Taken

Tags

Australian traditional poetry, poem, poetry

𝐓𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧

Oh pretty girl, now you grow old,
As does the boy who caught your eye.
But you were taken — bound with gold,
And who would break the seal? Not I.

— D.N. O’Brien

’54

Tags

Australian poet, Childhood memories, poem, poetry

‘𝟓𝟒

First memories my mind recalls:
Wet streaks upon the canvas walls,
The steady rain a soft lament,
The jumbled stuff within the tent,
All that we had in one small space,
The beauty of my mother’s face,
Skinned knees, and measles, chicken pox,
A dwelling built of cinder blocks,
My father lifting me on high,
My wonder at the pale blue sky,
A soldier’s trunk, with spoils of war.
Some memories of fifty four.

— D.N. O’Brien

Broad Swords

Tags

Australian poet, Cossack, Kuban Cossacks, limerick, Limerick poem, Limerick poetry, poem, poetry

𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐝 𝐒𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

I once knew a Kuban Cossack,
And she always led the attack.
Her sabres she’d twirl,
And though just a girl,
Sword-fighting skills she didn’t lack.

— D.N. O’Brien

Cossack Girl

Noble Dancing

Tags

Australian poet, Circassia, Circassion genocide, Circassion Noble Dancing, Ottoman Empire, poem, poetry, White slavery

𝐍𝐨𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐧𝐠

{ 𝘊𝘪𝘳𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪a𝘯 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘯𝘪𝘤 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘕𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩-𝘞𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘊𝘢𝘶𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘶𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘦d𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘖𝘵𝘵𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘌𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘦. 𝘓𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘶𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘴. 𝘕𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘶𝘭𝘵𝘢𝘯 𝘢𝘯d 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘴}

Pity not the proud Circassians,
Plundered by the cruelest nations.
Listen to their tunes entrancing —
Glory in their Noble Dancing.

— D.N. O’Brien

Noble Dancing

A Lost Mind

Tags

Australian poet, Feeling sorry for yourself, Giving up, Losers, Losing attitudes, Negative thinking, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, Victim culture

A Lost Mind

It’s not my fault – I had an awful start.
What chance had I to ever see success?
When I think of my woes it breaks my heart;
No wonder all my dreams are in a mess.
What happened to me? – perhaps you can guess:
I’ve been unlucky since I was a kid –
No luck at all – I couldn’t have had less.
I tried so hard – no matter what I did
It came to nothing, for I couldn’t rid
My mind of all the failures in my past.
And so I shut myself away and hid,
And so had nothing left to lose at last.
But all your losses in the past are dead;
They only live within your loser’s head.

A Sonnet for Rebecca

Tags

Australian poet, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Rebecca Weisser, Rebecca Weisser journalist, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, The Australian newspaper

A Sonnet for Rebecca

{For Rebecca Weisser}

She has a sense of humour quite refined;
And common sense? — of that she isn’t short.
Courageous? Yes indeed — she speaks her mind;
For those without a voice Rebecca’s fought.
She has integrity — she can’t be bought —
No one would try, her character’s well-known.
I guess these were the values she was taught —
Her faith in them throughout the years has grown.
She faces now a test – but not alone,
For closest friends, and some she’s never met,
Are with her — in their thoughts and prayers they’ve shown
Their love and their concern — know she won’t let
A temporary hurdle stop her run;
This cloud will pass and soon reveal the Sun.

— D.N. O’Brien

The Boat

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry

The Boat

I saw an ad — “A boat for sale.
Is neither powered by steam nor sail.
In size — four fifty feet in length,
Beam, three score and fifteen — its strength
Is in its mighty ribs and keel.
Its rudder and its steering wheel,
Original — just like the rest.
One voyage put it to the test,
But since then it’s been high and dry.
The first to see this boat will buy.”

