1893

Tags

1893 Brisbane flood, 1893 flood, Crohamhurst Observatory, Flood mitigation dams, poem, poetry, Somerset Dam, Stanley River Queensland, Triolet

{On the 6th of February 1893 a cyclone brought torrential rains and destructive winds to South East Queensland. A second cyclone arrived on the 11th of February and a third on the 19th. In one 3 day period Crohamhurst Observatory near the head of the Stanley River, a major tributary of the Brisbane River, recorded 72 inches, or 6 feet of rain (a world record at that time). A huge amount of flood water came down the Stanley and poured into the already flooded Brisbane River causing a disastrous flood at the city of Brisbane. A third of Brisbane residents were left homeless and 35 people died. Following the flood it was decided that a dam was needed on the Stanley River for flood mitigation and water supply for Brisbane, but it was not until 1935 that construction began, and due to the war, the dam was not completed until 1954. In 1956 the Somerset Dam was officially named and opened. In January 1974 cyclone Wanda struck, and Brisbane suffered another devastating flood. In 1984 the Wivenhoe Dam on the Brisbane River was officially opened.}

1893

In 1893 down came the rains,
And there was quite a flood in Brisbane town.
Most fled to higher ground – for most had brains.
In 1893 down came the rains,
But year by year that memory it wanes.
Should all forget then one day more may drown.
In 1893 down came the rains,
And there was quite a flood in Brisbane town.

– D.N. O’Brien

{Photo shows children in the centre of Brisbane as the flood was subsiding}

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Cemetery Road

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Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Bush Poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry

Cemetery Road

It formed our northern boundary –
A rough dirt track that wound up to
Some toppled tombstones on the top
Of a bare hill. Occasionally
We’d see a motor car or two
Drive slowly up the road and stop,

And out would get some people who
Would walk amongst the scattered stones
And by a grave then stop, and stand,
And bow their heads. They were the few
Who stood above the mouldering bones
Deep down – embracing soil and sand.

I guess they were the ones who’d known
The dead who’d long been buried there.
It seemed that way, for they were old –
The ones who walked that overgrown
Old graveyard, hats in hand, heads bare,
In summer’s heat or winter’s cold.

But that was long ago, now those
Who visited back then have flown;
And who they were we’ll never know,
Nor why they came, and I suppose
They’ve gone the way of flesh and bone.
But some are not forgotten, so –

Now Cemetery Road is black
With tar, and tourists come to see
Where lie those ancient pioneers.
Each stone repaired, no chip or crack
To mar a curiosity –
That long ago was wet with tears.

That Lazy N

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Branding cattle, Branding irons, Brands, Brands -lazy letters, Bush Poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry

That Lazy N

It stood for Noel, that lazy N.
He passed it on to me back when
He had no cattle left to brand.
He said: “It’s yours”, and shook my hand.

I used it then for many years.
It branded cows, it branded steers.
In glowing coals was often fired;
But now the old iron is retired.

No longer will its letters sear
The heifer’s hide – the wild-eyed steer
Won’t bellow as with fire and spark
The red-hot metal makes its mark.

Now painted green, the brand is cold.
The last to use it hot grows old.
It rests there on its wooden stand.
There are no cattle left to brand.

{photo – D.N. O’Brien}

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.

A Comforting Millstone

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Identity politics, poem, poetry, resentment, Revisionist Historians, Self pity, Slave morality, Victim culture, Victim mentality

For the sins of the fathers no men should be whipped –
For the men who were murdered or slaves who were shipped;
But the sins be acknowledged, a lesson to learn,
Lest the sons be inclined to repeat them in turn.

And the sons of the slaves and the men who were killed
Must acknowledge that they are now free and free-willed;
That they owe naught to any, nor do any owe
For what’s passed, compensation – all claims to forgo.

Now the words writ above are but vain hopes and prayers.
History’s “victim”, a scowl on his countenance wears,
As he sinks neath a burden of self-imposed weight,
And he never will drop it – or wipe clean the slate.

The Melian Dialogue

Tags

Ancient Greece, Athenian Empire, Athens, Delian League, Greece, Italian sonnet, Melos, Peloponnesian League, Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, Siege of Melos, sonnet, Sparta, Spartan, Spenserian sonnet, The Cyclades, The Melian Debate, The Melian Dialogue, The Peloponnese, The Peloponnesian War, Thucydides

The Melian Dialogue

Now Melians, consider what we ask:
Swear loyalty to us and none shall die.
For what’s transpired we’ll not take you to task;
But now surrender, lest our arrows fly.
Athenians – surrender? – tell us why?
Our city, in this war it takes no side,
Though it is true to Sparta we’ve a tie.
But you, so mighty – can it be denied
That Melos could not swell the Spartan tide?
We won’t accept your claimed neutrality,
For Spartan ships, your harbour they have plied.
We’ll have no truck with weak morality –
To conquer you is right; it would be wrong
To spare you – Athens must be seen as strong!

