to come to grips with poetry. It is only through accumulating an admittedly imperfect arsenal of hints, tips, and rules of thumb over time, as well as plenty of practice, that you will reconstruct the poetic experience for yourself and come to understand poetry at its most fundamental level. 

Critical Literacy and "Merit"

Recently, there has been much consternation about the make up of the Australian Federal Cabinet and its lack of female representation. Many words have already been spilled over this issue; my concern here is the appeal to the concept of "merit" as the primary defence of this inequity. There is a lesson to be learned here in terms of understanding arguments, or in this case a counter-argument, that are predicated on a single, crucial term. That is, it provides us with a lesson in critical literacy. 

Any argument that is predicated on a central term can always be subverted. It is the person, or group, who use the term that must define it, and it is your right to challenge that definition. In fact, if you don't challenge their definition, you are giving up half the intellectual battle. The argument in the case of the Federal Cabinet is simple: people are appointed on merit; therefore, those who have missed out were judged not to be meritorious enough. There is only one woman in the Cabinet, therefore she was the only woman deemed meritorious. The whole argument is predicated on the notion of "merit." 

But what does merit mean? If we take the basic dictionary definition - "something that deserves or justifies reward or commendation" - who could possibly object? The problem, however, is not definitional. Definitions are useful, but they are the base level of saliency for any word or term. What is important is its application, and the understanding of those who apply the concept of merit in any given situation. The question is "who decides what is meritorious?" If the ones making the decision are all, say, middle-aged white men, do they really have an understanding of merit beyond their own background? 

One could retort that there is an objective measure, somewhat tautologically: merit is what merit does. But if there be such an objective measure, then it would be easy to articulate. If it is, indeed, objective, then everyone should be able to read it and understand. Unless, of course, only the meritorious can perceive merit, but then we end up begging the question. The fact is, the definition of a term, and the power and right to define it, cannot rest upon a tautology, let alone a blatant fallacy.

The question remains: who decides what is meritorious? The entire argument is specious because it is predicated on a single concept, buttressed by supporting arguments or evidence. This is the common defence of the status quo. The only way for the concept of merit to achieve any level of validity is for it to be tested, abstractly and concretely. We test to notion of "justice" in the courts everyday. We make mistakes even there; we learn, and we make appropriate changes. The hope is that we improve our understanding, and ultimately our application of justice. There is an entire industry built around testing the notion of justice: lawyers. Justice is a much more fundamental concept than merit; why should we not apply the same scrutiny to the notion of merit, which can be seen as related to justice?

It is important not to let any significant term go unchallenged, especially if an argument is so reliant on just one. Those who seek to use that term as a premise for their argument must defend it; consensus is an illusion in these moments, and you should never grant consent to the use of a term or concept without proper scrutiny. These battles, which can seem pedantic, lie at the heart of our social and political life; it is only with critical literacy, the ability to break down an argument or an idea, that we can hope to wrest the debate away from charlatans and sophists. 

Preferences and Electoral Strangeness

One of the more peculiar aspects of the Australian electoral system is the "preference swap" arrangements that, like under the table deals, have an insidious influence on the outcome. I will explain this electoral quirk briefly. At Federal elections, voters have two options on the Senate ballot: vote one candidate "group" above the line, or vote all candidates, from one to whatever, below the line. In New South Wales, there are over 100 candidates, and to vote below the line, you must number every single candidate (although, there is an exception, where you need only number 90% of candidates below the line to cast a valid ballot). Needless to say, most voters vote 1 above the line. This has the consequence of, effectively, giving your vote to the party you voted for to distribute as they see fit. The caveat being they have to tell us, the voting public, just how that distribution will take place. That is, they must provide "preference flows" in advance of the election.

This past weekend, the Senate preference flows were released; and there were some very unusual preference swaps. Minor parties routinely "swap" preferences so as to maximise their chances of election. Normally, you would assume parties would swap preferences with ideologically sympathetic parties; there are some notable cases where this is, indeed, the case. There are, however, other cases where bizarre preferencing has taken place. Two are worth noting: The Australian Sex and the WikiLeaks Party.

The Sex Party has preferenced the racist One Nation party against the more ideologically sympathetic Greens Party, while the WikiLeaks Party that has preferenced the Shooters Party and the racist Australia First Party ahead of the Greens Party. WikiLeaks and the Sex Party have more in common with the Greens than the other parties mentioned, which makes it bizarre that two ostensibly "libertarian" parties (that is to say, "social" libertarian) have preferenced right-wing parties ahead of their left-wing cohorts. This may be evidence of cynical preference swapping, or spite towards a more prominent left-wing party.