I went around to see the boat.
The owner, quite a strange old goat,
Dressed all in robes, and with a beard,
Informed me in an accent weird
That he had built and sailed the thing
Some time ago — he couldn’t bring
Himself to sell it — but he said
(With just a tinge, I thought, of dread)
That he was now too tired and old
To stock and tend a floating fold.

I puzzled over what he meant.
The ancient sailor wizened, bent,
Then showed me all about the boat.
I said: “It’s sold!” a cheque I wrote.
He said: “One thing before you buy:
Should you find anything awry
In time, a broken beam, some rot,
A hole where once there was a knot.
If then repairs you make, you should
Use nothing else but gopher wood.”

— D.N. O’Brien

The Meadow of Asphodel (extended version)

Tags

Acheron, Ancient Greek Mythology, Asphodel meadows, Australian poet, Cimmerians, Circe, Dawn, Erebus, Formal poetry, Hades, Hecatomb, Ithaca, Night, Odysseus, Persephone, poem, poetry, Polyphemus, Poseidon, red-cheeked ships, River of Flaming Fire, River of Lamentation, River Styx, Teiresias, The Odyssey, The Suitors, Theban, Thebes, Trinacria, Winnowing fan

The Meadow of Asphodel (extended version)

I

Said Circe of the lovely hair,
The goddess with the tresses fair:
“Odysseus, go and set sail,
For in your quest you must not fail.

I will provide a strong north breeze
That will propel you o’er the seas
To where a land is bathed in mist;
That Dawn’s soft rays have never kissed;

Where dreadful Night has spread her cloak.
Cimmerians, unhappy folk,
Live there, close to the gates of Hell.
A meadow clothed in asphodel,

A grove of slender poplar trees,
(They are august Persephone’s)
Two rivers mingle in a gyre –
The Lamentation, Flaming Fire.

The first has waters of the Styx.
Around a towering rock they mix,
And with a thundering are gone –
They pour into the Acheron.

So when this mournful land you reach,
And on its shore your boat you beach,
Then dig a trench a cubit broad,
A cubit long, with your fine sword.

Around the trench pour offerings,
To all the dead, to slaves and kings,
Then barley, white, all over spread,
And say your prayers to the dead:

At Ithaca, when you return,
A heifer you will kill and burn,
And treasure heap upon the pyre,
So all will be consumed by fire.

And to Teiresias the seer,
The blind, the ghost who dwells quite near,
You’ll sacrifice the finest sheep,
So that the sage in peace may sleep.

When prayers are done, call to your crew
That they must bring a ram and ewe,
Jet-black, no others will suffice –
Two victims for the sacrifice.

To Erebus then turn each head,
But look away till they are bled.
And when the trench is filled with blood;
When death has staunched the surging flood,

From Erebus there’ll come a swarm
Of all the souls in ghostly form;
But take your sword, and let none pass
Till you speak with Teiresias.”

II

All then went as Circe had said.
From Erebus the swarms of dead
Approached Odysseus the Lord,
Who held them back with his bare sword,

And said: “Until the Prince of seers,
His prophesy brings to my ears,
No soul but he this blood will taste.
I beg Teiresias – make haste.”

And then the Theban seer came up:
“Odysseus, now let me sup
The dark blood; nimble-witted Lord,
In silver scabbard sheathe your sword.”

Odysseus did then obey
The ghostly sage, and backed away.
Teiresias, the blood consumed,
Then spoke: “You and your men are doomed

If the Earth Shaker has his way.
He still broods on that fateful day
When with your crudely crafted spear
You blinded Polyphemus – dear

To him – his son; he’ll send you down
To Ocean’s bottom – watch you drown.
But should he fail, then mark my words:
There is an island blessed with herds

Of cattle, flocks of sheep; the Sun,
He keeps them – watches every one.
Trinacria this isle is named,
And for these kine and sheep is famed.

