The Invader

Tags

australia, Australia Day, Australian poet, Invasion Day, poem, poetry

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐯𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

Invader you call him, this true native son?
When enemies threatened he took up the gun.
His father before him — his father before —
His father before him — they went off to war.

And there in lands foreign these fathers and sons,
They fought the invader — they silenced his guns.
Those men who lie buried far over the sea,
Those fathers and sons, died for you — and for me.

— D.N. O’Brien

The Inselberg

Tags

Ayre's Rock, Central Australia, Inselberg, poem, poetry

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐛𝐞𝐫𝐠

I am a rock surrounded by a plain

Swept by the desert winds — a little rain

Falls on me — down my flanks it flows like tears.

I’ve rested on this plain a million years.

About me there is little mystery:

I once was sand beneath a sparkling sea —

I turned to rock, I hardened into stone,

Then by gigantic force I rose alone;

Was thrust upward while all else sank below;

But all of that is now so long ago.

Came lately creatures made of flesh and bone,

Then men who killed them with my brother stone.

To them my body was of little worth,

For little lived upon my hardened earth.

Came then the men who climbed upon my back;

But they no longer tread that well-worn track.

It seems the first ones now claim me as theirs —

The first one to the prize — with none he shares.

But I care not what mere men lose or gain;

I have a heart of stone — I feel no pain.

— D.N. O’Brien

Pat

Tags

Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Shell shock, World War 2

Pat

To join his brothers he was keen.
In forty two at just nineteen,
With both he sallied of to war.
Though never under fire before,
Courage he showed, no lack of will,
But no rejoicing at the kill.
But then there rolled a hand grenade,
And with his life Pat almost paid.
Upon a stretcher he was placed.
With morphine were his veins then laced.
A brother’s hand upon each knee,
Pat asked: “What will become of me?”
“You’ve scored a homer”, they replied;
But twice under the knife he died;
For fragments lay close to his heart —
Cold iron with which he’d never part.
Evacuated back to home,
Not buried under foreign loam,
He thought now of the future peace
When murderous war would wane and cease.
So back to health young Pat was nursed,
For by good fortune he was cursed.
Brought back to life when all but dead —
“You’re fit to fight again.” they said.
Too much to ask of one so young,
Scarred by the blast and by the gun;
And in the morning he had fled.
A note his elder brother read:
“I’m sorry Noel, I’ve done my best,
I’ll wait this war out in the west.”
A tear ran down a weathered cheek;
Noel knew that Pat was far from weak,
So three words with a steady hand
He wrote: “Brother, I understand.”
The two boys fought three more campaigns;
Were members of the few remains.
They both returned in forty five,
And thus did all three boys survive.
Then Pat came back to pay his dues,
And to the state his honour lose;
But all three brothers then embraced,
For each had death in battle faced.
But Pat, the guilt bore all his life —
Cared for his mother, took no wife,
Trod the straight path, and bless his soul,
Revered his brothers, Ron and Noel,
Who kept his secret — his great shame —
They knew that he was not to blame.
And when he lay on his death bed,
A doctor turned to me and said:
“Those scars upon your uncle’s chest —
They’re battle scars, we all have guessed.”
“A hand grenade”, I then replied,
“It’s not the first time he has died.”

— D.N. O’Brien

Choke

Tags

Australian 7th Division AIF, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, Kokoda Trail, New Guinea, Owen Stanley Campaign, poem, poetry

(I was just a kid when I met this man in the very early sixties. He and a mate had called into our farm to see my father — dad had been their platoon sergeant during the Owen Stanley Campaign (Kokoda Trail). Dad told us the story later or at least started to tell us before not being able to continue. He (the ex-soldier) had been in the prone position firing at the Japanese when a bullet had hit him between the eyes near the nose. Because of the position of his head the bullet had passed through his mouth and voice box and out the back of his neck narrowly missing his spinal column. The war was over for him but he made a good recovery apart from a pronounced speech difficulty. )

Choke

I met a man who should have been quite dead.
I listened hard to hear the words he said.
He had a scar between his pale blue eyes,
And one upon his neck, of greater size.

He was my father’s friend, he said: “G’day”;
But in a strange and strangled muffled way.
I saw a tear run down my father’s cheek;
It was some time before my dad could speak.

— D.N. O’Brien

(Flag raising ceremony after the capture of Kokoda November 1942. My father, Sgt Allen Noel O’Brien is amongst these men.)

Deathly Detachment

Tags

7th Division 2nd AIF, Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, New Guinea Campaigns, Owen Stanley Campaign, poem, poetry, World War 2

Deathly Detachment

You doubt this tale told to me long ago?
But wait! I heard it from their very lips.
Cruel circumstance may bring the noble low;
It’s bloody war sometimes the balance tips.