The "defence" provided by the WikiLeaks and Sex Party was galling. The former attributed an "administrative error" to the absurd choice, while the Sex Party offered meekly that they "had to put One Nation somewhere!" Which is true; all parties must allocate full preferences, all 110 of them. The question remains unanswered, however, as to why they put them ahead of a more sympathetic party, like the Greens. It is possibly just cynical preferencing, which is entirely acceptable: we have a system that allows parties to swap preferences, or make preference deals, and all parties are free to do so. If that is the case, however, then they could at least be honest about it. Attempting to obfuscate their true intentions is electoral cowardice.

One could argue, and it has been argued, that these other parties are unlikely to inherit the Sex Party's or WikiLeaks' votes. If that is the case, then it makes it even more ridiculous to preference them ahead of the Greens; it has caused needless consternation among likely voters for those parties. What is really taking place is a gamble. The two parties in question are gambling on the order of elimination, hoping to pick up votes from right-wing minor parties ahead of the Greens. It is, of course, acceptable to want to beat other parties, even parties that are broadly sympathetic. The problem is, however, that sometimes electoral gambles backfire. 2004 in Victoria is a case in point. Family First candidate Steve Fielding was elected to the Senate on Labor and Democrat preferences. The latter two parties had preferenced against the Greens in that state; as a result, an adversarial party was elected as opposed to a sympathetic one.

Other parties have been more principled in the preferencing. The Secular Party has stuck to a sympathetic flow (on a personal note, their preference flow in New South Wales is closest to my below the line vote); while the Pirate Party took a more democratic line, allowing their members to vote on the preference order. Perhaps the strangest preference flow comes from the Shooters Party, which is, quite simply, all over the place and is, at present, unfathomable (at least to this observer).

There are two points I will make in conclusion. First, these kinds of shenanigans have only strengthened my support for Optional Preferential Voting (which would eliminate these very shenanigans!); second, it is ridiculous for minor political parties to preference against their sympathies. The Senate is so finely balanced that counter-intuitive preferencing can throw the Senate out of kilter for up to six years. If the gamble some of these parties have taken backfires, it could lead to antithetical policy directions that undermine their own agenda, and the agenda of progressive politics more broadly.

Molly and Sam (draft)

Sam came home late, the lamplight on his dressing table was still on, just as he left it that morning before heading off to work, just as he had the night before that. He’d worked late every night that week; it seemed the lamplight had been on all that time, there to greet the streetlights when Sam got home, and there to wish them goodnight as he left for work. His bed was unmade; his dressing gown on the floor.

But something was amiss: the telephone at his bedside was also on the floor. He didn’t knock it off. In fact, he hadn’t used it in six months. A frosty breeze was in the process of cooling his whole apartment; his bedroom was just a few degrees shy of the outside cold. The sun had only set an hour before. He traced the cool wind to the kitchen. The sink was cold to the touch, as was the fridge door; his bare feet on the kitchen floor confirmed that a window must be open nearby. The kitchen/dining room window was open, a couple of inches. The smoke, he thought. The smoke in the morning, his head out the window to keep the smell out. It was a pointless ritual because the whole apartment stank.

He had left the window open while he was out, but he couldn’t be sure if it were just today, or the whole week. Moving through the house, he turned on every light: the kitchen/dining room, the lounge room, the bedroom, and the toilet lights. A cupboard was open in the kitchen; a wooden chair was overturned; six empty bottles were scattered about the floor, a speaker for his television set with them. This isn’t how he had left the apartment, he thought. He moved quickly back to his bedroom and, throwing away the blankets of his bed, he dropped to his knees, then bent under the bed. He emerged, with wriggles and groans, with a shoe box, the lid still intact. Dishevelled from the mild exertion he rolled to a seated position, his back against his bed. He furrowed his brow as he lifted the lid: all the letters were there. Every one of them; he counted. His heavy breath eased. He looked up; the clinking of two bottles from the lounge room had brought his heavy breathing back. Tucking the shoe box under his arm, he crawled awkwardly to the lamplight, turning it off, then crawled towards the door, lying prone on his belly. His breathed whistled through his nose; he was sure it was loud enough to hear from the other room. He couldn’t stop. He breathed in deep and coughed.