Would you alarm the other neutral states?
Will they not think it’s Athens they must fear?
Our friends and allies know we hold them dear.
Not one, we think, disloyalty contemplates;
To Sparta they will not open their gates.
But island states that are to Sparta near,
Towards which may those Spartan triremes steer;
Their destinies we’ll not leave to the Fates.
It would be shameful were we not to fight!
Oh no, not shameful – you would surely lose.
We are the stronger – you would all be slain.
But we believe there is a chance despite
Your strength, and so we feel that we must choose
To stand and fight – perhaps a victory gain!

The Spartans too will come to our defence.
Self-interested Spartans fight to win
A victory for you? – they have more sense!
They will, we think, for Spartans are our kin.
With them we share our ways – our discipline.
And too, the gods are on our side – we’ll fight!
The Spartans would not spread their ships so thin.
Our navy would put such a force to flight.
The gods will watch as weakness yields to might.
So one last time we ask you – make your choice.
Think of your people – make the one that’s right.
We men of Melos answer with one voice:
Return to Athens, tell them we’ll not yield!
Oh foolish Melos! – now your fate is sealed.

The Melian Dialogue

Nietzscheisms 2

Tags

Australian poet, Formal poetry, Friedrich Nietzsche, Nietzsche's criticism of Christianity, poem, poetry, Pontius Pilate, Rhyming couplets, The Antichrist by Nietzsche

Nietzscheisms 2

By syphilis his brain would soon be diced.
With girded loins he wrote “The Antichrist”.

“What think you of us Christians?” they asked Nietzsche.
He said: “One I admired – he was your teacher.”

He said the gospels died upon the cross.
He thought the man who died – the greater loss.

You don’t agree, he thought the clergy crooks?
Then it is clear – you haven’t read his books.

He doubted Paul had had a revelation –
Just that he had a wild imagination.

Now Pilate he admired, he would confess –
To Pilate, what was one Jew more or less?

Botany Bay 1770

Tags

australia, Australian Aboriginals, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Botany Bay, Captain James Cook, Discovery of Australia, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, The British Empire

Botany Bay 1770

Well it was bound to happen – with your undefended borders.
If it hadn’t been the British, following their monarch’s orders,
Then it would have been the Frenchies or the Dutch or Portuguese,
Or the Maoris, or the maniacal murderous Japanese.
When you haven’t any fences and no army – no defences,
Then it’s clear to any sane man that there will be consequences.
When you’re hunters and you’re gatherers in small nomadic bands,
Standing on the bay’s grey beaches with but spears in your hands,
Don’t expect that stronger peoples with their empires all expanding
Will just say: “Hello”, and sail away without making a landing,
Planting flags, and claiming sovereignty to land on which you’re standing.
It’s the way it was back then, and there’s no sense in you demanding
That we change the past – you lost, but look upon the brighter side man –
Had it been the Asian hordes instead, they would have tanned your hide man.

Holodomor

Tags

Communism, Deaths due to Communism, Holodomor, Joseph Stalin, poem, poetry, Radical socialism, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, The Kulaks, The Ukraine, Totalitarianism, Ukrainian famine, Ukrainian genocide, Ukriane, USSR

Holodomor

In the Ukraine the Kulaks tilled the soil
To grow the grain to make the daily bread.
Was by their enterprise and by their toil,
That all who lived in the Ukraine were fed.
But now their neighbour Russia burned bright red,
And Stalin said: “The Kulaks all must die!
For by their class our enemies are led –
And our collectivism they defy.
Without them there will be no wheat or rye.
The fields where grain once grew will then be bare,
And in their millions will the dead there lie.”
So for the vanished Kulaks say a prayer.
Think for a moment of their pain and fear;
And don’t think it could never happen here.

Holodomor documentary

Lost at Sea – 1971

Tags

Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Drownings at sea, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Prawn trawlers, Scarborough Queensland Trawlers

The sea is still, these cold and starry nights.
No breakers pound upon the jagged reef.
The trawlers scan the sea with searching lights.
No nets – but grappling hooks, they drag beneath.

For somewhere in these depths there lies a boat,
And two men in this watery graveyard sleep;
And hence all day and night – this fleet afloat,
To find, and raise their coffin from the deep.

Two brothers, fishermen, the boys who drowned.
Big happy fellows – we knew them quite well.
The throb of diesels – I still hear that sound,
And too, when it hooked up – the trawler’s bell.

{In memory of “The Kids”}