Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Bomb Happy, Combat fatigue, Formal poetry, Italian sonnet, mental illness, Mental illness industry, P.T.S.D., Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, Quacks, Self reliance
What noble thing this soldier boy has done.
He’s served his time so bravely at the front.
Now he’s light-hearted – it was his last stunt
He laughs, as he lays down his faithful gun.
It was he says, this patriotic son,
Much like those good old days when he would hunt,
Except the prey were armed. He’d borne the brunt
Of their attacks, and luckily he’d won.
His unseen wounds will gradually heal
If left alone: the visions of the dead,
The nightmares when he wakes alone in fright;
They too will fade with time. But some would steal
His patience, wish to meddle with his head
For gain – must he a friendly foe now fight?
— D.N. O’Brien