𝐖𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐌𝐞𝐝𝐯𝐞𝐝

Tags

Australian poet, Eastern Front WW2, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Russian Bear, Syrian Campaign ww2, WW2

𝐖𝐞  𝐁𝐞𝐝  𝐭𝐡𝐞  𝐑𝐞𝐝  𝐌𝐞𝐝𝐯𝐞𝐝

(At an Australian Field Hospital in the Lebanon, June ’41)

The wounded soldier on his bed

(He came quite close to being dead)

Lights with a flaring match a fag,

Then reads the headlines of the rag:

‘Of Russia We Must All Beware!’

‘We Cannot Trust the Russian Bear!’

Next morn the paper’s passed around,

And laughter is a frequent sound.

It seems the Reds have joined the war,

And on our side; the rag therefore

Now prints the headlines staid and wise:

‘Behold Our Glorious Allies!’

‘Great Holy Russia Joins Our Cause!’

So goes the course of paper wars.

— D.N. O’Brien

World War Zero

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Crimean War, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Triolet, World War Zero

(“The Crimean War is one of the bad jokes of history.” – Philip Guedalla)

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝  𝐖𝐚𝐫  𝐙𝐞𝐫𝐨

The Ottoman Empire is in decline —

Six hundred thousand men prepare to die.

In Europe noble relatives sip wine —

The Ottoman Empire is in decline.

The nobles fear the Russians wish to dine

On Turkey — they’ll wage war on Nicolai.

The Ottoman Empire is in decline —

Six hundred thousand men prepare to die.

— D.N. O’Brien

Stolypin

Tags

Столыпин, limerick, poem, poetry, Pyotr Arkadyevich Stolypin, Russia, Russian Empire, Russian revolution, Soviet Union

Столыпин

 Lenin answered a question — he said:

“Had he lived would have Russia turned red?

Well I doubt it comrade —

 No, had Stolypin stayed

 He’d have foiled us, so we shot him dead.”

— D.N. O’Brien

49 BC

Tags

Ancient Rome, Brundisinium, Corfinium, Domitious, I'm a good ole rebel, Julius Caesar, poem, poetry, Pompey the Great, Rebellion, Rebels, Rubicon River, Song lyrics

(To the tune of “I’m a Good Ole Rebel”)

𝟒𝟗 𝐁𝐂

Was in the year of 49, on the eleventh day,

Caesar crossed the Rubicon to make the Senate pay.

Mounted on his charger, mounted proud and tall,

Came to the peninsular the conqueror of Gaul.

Leading but one legion, but soon so many more,

Caesar reached Corfinium to open up the war.

Unsheathed was every gladius, the javelins were loosed;

The army of Domitious by Caesar’s was reduced.

Came the victor Caesar, came the victor home.

Pompey and the senators all scurried south from Rome.

Caesar followed in pursuit, but in the end he failed,

For reaching Brundisinium he learned that they had sailed.

Off to Greece they headed, to fight another day.

Caesar headed westward and invested old Marseilles.

With ten loyal legions at his side, about to rule the seas —

Great Pompey would Julius soon bring unto his knees.

Caesar crossed the Rubicon way back in 49.

Caesar was a rebel, and the rebel crossed the line.

And Caesar was the victor for he waged war to the knife,

And Rome would he the rebel rule — til rebels took his life.

— D.N. O’Brien

After reading:

https://flammeusgladius.wordpress.com/2021/06/09/concise-guide-to-the-new-symbolism-of-the-damn-yankee-flag/

A Decline and Fall

Tags

Duke of Edinburgh, poem, poetry, Prince Philip death

𝐀  𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞  𝐚𝐧𝐝  𝐅𝐚𝐥𝐥

Has died, a potent symbol of the past.

A relic of an Empire gone to dust.

But men, like mighty nations, cannot last,

For cursed time consumes the good and just.

The heads are bowed; the flags fly at half mast.

Britannia’s shield and trident turn to rust.

— D.N. O’Brien

A Giant Awakens

Tags

australia, Australia Day, Australian poet, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

𝐀 𝐆𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐬

You slumbered in the south whilst all around,
The world closed in as daring men set sail.
Before long would your barren shores be found,
As eastward did the roaring forties wail.
These sailors and their nations, would prevail —
Your stone-age people would be swept aside;
Their ancient ways dispersed before the gale.
They’d built no walls to stop the rising tide;
Your moat was crossed; they had no place to hide.
And so did you awaken — and in fright!
As to the world your eyes were opened wide.
You rose from sleep — emerged into the light,
And saw the old ways were forever dead.
Your heart was filled with hope — and too with dread.

— D.N. O’Brien

Certa Cito

Tags

121 Signal Squadron, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, Gough Whitlam, poem, poetry, Royal Australian Signal Corps, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

𝑪𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒂 𝑪𝒊𝒕𝒐

The plan is hatched by foolish faceless men.
The squadron’s fate by treachery is sealed.
The method and the why, the where, the when,
Is to the gathered malcontents revealed.
All that the patriotic have concealed
Will be exposed just when the time is right;
The squadron will be banished from the field —
Its troops will be destroyed without a fight —
All trace of it will fade into the night,
And none will mourn its swift and sure demise;
And on its fate no one will shine a light.
But those who filled its ranks — its ears and eyes,
Who served and sweated on that Asian Hill,
They know how easily mere words can kill.

— D.N. O’Brien

The Church of Hagia Sophia

Tags

Australian poet, Constantinople, Hagia Sophia, islam, Istanbul, Kamal Ataturk, Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, President Erdogan, sonnet, Turkey

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐇𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐚 𝐒𝐨𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐚

They wish to claim you as their holy place,
And so insult the name of Ataturk.
Towards a callous caliphate they work.
Thus your magnificence they would deface —
Remove the images of Christ that grace
Your ancient walls. Islamic forces lurk
Within your state. That wise and mighty Turk,
(Whose legacy these fiends wish to debase)
That founding father, would have brought them down.
But he’s long dead, and now a false Sultan
Sits on his phony throne and makes his claim.
But disregard the rantings of this clown —
Holy Cathedral, work of Western Man,
You’ll stay a church in everything but name.

— D.N. O’Brien

Clemens the Impostor

Tags

Agrippa Postumus, Ancient Rome, Australian poet, caesar, Clemens, Clemens the impostor, poem, poetry, Tiberius

𝐂𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭o𝐫

“How did you come to be Agrippa, slave?”
“As you came to be Caesar”, Clemens said.
A knave can recognize another knave.
Tiberius: “I want this fellow dead.”

— 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