Underpowered

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, limerick, Limerick poem, Limerick poetry, poem, poetry, satire

Underpowered

My satire sir, I’ll not explain,
No matter how much you complain.
The problem’s not mine
But is of your design –
You use less than half of your brain.

— D.N. O’Brien

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The Other’s Ways

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Revisionist Historians, Spenserian sonnet, The Other

The Other’s Ways

It’s clear to us that human nature’s changed;
No longer need we fear The Other’s ways.
What came before must now be rearranged
Until it all conforms — our view obeys.
And those few who will not believe — the nays,
They must in institutions be confined,
Until such time as they have joined the yeas —
Until each sick reactionary mind
Agrees with the new system we’ve designed.
The Other’s ways must be approved by all,
And to The Other’s faults all must be blind,
While our old ways must be allowed to fall.
So from The Other we will learn what’s true,
And so reject the teachings of a Jew.

— D.N. O’Brien

Dams

Tags

Anti-dam fanatics, Australian bush poetry, Australian traditional poetry, Bush Poetry, dams, Green fanatics, irrigation, poem, poetry

The seed that’s planted in the endless rows,
With irrigation sprouts, emerges, grows.
But take away the sprays that make the rain,
And witness then, the graveyard of the grain,
As each seed shrinks and withers where it lies,
As in its blasted shell the life force dies —
A desolation sown thick with the dead,
Where could have been a field of golden bread.

To plant into the ground when parched and dry —
To throw the dice, the seed of wheat, of rye,
Upon the dust — to gamble with the gods;
Or else to irrigate the tumbled sods
And watch the seedlings germinate and thrive,
So those who would destroy the dams — survive.

— D.N. O’Brien

The Isle

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Fanaticism, Formal poetry, Insane States, poem, poetry

The Isle

There is an isle of sanity
Surrounded by an insane sea;
And on its wicked wind-whipped waves
There sail the ships of Satan’s slaves.

The slaves look to the island’s shore
And make their plans for holy war.
The sane upon the isle they fear,
Yet to destruction still they’ll steer.

For they believe the isle does mar
Their chosen hell – Its sacred star,
Its symbol, they will rend and smash;
They’ll burn the hated isle to ash.

So many times they’ve tried and failed,
But sanity each time prevailed.
But mad men driven by mad dreams
Will not abandon their mad schemes.

And though it’s plain that they will fail,
Their ships they’ll man — the isle assail,
With faces masked, black flags unfurled —
The navy of the underworld.

— D.N. O’Brien

Dry Country

Tags

Australian bush poetry, Australian deserts, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Bradfield Scheme, Bush Poetry, Flood, Formal poetry, Paroo River, poem, poetry, River diversion schemes in Australia

Like inland seas that stretch to far horizons,
The swirling waters soak the sodden plains.
And brown and foaming flow the streams flood-swollen,
Swelled high and wide by teeming monsoon rains.

The arid deserts bake in summer heat waves,
While ancient stream beds dream of former days.
The deluge on the coast flows out to oceans,
As sense and “progress” go their separate ways.

— D.N. O’Brien

{Image of the Paroo River by Peter Woodard via Wikipedia}

Pro-Putin Poet

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Russia, Russian poets, Vladimir Putin

Pro-Putin Poet

I’m moving to Russia to sing Putin’s praises.
I’ll live on the steppes where wherever one gazes
One sees far horizons, her vast open spaces,
Her beauty, her bounty. I’ll travel to places
Where never again will I hear folk complaining
Whenever from dull skies it’s snowing or raining.
I’ll go to the cities and see all their wonders,
And study the past and the Soviet blunders.
I’ll write formal verses that praise Vladimir,
And hope that he’ll have me around for a beer.

– D.N. O’Brien

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}

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.”