He held his breath for five seconds, trying to be silent, to hear what was happening. Another clink. Slowly, he rose to his knees; he planted his free hand to brace himself, then extended one leg. He paused, stopped breathing; he could hear nothing. He placed the shoe boxed on the floor, and slide it towards the bed; with sharp, deep breaths he stood up, fist clenched, his eyes adjusting to the light. He mouthed the words, “one” – “two” – “three.” He ran through his bedroom door down the short corridor to the lounge room/kitchen/dining room area, growling first, erupting into a deep-throated yell. He stood prepared to fight, prepared to be struck – nothing.

“Where are you – cunt.” he yelled. His fist still clenched, held up in a defensive pose. He paused, his nose whistling. He heard a squeak and a clatter. The kitchen! But he could see nothing; all the lights were on. Nothing. No shadow. “Who’s there?” he said, with a wrinkled nose, stepping slowly toward the kitchen. He heard another noise: plastic tapping against plastic. “Molly?” he whispered. Meow. “Mol-ly!” a little ginger cat slid bashfully from behind the kitchen counter. Meow. “Molly.” He cracked his fingers, walked over, and picked up the young ginger cat with both hands, placing her on the counter. Closing his eyes, he brought his face to hers; she head-butted him and he laughed. She purred. He stood there for some time has she head-butted him twice more.

Sam picked up Molly again and carried her to his bedroom, turning the light back on he walked in and sat on the bed. She walked all over his unmade bed, purring and sniffing furiously. He bent over and picked up the shoe box on the floor, sitting it next to him. Molly came over and sniffed inside; she sneezed. He laughed. He scratched her chin, her eyes closed as she tilted her head backward. With his free hand he took out a letter from the shoe box. He opened it, then paused, stopped scratching Molly’s head, at which she opened her eyes and questioned him brushing her head against the letter. “I wrote these ten years ago; she kept them all – then gave them back.” He smiled sadly. He took a breath and sighed. “Dear Molly,” he read out loud.

The Defence of Poetry in the Modern World: A Proposal

It has largely become a cliché in the discussion of poetry, of its moral and social merits, to address the great Platonic rejection of the art from any ideal state of being. Poets were kicked out of the Republic, and for millennia they have held a grudge. Poets “know” intuitively the social and moral importance of their art, the odd outlandish remark punctuating the point: “poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world” Shelley announces. The emphasis, one suspects, is on unacknowledged with a touch of agitation. As a result of Plato’s rough treatment, there has grown the tradition of the “defence” of poetry, but it seems no acknowledgement of poetry’s importance is yet forthcoming.

But can poetry’s modern obscurity and disfavour really be attributed to an ancient philosopher? The problem that poetry faces today is not philosophical, but perhaps rather economical. Poetry has always suffered from a lack of money and popular appeal; as Robert Frost says, “there is no money in poetry and no poetry in money.” Poetry is forever on the defence because it has a limited audience; it seems it has always had a limited audience, with few exceptions. We try to teach it in school, and perhaps this is where the problem lies. Equally as problematic, in the contemporary context, poetry cannot contend with the hyperstimulation of modern technology and entertainment.

Poetry has remained largely unchanged; the biggest change it has ever endured is the great leap from the oral to written form. The latter, of course, retains a connection with the former. Modern technology, however, has accelerated at such pace that our lives and or experiences are unimaginably different to what to what they were two or three generations ago. Poetry, to be sure, is an ancient art, if not the most ancient, and this is perhaps why we so often return to that first great rejection. We must not overlook the possibility, however, that society may have just past us by. This is the existential threat that poetry faces, and it is up to poets not only to resist this nihilism, but to assert its positive presence in society. More than just poets, it is up to thinkers and theorists and poetry’s small but loyal coterie of sympathisers to defend poetry.

But, does poetry actually need “defending”? Surely, there will always be readers of poetry. The internet has opened up the lines of communication between human beings across great distances more than any other invention; it has taken the inventions of language and the written word into a new dimension. There are numerous online poetry publications, as well as online communities of poets where their art can be shared and discussed. While there is still little money in poetry, it doesn’t seem to be any worse off in Information Age.

Poets still practice their art freely; readers still read, and theorists still theorise. Students still hate poetry, and teachers still don’t help. The question “what is poetry?” however, also remains unanswered. Poetry, for many, still remains a mystery; the mysteries of rhyme, metre, free verse, even the social and moral purpose of poetry, are vexatious for many. Or, perhaps, poetry slows life and the mind down to a pace at which it must consider things at depth, and this is frustrating in the flittering age of the internet. Does anybody really want to think anymore when knowledge is just a Google search away? Importantly, does anybody need to think the way in which poetry compels us anymore?