So if by chance you reach this isle,
Do not these flocks and herds defile;
Don’t hurt the cattle or the sheep,
Or Sun will send you to the deep;

For wrecked will be your ship – your crew
Will perish, but perchance should you
Survive – should you avoid this fate,
To Ithaca you’ll come home late,

And in a ship from foreign soil,
All laden rich with gifts and spoil.
But trouble in your house you’ll find,
Where are the Suitors fed and wined,

And to your royal and faithful wife
Make love. By stratagem or strife,
By plan or sword, clear them away.
In Ithaca you cannot stay;

For you must bear a shapely oar
And travel far away once more
Until you meet the men who know
Not sea – who salted food forgo.

Where red-cheeked ships are unknown things,
As are their oars – their well-cut wings.
A sign I’ll send – will say a man:
“Upon your shoulder there’s a fan

For winnowing.” Then plant the oar
Into the earth. A breeding-boar,
A bull, a ram, then sacrifice
To Lord Poseidon. Sage advice

To you Odysseus I give,
Though I am dead and you still live:
Return then home – to gods, in turn,
The hecatombs on pyres burn.

As for your end – Death from the sea
Will gently come – prosperity
Will mark your days – you will grow old.
Teiresias, the truth has told.”

– D.N. O’Brien

The Meadow of Asphodel

Tags

Acheron River, Asphodel meadows, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Cimmerians, Circe, Erebus, Formal poetry, Greek Mythology, Hades, Hell, Homer, Ithaca, Odysseus, Persephone, poem, poetry, River of Flaming Fire, River of Lamentation, Styx River, Teiresias, The Odyssey

The Meadow of Asphodel

Said Circe of the lovely hair,
The goddess with the tresses fair:
“Odysseus, go and set sail,
For in your quest you must not fail.

I will provide a strong north breeze
That will propel you o’er the seas
To where a land is bathed in mist;
That Dawn’s soft rays have never kissed;

Where dreadful Night has spread her cloak.
Cimmerians, unhappy folk,
Live there, close to the gates of Hell.
A meadow clothed in asphodel,

A grove of slender poplar trees,
(They are august Persephone’s)
Two rivers mingle in a gyre –
The Lamentation, Flaming Fire.

The first has waters of the Styx.
Around a towering rock they mix,
And with a thundering are gone –
They pour into the Acheron.

So when this mournful land you reach,
And on its shore your boat you beach,
Then dig a trench a cubit broad,
A cubit long, with your fine sword.

Around the trench pour offerings,
To all the dead, to slaves and kings,
Then barley, white, all over spread,
And say your prayers to the dead:

At Ithaca, when you return,
A heifer you will kill and burn,
And treasure heap upon the pyre,
So all will be consumed by fire.

And to Teiresias the seer,
The blind, the ghost who dwells quite near,
You’ll sacrifice the finest sheep,
So that the sage in peace may sleep.

When prayers are done, call to your crew
That they must bring a ram and ewe,
Jet-black, no others will suffice –
Two victims for the sacrifice.

To Erebus then turn each head,
But look away till they are bled.
And when the trench is filled with blood;
When death has staunched the surging flood,

From Erebus there’ll come a swarm
Of all the souls in ghostly form;
But take your sword, and let none pass
Till you speak with Teiresias.”

Alice

Tags

ANZUK Force, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Avondale bar, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Sembawang Strip, Singapore bar girls

Alice

Was in a bar, a dingy dive,
That Alice worked – just twenty five,
A bar girl, by grief driven mad.
A Yankee sailor, handsome lad,
She’d tell me was her absent beau:
“The ships are in – I want you go
And find him – bring him here to me.”
Each time this was her tearful plea.
And humour her, each time I would,
For in her heart the girl was good.

“He come – I know he will!” she’d cry.
“Alice, I’ve looked – not yet.” I’d lie.
Her son they’d taken from her breast;
Mad Alice never more would rest
Until she saw his father’s face.
At closing time she’d leave the place
And make her way through midnight’s gloom
Back to her wretched rented room,
And at her shrine, prayer candles burn;
And wait for her love’s safe return.