𝐀𝐧 𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐎𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

Tags

Australian poet, Formal poetry, Italian sonnet, Judeo Christian religions, Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, sonnet

𝐀𝐧  𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐭  𝐎𝐛𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

But you are not religious! You don’t pray!

Pray tell us, why then give them your support?

Why for their ancient values have you fought?

Their god you do not worship — nor obey;

Nor do you rest on his most holy day.

Of their god and his book you know but naught!

And yet you say their values must be taught!

Tell us your reasoning! What do you say!

No knowledge of religion do I need,

To see which nations with success are blessed —

Which creed lays down a firm and stable base.

The nations that spring from that common seed,

I have observed — such nations are the best.

True, I am skeptical —but facts I face.

— 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

The March of the Insane

Tags

BLM protest march, Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, sonnet, U.S. riots 2020

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐞

With their hate exposed and their minds closed tight
They are marching on to that old red beat
Down the bloodied road and the blackened street.
They’re the nightmare spawned on the darkest night.
They’re the Marxists’ dream, both the black and white.
They’re the proof that the West’s decay’s complete,
With its bones now dust neath the marching feet
Of the damned divisions that smear and smite.

While they know not hunger nor great world war,
And no sacrifice has been asked of them,
Their precept’s the product of one mad brain —
And all but what pleases, it will ignore
And all that displeases, it will condemn,
For it is the master of crowds insane.

— D.N. O’Brien

Nobody

Tags

Ancient Greek Mythology, Australian poet, Cyclops, Formal poetry, Homer, Homer's Odyssey, Laertes, Odysseus, Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, Polyphemus, Poseidon, sonnet, Ulysses

𝐍𝐨𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲

{𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘖𝘥𝘺𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘗𝘰𝘭𝘺𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘶𝘴 𝘪𝘯 4 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘵𝘴}

𝐈.

War-wearied are the sailors on the sea.
An isle they reach, a chance to slake their thirst,
To satisfy their hunger — but they durst
Not raise the wrath of Polyphemus — he
Who owns this cave — but take his stores and flee!
Too late! The Cyclops has returned, and first
Two heroes he devours: “You are all cursed!
You sail here but to make a meal for me!”

A stone he rolls, the cave’s wide mouth to block.
And in the morn two more men are consumed.
He then unblocks the cave and drives his sheep
Outside, reseals the cave, and leads his flock
To pastures, there to graze. “We are not doomed,”
Says wise Odysseus, “The giant must sleep.”

𝐈𝐈.

“So craft a pointed stake, a sturdy spear.
Bring out our strong and undiluted wine.”
And in the evening comes the giant to dine
On two more men. Odysseus says: “Here,
Drink of our wine.” His comrades cower in fear.
“Tell me your name — you of the stronger spine,
And I will gift you as a guest. Divine
Poseidon is my sire — to him I’m dear.”

Odysseus: “Nobody is my name.”
Polyphemus: “Nobody I’ll eat last.”
Now drunk, the Cyclops slumbers, soon he’ll wake;
The Cyclops, wise Odysseus will maim:
The spear into the giant’s eye is cast.
He wakes in dreadful pain — pulls out the stake.

𝐈𝐈𝐈.

His friends come as he screams in agony —
They gather by the cave and wonder, why?
“Who hurts you Polyphemus?” is their cry.
“Nobody hurts me! Nothing can I see!
Nobody!” Comes the blinded giant’s plea.
And hearing this they shake their heads and sigh —
Advise, since madness none there can deny:
“Pray that the gods restore your sanity!”

Next morning Polyphemus moves the stone.
And searches all his sheep as they move by
For his tormentors — but not one is found.
For each clings underneath a sheep, alone.
Knowing full well that if he’s found he’ll die,
He dare not move, nor does he make a sound.

𝐈𝐕.

Down to their ship the heroes swiftly run,
As Polyphemus screams and hurls great stones:
“I’ll sink your ship, my teeth will grind your bones!”
Odysseus: ” I am Laertes’s son!
And freedom from your clutches we have won!”
The heroes cheer and Polyphemus moans.
A prayer to great Poseidon then he groans:
“My father, I know I’m your blessed one.

This cruelty, by these men, you must avenge.
Destroy them and their ship; my only eye
Will never see again — Lord, take their lives!
And great Poseidon will take his revenge
For all the men but one are soon to die —
Odysseus, resourceful one, survives.

— D.N. O’Brien

’69

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Drought in Queensland, Formal poetry, Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, Queensland dairy farms, sonnet, Vietnam War

‘69

The rains have come and washed away the dust.
The drought of ’68 is in the past.
The old man talks of selling-up at last —
Another drought like that and we’ll go bust.
Our worn-out ploughs are little more than rust.
The overdraft is climbing way too fast.
With falling prices for our milk forecast,
There’s little chance that we will earn a crust.

Dan’s back from Vietnam — he nearly died;
Was burning up — the Yanks packed him in ice.
War kills in different ways — the fever tried,
But some are not meant for the sacrifice.
He knows my thoughts, and so takes me aside —
Gives me his army boots — and his advice.

