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

Imita Ridge

Tags

7th Division 2nd AIF, ANZAC Day, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, Imita Ridge, Kokoda Trail, Owen Stanley Ranges, Papua New Guinea, poem, poetry, World War two

An ANZAC Day post:

𝐈𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞

The letter, from my father to his mother, my grandmother, and baby brother, is written on a biscuit pack wrapper, as he had no writing paper. It is the 21st of September 1942 and he and his fellow soldiers of the 2nd/31st Battalion 25th Brigade of the 7th division 2nd AIF, all volunteers, are bivouacked on Imita Ridge, in the ranges behind Port Moresby — they have begun to drive the Japanese back over what will become known as the Kokoda Trail of the Owen Stanley Ranges — he will be one of the first to find the village of Kokoda deserted by the retreating Japanese.

He is 21 years old, a platoon sergeant, and a veteran of the Syrian Campaign, where he was severely wounded. He will suffer more wounds, internal parasites, starvation, exposure to the elements, and cerebral malaria from which he will come close to death, but will be one of the 56 soldiers of the original 800 strong infantry battalion who will stand to parade at the end of the campaign. This poem is a tribute to him, sergeant Allen Noel O’Brien, and his fellow soldiers.

(The letter was found at the bottom of a drawer some 45 years after it was written, following the death of my Grandmother.)

The night was drifting closer — the rain a misty veil.
They’d gained this slender foothold by a steep and muddy trail.
The soldier glanced to westward — a weak and fading light,
And overhead the sullen sweeping clouds— a mournful sight.

His uniform was wet and stained, the air was turning chill.
His boots and socks were water logged and leeches drank their fill.
The unfurled flimsy groundsheet, his head and shoulders cloaked,
As his half blanket he unrolled — it too, was sodden — soaked.

He scanned the gloom around him — saw the ghostly forms of men.
He wiped the rain streaks from his face, and lifted up his pen.
His precious ink he opened, and with care the pen he dipped.
The paper for the letter, from a biscuit pack he’d ripped.

He knew that he must hasten, very soon there’d be no light,
And once night fell a feeble glow would draw the sniper’s sight.
For in the dark the enemy would climb the highest tree,
And should a digger strike a match, then home he’d never see.

So with his slouch hat held to shield his letter from the rain,
He penned the loving words: “Dear Mum, I’m writing home again
To say that all is well with me and hope that you are too,
And hope the little one and Sis are not too much for you.

I’ve not received a letter from you yet but pray I will;
I know you will have written Ma, so I am hopeful still.
How is my girl who waits for me? Tell her I’ll not be long.
This business will end soon I think, meanwhile we must be strong.”

He asked for news of relatives and friends since long ago;
Of younger brothers who would soon be joining in the show.
Then finished off the letter with a reassuring line:
“Don’t worry for me Mother, for your son is doing fine.”

He folded up the letter, and he slipped it in his pack
When chance arose he’d hand it to be taken down the track.
But while he could, he’d try to sleep, for come the morning light,
“Advance!” would be the order; very soon would come the fight.

— 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

Slaves to a New King

Tags

Achaemenid Empire, Alexander the Great, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Darius the Great, East versus West, Formal poetry, Persian Empire, Persian Empire vassal states, Persian invasion of Greece, poem, poetry, Refugees from the Levant, Spenserian sonnet, Syrian refugees, The Levant, Western Civilization, Xerces the Great

Be welcoming? Show kindness and compassion?
No! Self defense must be the Hellene’s goal.
This new, naive (some say progressive) fashion:
To rescue every body and each soul,
Must surely of a nation take its toll.
They once repulsed the pushy Persian tossers.
It wasn’t in their nature to console
Darius and King Xerces for their losses.
The Persians now nail Christians to their crosses;
They blindly follow leaders cruel and mad —
Fanatical, insane, barbaric bosses;
Yet for their plight today’s Greeks should be sad?
The ancient Greek admired the free and brave;
He thought the Persian, to his King, a slave.

— D.N. O’Brien

The Rescue of baby Mary Jane Meehan

Tags

Australian Aboriginals, Australian Outback, Australian pioneers, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Bush Poetry, cattle and sheep stations, Formal poetry, Helen Montgomery, Mary Jane Meehan, Moree New South Wales, poem, poetry, Rosewood Mungindi

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐮𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐞 𝐌𝐞𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐧

On the 16th of December 1886 in the “Big Leather Watercourse” area of the Gwydir River, west of Moree in New South Wales, a woman, Mary Jane Meehan (nee Heydon), died soon after giving birth to a baby girl. It appears that she and her 3 year old son Edward were living in the bush, no doubt in a makeshift dwelling, while her husband, Timothy Edward Meehan, was away working, probably droving. Tragically, Mary Jane’s mother, Mary Jane Heydon (born in Whittingham, Hunter River, NSW in 1849) had died giving birth to her.

