North Western Pub

Tags

Australian bush poetry, Australian pubs, Australian traditional poetry, poem, poetry, Queensland cattle towns, Queensland drovers, Sid Kidman, Sir Sidney Kidman, The cattle king, Western Queensland hotels, Western Queensland pubs

North Western Pub

Where pallid ghosts of stockmen sit upon the empty chairs –
Elusive wraiths of memory and smoke,
While hopeless mortal men find solace from their earthly cares,
As at the bar in solitude they soak.

Just as it was one hundred years ago, perhaps some paint
Applied, but now is peeling off the walls,
And in the air and from the dusty floor the yellowed taint
Of ancient sweat upon the senses falls.

The dust haze hangs in tiny specks suspended in the light,
Where sunlight streams through windows seldom clean,
And as the sun goes down the shades of fast-approaching night
Lend dreariness and pallor to the scene.

Here time stood still as elsewhere changed for better or for worse,
Each day a play, as weary plots repeat.
A theatre’s stage not altered, as the drinkers sit and curse
The drought, the flood, the fires, the burning heat.

Here Kidman’s men, come overland with cattle, sat abreast,
A brief respite – for soon the track to face,
And could a summons call them from the bush graves where they rest,
They’d notice not a difference in the place.

In the North West, you may one day chance on a battered shack;
A leaning wreck beside a rutted street.
Survivor of the roaring days that swept the great outback;
A refuge from the searing summer’s heat.

Push through the batwing doors into the old Australia past,
Where of our modern times is not a trace,
And try to there imagine all the dead departed cast,
The ones long gone, whose spirits haunt this place.

The stockmen, and the miners in their ceaseless golden quest,
The bullock drivers with their plodding slaves,
The men and women pioneers who opened up the west,
Now on the rolling plains rest in their graves.

So have a beer, and toast those sturdy battlers long dead:
The folk who drank here at this ancient bar;
For though, like us, they had their faults, in truth it must be said –
Their steely grit exceeded ours by far.

– D.N. O’Brien

{I wrote this some years ago – don’t think I have posted it before}

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Cemetery Road

Tags

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.

Dead Politicians

Tags

Arthur Hoey Davis, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Dad and Dave, Dead politicians, Formal poetry, On our selection, poem, poetry, Steele Rudd, Triolet

Dead Politicians

{“𝘚𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘵, 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘺, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢 𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘴 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘚𝘮𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘢 𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘥, 𝘣𝘪𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘥, 𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘛𝘰𝘳𝘺, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥. 𝘗𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘯𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥, 𝘴𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘳 𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘳𝘺 𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥 …” Steele Rudd (Arthur Hoey Davis)}

Now dead, the politician’s a great guy;
Although he was a cretin when alive.
To be transformed the real man had to die.
Now dead, the politician’s a great guy.
He was a saint, he never told a lie;
And that’s the legacy that will survive.
Now dead, the politician’s a great guy;
Although he was a cretin when alive.

– 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.”

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.”

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.

𝕿𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝕰𝖓𝖌𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖉

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, England, Formal poetry, Islamization, Italian sonnet, Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, Richard II, sonnet, This England, William Shakespeare

𝕿𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝕰𝖓𝖌𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖉

This island that once ruled the seven seas.
This misty Eden with her wide-spanned moat.
This land of which the greatest poet wrote
The finest verses – she is on her knees.
The quislings genuflect, the Lords appease.
The foe they flatter, as they seek his vote.
Gone are the Princes and the Knights of note,
And to the gates the traitors have the keys.

Is there a cure for this infected Isle?
Is there a remedy? Unhappy men
Know but too well what is the fate of fools
Who turn a blind eye to the villain’s guile.
The gem’s within his grasp – no poet’s pen
Can help defend a house where weakness rules.

Cannabusiness (sonnet version)

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Canada legalizes marijuana, Cannabis, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

Cannabusiness (sonnet version)

Canadians will very soon be stoned,
For Canada is legalizing weed.
What was condemned before will be condoned,
For after all, there is a pressing need
To calm the discontented – it’s not greed
That drives this move (there’s money to be made?)
But cool progressive attitudes – indeed,
Although the dealers will be richly paid,
This has been by the virtuous okayed,
For it will be of benefit to all.
The worries of the populace will fade,
From Vancouver to east of Montreal.
Make cookies, cakes, and candy, or smoke joints –
So many ways to lose those IQ points.