— D.N. O’Brien

Jahannam

Tags

Australian poet, Hell, islam, Islamic hell, Italian sonnet, Jahannam, Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, sonnet

Jahannam

The hell of Islam — seven levels deep.
To one of these all nonbelievers go.
All those who won’t submit descend below,
To where their tortured wraiths will never sleep.
The hypocrites at level seven creep;
They are the very lowest of the low.
At level four those who choose not to know
Of Allah and his messenger, they weep.

Two levels hold the Christians and the Jews:
So near the bottom, down at level five,
Those of the prophet Moses find their fate.
At level six, perhaps on red-hot pews,
Sit Christians who no longer are alive.
(Construction work goes on at level eight).

— D.N. O’Brien

Resurrection: Ertugrul

Tags

Diriliş: Ertuğrul, Ertugrul, Kayi tribe, Netflix shows, Oghuz Turk, Osman I, Petrarchan sonnet, President Erdogan, Resurrection - Ertugrul, Turkish TV shows, Turkmen

Resurrection: Ertugrul

Ertugrul bey, you are as strong as steel.
No blade can blunt or block your slashing sword.
You are of all the Turks the greatest lord,
And all the other beys at your feet kneel.
And should one not, your dagger’s edge he’ll feel
Cold on his throat — he’ll gather no reward
In Heaven when his blood is spilled, outpoured
From severed veins. His martyrdom you’ll steal.

But having sung your praises now I say:
Why are the Templar and Byzantine Knights
You fight, such awful swordsmen? Not a scratch
Your Alps receive while killing them. Oh pray
Tell me, is this your dream? One-sided fights?
In dreams the strongest foes we all outmatch.

— D.N. O’Brien

The Netflix TV series “Resurrection: Ertugrul”, or to give it its Turkish name: “Diriliş: Ertuğrul” is a very entertaining, if perhaps somewhat inaccurate (as far as we know) portrayal of the Oghuz Turk hero and leader, Ertugrul of the Kayi tribe. His tribe had been driven out of present Kazakhstan, or maybe present day Iran, in the time of his father, Suleyman Shah, either by the Mongols or other Turkmen tribes.

Ertugral was the father of Osman I, the founder of the Ottoman Empire, and we know that because Osman I had coins minted showing Ertugrul as his father — virtually nothing else is known about Ertugrul.

Turkish folk law however, paints a very heroic and colourful picture of Ertugrul and his Kayi tribe, and it seems the writers of the TV series (5 series to date, each of some 90 episodes) have drawn from this rich source (plus their copious imaginations) to produce an action-packed, often bloody, and always profoundly Islamic spectacle.

The show is not just about Ertugrul of course. In the first series he is just one of two young brothers, sons of Suleyman Shah, but as time goes on he becomes the central character. There are other major characters — I won’t go into that here as the plots can be very complex, but suffice to say, there are good and evil Turks, evil Mongolians and Christians (yes pretty much only evil), and of course beautiful women (Turks and Christians). The Islamic scholar and mystic, Ibn Arabi, drifts in and out, and seems to have a personal interest in Ertugrul and his tribe. His long lectures to enraptured audiences can get a little painful at times, but there is the FF button on the remote.

The basic story outline is that the Turks are moving further into Anatolia and coming into contact with the Byzantine Empire frontier and this is resulting in clashes with the Christians. Initially the clashes are with Templar Knights and they are characterized as very evil indeed, but later the fighting is with the knights of the Byzantine Empire. At the same time they are having to fight off the advancing Mongols to the north and east. It is an imaginative prelude to Osman I establishing his initially quite small Ottoman Empire in Anatolia — an empire which would spread far and wide in the centuries following his death.

The acting is excellent, (I’ve never seen actresses who are better at crying than these Turkish women), the fighting (mainly sword-fighting, and I’ll come to that later in more detail) scenes are bloody and skillful, and the acrobatics of the guys who’ve just received a killer chop to the throat or chest, spectacular — I didn’t realize that a sword-fighter who receives such a blow does 2 or 3 midair spins before landing (awkwardly) or that a fighter receiving an arrow in the chest flies 6 feet off the ground — the stunt men are brilliant. The main actors themselves seem to do their own stunts, and their horse-riding skills are quite remarkable.

Ertugrul is usually accompanied by a small but incredibly skilled and deadly (and lucky) group. There are about 10 or so in the group but I’ll only mention 2 here, as the others tend to change from time to time as they are either killed (rare) or move on to somewhere else. These two are Turgut, a big handsome Alp (Alp is Turkish for hero) who swings his battle axe with deadly results, and Bamsi, a strange sort of bumbling but good-natured fellow who takes great delight in removing numerous infidel heads with his two swords. He finishes up the chief Alp of the Kayi tribe strangely enough.