Poetry must always find and assert its relevance in any given time period; it is no different today. Poets have an obligation to their craft not only to find its contemporary niche, but to expand that niche and seek acknowledgement. This is achieved as much through the practice of poetry as through imparting the practice to others, creatively and pedagogically. Understanding what poetry is requires a sustained engagement by practitioners and theorists alike in order to uncover and convey the mysteries of poetry to those both inside and outside the coterie of poetry.

Understanding poetry is not the same as understanding other arts. Poetry is itself about understanding, about metaphor and meaning-making. Poetry can make us think deeply, and challenge our cognitive capacity; a good poem will always punish a lazy reader, but reward an attentive one. Understanding poetry, answering the question “what is poetry?” is a complex matter that has wracked the minds of poets, theorists, critics, and philosophers since Plato. It may, then, have been a fundamental misunderstanding of poetry that led to Plato’s rash decision. But we can only assume.

How then is poetry to be explained? Perhaps more importantly, how is poetry to be explained so as to attract more readers? Poetry, after all, relates to a fundamental process of thinking; indeed, poetry turns us back towards that process of meaning-making like no other art. To understand poetry, then, is to understand meaning-making at its most fundamental level. The challenge for poets and poetic thinkers alike is to demonstrate this vital dimension of poetry. This is a theoretical problem as much as a practical problem; as much as a pedagogical problem as it is a critical problem.

*

The relationship between poetic practice and theory is an important intersection that can shed light on our understanding of poetry, but that relationship is also problematic. There is no comprehensive theory of poetry, but countless parochial ones. Every poet has a few theories that might explain their use of a favourite metaphor or trope; every theorist has a theory by which to explain why their favourite poet is particularly special. There may be a danger, then, that theory is just a side industry or a curiosity, so much self-justificatory or self-congratulatory “padding.” What, then, is the relationship between practice and theory? Does poetic practice even need theory? What purposed does the latter serve to the former?

It is, perhaps, too glib to suggest that the theory of poets is self-serving, equally so with theorists and critics. The attempt to understand poetry is an ongoing effort to which every poet and theorist adds his or her voice and ideas. The question, however, must be asked, what value does theory have in relation to the practice of poetry. Can theory ever explain poetry? Can practice ever be used to prove theory? Do poets write to a theory, or does theory come ex post facto?

Poets, like Wordsworth, Shelley, Eliot, and Brodsky, have contributed just as significantly to poetic theory as much as practice. But we must ask what the relationship between their theory and practice is. In what way, for instance, is Eliot’s notion of the “objective correlative” at work in The Waste Land? Equally importantly, we must also ask what the relationship between the theoretical insights of poets is. And further, can we apply the insights of one poet to the works of another? Can Philip Larkin’s notion of the “emotional concept” be applied Robert Frost’s “Death of the Hired Man”? Is there any value in such comparative analysis? Will this get us any closer to understanding what poetry is?

We have been trying to understand poetry – to answer the question “what is poetry?” – since at least Aristotle; since Plato, we have been “defending” it against misunderstanding. There is a long tradition of theoretical defences and explications of poetry, which can be mined for convergent insights. “Delight,” for instance, or “wisdom” (or “knowledge,” or “learning”) are recurrent concepts in the defence of poetry. The goal of poetry, as Sidney succinctly puts it, is “to teach and delight.” “A poem” Frost says concurring, “begins in delight and ends in wisdom.” For Aristotle, the delight, or pleasure, originates in mimesis; for Plato, the sin of poetry consists in the wrong kind of teaching it imparts through mimesis. Is it possible to explain the delight and teaching of poetry in defence against Plato’s accusations?

Our understanding of the human body and brain is of such an advanced nature that we may someday soon map human thought with high fidelity. Soon, we may be able to map the poetic experience inside the brain and see poetic delight; we might be able to see the benefits of poetry. This might be considered a threat, the unravelling of yet another rainbow. What are the implications of our growing cognitive and neurological understanding of human thought and experience for poetic theory and practice? To what extent should poets embrace technology? And how might our understanding of the human body and brain be incorporated into our understanding of poetry?