It was summer, but the children were apparently found by local aboriginals and presumably looked after by them until they were found by Helen Montgomery, a grazier’s wife, and taken to their property “Rosewood” near Mungindi. The child was later christened Mary Jane. It’s not known how long the children were in the care of the Montgomerys, or when they were reunited with their father, but when Mary Jane married Queensland drover Frank Epstead Green in Moree in 1904, she gave her residence as “Rosewood, Mungindi”.

Mary Jane and Frank Epstead Green went on to have 16 children. The family lived on properties throughout western Queensland but spent later years at Tulga station and other locations near Longreach. Both died in Darra, Brisbane — Frank in 1957 and Mary Jane in 1975.

Mary Jane was the Grandmother of my wife Helen O’Brien (nee Green).

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐞

Here’s a story I’ll tell of Australia’s outback:
Out west of Moree there’s a tumbled down shack
Where died a young woman a long time ago —
Some still talk about it, the few left who know.
And though details vary, most of them agree
She was heavy with child; had a young boy of three.
Her husband away, just the odd friendly black
Would sometimes pass by on a lonely bush track.
One day, as it happened, a new baby cried,
And a little boy clung to the mother who’d died.
She’d told little Edward, whilst words she could give,
That the blacks he must find, for the baby must live.
And the little boy found them and quickly they came
And rescued the baby, and her mother’s name,
With that she was christened. A story of pain,
Of death, and the rescue of babe Mary Jane.

{𝘐𝘯 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘑𝘢𝘯𝘦 𝘔𝘦𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘺 𝘑𝘢𝘯𝘦 𝘔𝘦𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥,
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘎𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘏𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘖’𝘉𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯}

— D.N. O’Brien

The Rescuer

The natives saved them, she then took them in —
The newborn baby and her little brother.
She cared for them, though they were not her kin,
But helpless little waifs who’d lost their mother.
The girl when she grew up and then was married,
Put “Rosewood, Mungindi” as whence she came;
For in her heart those memories she carried —
Her gratitude burned like an endless flame.
Now as she said her vows the rescuer —
The one who’d acted selflessly that day,
Though there in spirit, could not smile for her;
Five years had passed since she had passed away.

{In honour of Mrs. Helen Montgomery, “Rosewood” Mungindi, died 1899,
RIP}

— D.N. O’Brien

Incorrigible

Tags

Australian convicts, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Bush Poetry, Cat of nine tails, Formal poetry, Incorrigible convicts, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, Van Diemen's Land

𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞

He heads for hell beneath the surging sails;
One soul of tens of thousands bound in ships
East-driven by the roaring forties gales.
His gruel consumed, a brackish brew he sips —
Stares at the deck, and licks his leathered lips.
Sad hopeless thoughts beat in his beaten brain,
As with cold calloused hands his head he grips.
Perhaps he stole a pound of precious grain,
A handkerchief, a coin, a rich man’s cane.
Perhaps he is a villain through and through,
And so deserves this cruel unnatural pain,
Or maybe he is not — whichever’s true,
He’s landed on the wrong side of the law.
He’s branded by the cat for evermore.

— D.N. O’Brien

Everlasting Quest

Tags

Ancient Persian Mythology, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, Huma Bird or Bird of Paradise, poem, poetry, Quest, Sufism, The bird with no feet

𝐄𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐐𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭

The bird with no feet makes its nest
In a cloud — there it pauses for rest,
And one egg does the little bird lay,
For one bird must replace it one day.
To just one, all its life, it gives birth;
To soar high — when it falls to the Earth.

— D.N. O’Brien

Quest

Formalists

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, Formalists, free verse, poem, poetry

𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬

Free versifiers, as we know, these folk are everywhere,
But those who compose formally are really rather rare.
As rare as that elusive stuff, a rocking horse’s dung,
And rarely are they read, and rarely are their praises sung.
Hen’s teeth, they are quite plentiful, compared to these composers,
And most of them live in the past, and most are old as Moses.
And though their numbers dwindle fast, and though their foes are many,
They’ll keep on writing to the last — and never earn a penny.

— D.N. O’Brien

From the North

Tags

Aboriginal Australians, Australian bush poetry, Australian Megafauna Extinction, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry

From the North

In the south live the lumbering giants of the Earth.
They’ve been slumbering there since the continent’s birth.
In the north is a tide that is turning to south,
And the tide it is black, and it’s wide, and its mouth,
It hungers for meat — for the harvest of fire;
Like a wave it rolls on and it never does tire.
To the north there’s a glow like the east-rising sun,
And it glows ever brighter as each mile is won.

And the sabre-tooth looks from the mouth of his lair,
And he growls at the glow; smells the smoke in the air.
And the giant kangaroo pauses out on the plain,
But he has little sense, for he’s little of brain.
And to all the doomed giants there’s a fact that applies —
From the north will come death — from the ones who are wise.
And the giants in the south, they have nowhere to go;
They are huge, they are powerful — alas, they are slow.
They’ve been safe in the south for these millions of years;
From the north comes their end — from the north come the spears.

— D.N. O’Brien