I’ve seen this group and even fewer beat off and kill scores of Christian Knights without any of them suffering so much as a minor flesh wound. Their fighting skills have to be seen to be believed, (Or not believed). The skills of the Christian Knights (apart from their commanders) are pitifully inadequate, despite hours and hours of practice. On top of that they wear white robes with a great big red cross emblazoned in the center — a handy aiming point for a Turk arrow or scimitar.

I’m presently up to episode 28 of the 4th series and have noticed a gradual but interesting change in one particular aspect of the show. Perhaps you guessed it — religion.

The show is always very pro Islam and there’s no doubt of course that it is propaganda, but with each new series the Islamic component increases. The shouts of “Allahu Akbar!” increase greatly in number and frequency, and “Inshallah” becomes the most common word uttered. The Christians meanwhile are becoming more and more evil and the (good) Muslims more saintly and admirable.

Still, I guess it was made mainly for a Turkish audience and that country has plenty of problems. Maybe this is more than just TV; perhaps it is an attempt to instill pride in the Turkish people as a whole through Islam. Maybe insulting the non Muslims in Turkey is not a problem, and I guess if you really believe in the writings of the Koran and Islam’s other holy books — if you really believe that Muhammad rode to the seven heavens on a winged horse, plus all of his other miracles, you’re not going to be too worried about the feelings of a few billion people outside of Turkey.

From all accounts the further east one goes in Turkey the more religious, the more fundamentalist the people are, and the faster they are reproducing. The western Turks are generally much more moderate apparently, more Western, and like the West not doing much in the way of breeding — I dare say they are worried about being swamped by their eastern cousins. On top of that they have the Kurds and what’s left of ISIS and the Syrians, plus their own internal tribalism to worry about.

But if this show is anything to go by, if these Turks can really handle being outnumbered 10 to 1 and still win, then we had better watch out if they decide to resurrect their Empire, their Caliphate! After all, Ertugrul often talks of conquering the whole world in the name of Islam.

That said, it’s still a damn fine show! — I’ll bet President Erdogan doesn’t miss an episode.

— D.N. O’Brien

P.T.S.D.

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Bomb Happy, Combat fatigue, Formal poetry, Italian sonnet, mental illness, Mental illness industry, P.T.S.D., Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, Quacks, Self reliance

P.T.S.D.

What noble thing this soldier boy has done.
He’s served his time so bravely at the front.
Now he’s light-hearted – it was his last stunt
He laughs, as he lays down his faithful gun.
It was he says, this patriotic son,
Much like those good old days when he would hunt,
Except the prey were armed. He’d borne the brunt
Of their attacks, and luckily he’d won.

His unseen wounds will gradually heal
If left alone: the visions of the dead,
The nightmares when he wakes alone in fright;
They too will fade with time. But some would steal
His patience, wish to meddle with his head
For gain – must he a friendly foe now fight?

— D.N. O’Brien

Cathedral Conflagration Clues

Tags

Australian poet, Formal poetry, Government cover-ups, Notre-Dame de Paris, Notre-Dame de Paris Fire, Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

Cathedral Conflagration Clues

𝟏:

Within a day we know what was the cause
Of this disaster — what efficiency!
Unscathed by revolution and world wars;
But now an accident, and all agree
It was, and yet it seems quite strange to me
That this could happen — were there not strict rules,
And drills, extinguishers? I just can’t see,
Despite this being France, how could some fools,
Some workers start a fire (or two?). It fuels
The arson theory to exclude it — to
Lay blame on renovators or their tools
Without investigation. Facts are few,
Misinformation plentiful — was it
By spark, a rag that smouldered, or match lit?

𝟐:

Although they say it was an accident.
Why did the fire breakout at Easter time?
Could it have been, in fact, an arson crime?
Why did a vacillating government,
With obscene haste declare that this event,
This tragedy, loss of a jewel sublime,
A symbol of the Christian Paradigm,
Was accidental — no evil intent
Was found. (When nothing’s looked for nothing’s found).
They had not searched amongst the cooling ash.
Forensic tests? — no, they had not been done.
The charred remains still cloaked the sacred ground,
And that was for the better — no backlash
Is likely…….. if there is no smoking gun.

— D.N. O’Brien

A Special Place in Hell

Tags

Ancient Greek Mythology, Australian poet, Elysian Fields, Elysium, Hades, Hell, Italian sonnet, Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, sonnet

A Special Place in Hell

Each day is perfect, and each night divine.
Sometimes a misty shower comes on the breeze.
No storms with thunderbolts — calm are the seas.
Upon a hillside graze contented kine.
My emptied bottle soon refills with wine.
My dog, I’ve noticed, is devoid of fleas.
My hay-fever has gone, I never sneeze.
It’s always springtime. On rich food I dine,
And never exercise, but am I fat?
No I’m as fit as any man could be!
And what about the whisky, beer, and rum?
It’s all too neat, too perfect — Is it that
There’s something seriously wrong with me?
Is there a doctor in Elysium?

— D.N. O’Brien