Perhaps a new “defence of poetry” would be characterised by the re-evaluation of poetry in light of new scientific knowledge. As knowledge and technology evolves, society changes; as society changes, so does its relationship to its artists, including its poets. The poet’s niche must be carved anew. The rise of technology and scientific knowledge can be seen to throw into stark relief the relationship between poetic practice and theory, in part because science and technology have changed how we relate to each other. Poetry, the “most ancient” of arts, connects us to our history and our origins; how we reconcile it with our technology-driven future may be the most important question of all.  

"Voting For": Against Electoral Cowardice

There's no such thing as a "vote against" a party or candidate; there is only a "vote for." You must vote for someone. To vote is an inherently positive thing; it has no negative or negating qualities. It is, as such, disingenuous to encourage others to vote against a party or candidate; it is patently not what occurs in the act of voting. The tension within this for/against dichotomy is most acute in two-party electoral systems. To vote against one party is, to put it simplistically, to vote for the other party. The peculiarities of the Australian electoral further exacerbate this for/against dichotomy.

At the Federal level, compulsory preferential voting is used. To put it briefly, every candidate on the ballot must be numbered, meaning that, even if you don't "vote 1" for either of the major parties, you must put one before the other in the number sequence or your vote doesn't count. So you end up having to vote Coalition or Labor in the end if you want your vote to count at all. I'm not going to debate the merits of the electoral system here, but the system highlights the importance of understanding that to vote is an inherently positive act; positive, that is, in that it must be given to someone (a party or candidate), it is never taken away. Mathematically speaking, voting is an act of addition, not subtraction.

I say it is disingenuous to encourage a misunderstanding of the act of voting, but I would go further and argue that it is a form of cowardice. Recently, the Sydney Telegraph used its front page to call for the Labor party to be kicked out, the title screamed "Kick This Mob Out!" (Read related story here.) Other pundits have expressed a similar sentiment. But a vote against Labor must be a vote for the Coalition, yet it is not often couched in such explicit terms. Perhaps it is out of fear of losing credibility by explicitly endorsing a party or candidate, a vain attempt at retaining some degree of objectivity. Once you endorse a party or candidate everything you say subsequently will be viewed through that prism; not only that, such an endorsement is an acknowledgement that your subsequent words will and can be viewed through that prism. There is no defence or deflection once you have acknowledged your bias, and this can be seen as giving up a strategic advantage.

It is cowardice to encourage a vote against a party, especially in a system where voting is compulsory and the form of voting is as onerous as ours. It is no bad thing to support or endorse a particular party, but when it is obfuscated in the manner that it so often is, behind outrage and indignation directed towards that other party, it is dishonest. If you wish to support a party then positively endorse them, because that is ultimately what voting is: a binding endorsement of a particular party, not a dis-endorsement of any other party.

Cory Bernardi Vs. Western Civilisation

According to this article,

THE pillars of Western society are under threat, and Liberal Senator Cory Bernardi has a plan to prop them up.   

      
Unfortunately, when Cory Bernardi and people like him talks about "Western society" or "Western Civilisation," they invariably mean white, Christian, straight, and patriarchal. It is an extremely limiting view of a complex historical movement. And Western Civilisation is a movement; it has travelled a long way from what we commonly take is its origins. It is not a static state of affairs, and this is the great mistake made by conservative thinkers and politicians.

When I talk of Western Civilisation I mean the more than 2500 years of intellectual and cultural change; I mean a reverence and re-engagement with what, for pragmatic reasons, we take as the zero-point of Western Civilisation: Classical Greece; I mean the Dark Ages and the closing of the Western mind, the attitudes of which time we still seem to struggle against; I mean the Renaissance; I mean the Enlightenment; I mean the Scientific, Industrial, and Democratic Revolutions. In short, I mean the 2500-plus years of the struggle of reason and the imagination against prejudice and oppression. That is Western Civilisation.

Bernardi-ism, like so much that is inane about conservatism, is grounded upon a misreading of history prompted by personal grievance, the loss of aristocracy. Western Civilisation is about progress and self-criticism; the Bernardian world-view is grounded on the anxiety that self-criticism often threatens us with, and it replaces self-criticism with self-certainty. The "six f-words" at the heart of Bernardi's plan - Faith, Family, Flag, Free enterprise, Federation and Freedom - are emblematic of this self-certainty. What they are also emblematic of is the vague simplifications of an anxious ideology; it is an ideology that requires homogeneity and stasis to survive. Western Civilisation is about change, progress, and adaptation. In short, Western Civilisation evolves, and that is its greatest strength. Conservatism, such as Bernardi's version, in asserting "traditional values," does not take a proper account of Western history.