Was rendered then without embellishment;
No hint of sentiment — matter of fact.
No judgement; none had reason to repent;
And words once said, they never would retract.

I write it here as best I can recall.
Three men agreed it was at Butcher’s Flat.
They drove them up against a lethal wall
Of spitting guns, they died, and that was that.

The jungle floor a stinking sea of mud.
Like islands were the bodies of the foe.
The biting tropic sun soon dried the blood.
And where the victors sat no one would know.

Detachment was the normal state of mind;
Exhaustion of the body and the brain.
So seated, on a Spartan meal they dined —
Arose, and left the shambles to the slain.

— D.N. O’Brien

Nana’s Words

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Bush Poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, World War 2

𝐍𝐚𝐧𝐚’𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

My grandmother, when very old,
These things to me she quietly told:
“Your father, of my sons the third,
From him you’ll never hear a word
Of certain deeds performed in war;
And so, before I die, I swore
To tell you what he’ll keep from all —
What I was told — what some recall.
Your father was a thoughtful lad;
Inclined to muse and sometimes sad.
No innocents the boy destroyed,
And confrontation he’d avoid.
He showed no liking for the fight —
He’d rather dream — to read and write.
And yet when cruel war raised its head,
His brothers to the fray he led.
And but for him, they now confide,
In foreign lands they would have died.

So this, to you, his son, I say,
Just take his mother’s words away:
In some men courage is concealed,
Till by necessity revealed —
It is the pounding of the guns
That winnows out the bravest ones.”

— D.N. O’Brien

Sonnet for a Tree

Tags

Australian axemen, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Bloodwood tree, Corymbia gummifera, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Red Bloodwood tree, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, Split posts, Tree felling

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐓𝐫𝐞𝐞

Upon a hill there stood a bloodwood tree;
A mighty tree — limbs spread against the sky.
That bloodwood from its crown looked down on me,
As I would gaze upon a feeble fly.
No danger did it see — surely not I
Could threaten it, could bring it to the ground.
And so the tree dismissed me with a sigh —
A rustling of its leaves — a mournful sound.
Its trunk, it was three yards at least around,
For it was old — but I was young and so
My thoughts were of its use when it was downed;
I had a fence to build, a crop to grow.
And many posts from that great log I’d split.
My axe was razor-sharp, and deep it bit.

— D.N. O’Brien

After Giarabub

Tags

18th Brigade 7th Div 2nd AIF, 2nd Australian Imperial Force, 7th Division 2nd AIF, Battle of Giarabub, Cyrenaica, Giarabub, Giarabub Fortress, Giarabub Oasis, Italians in WW2, poem, poetry, Siege of Giarabub, Tamma Heights

𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐆𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐛

Over silent sons blows the desert dust.
Over guns long stilled — over rifles’ rust.
To a sacred God the Sirocco moans
Of the sacrifice — of the shared bleached bones,
Where the Roman raised a defiant hand,
And is buried deep, neath a shroud of sand.

Was a victory — a first glimpse of Hell,
As a battle won — as a fortress fell
By an emerald grove and a sapphire jewel
In the great Sahara — a precious pool.

And the ones who fought and the ones who died
They have met perhaps on the other side —
The Australian boys from across the sea;
The reluctant soldiers of Italy.

— D.N. O’Brien

Australians of the 18th Brigade 7th Division raise their colours over the fortress of Giarabub 21st march 1941.

Taboo

Tags

Ancient man, australian aboriginal, Australian Aboriginal laws, Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, Stone age man, Taboo, totems and taboos, Tribal societies

Taboo

You ask me, how on earth did he survive
For many centuries? Well here’s a clue:
For more than needed, never did he strive.
His little wealth he carried, his needs few.
He stuck to the old ways and nothing new
Would he allow. So for thousands of years
He didn’t change — for change it was taboo.
Paralysis by superstitious fears —
This saved him. Round the fire at night wise seers
Would tell the dreamtime myths — his history,
Unquestioned by his trusting eyes and ears.
And thus did he remain fearful, not free.
Bound tight by rigid rules that would not bend,
His world would stay unchanged — else it would end.

— D.N. O’Brien

ANZUK FORCE

Tags

28th ANZUK Brigade, 8th Division 2nd AIF, ANZUK Force, Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, Fall of Singapore, poem, poetry, Singapore

𝐀𝐍𝐙𝐔𝐊 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐄

They come once more to Singapore,
To deter those who would wage war.
The locals see their garb and guns
Have little changed — these are the sons
Perhaps of those who were brought low;
But that was thirty years ago.

The Aussies, Kiwis, British boys,
Their distant Queen once more deploys,
As she plans to give up her best —
Retreat in order to the West.

Now fifty years have passed and most
Have left — have given up the ghost.
Their shoulder flashes slowly fade —
Like memories of their brigade.

— D.N. O’Brien