ASF Poetry Thread

[2020hindsight]

Paul Keating - The Redfern Address - Australian Labor Party

On December 10, 1992. The Hon. Paul Keating Prime Minister of Australia gave the following address to launch the International Year of the World's Indigenous People. This speech was recently voted as the most important speech ever given in Australia

Roll On A Fair Australia

I personally can’t wait to put a tick upon that square
the one that asks you who should lead "Advance Australia Fair"
and who is best and fairest, so a "Fair Go" is assured
(that day before the three years when the voter is ignored.)

I personally can’t wait to put a tick and take a chance
cos anyone is fairer - for a "Fair Oz" to "Advance"
where boils of racial overtones need learning, light and lance
(and skip the lecture please about my personal finance).

The Sorry movement needed someone capable of feeling
'Twas all about a golden chance to bring about some healing
It didn’t need a “Mein Kampf!!” speech - which brought a black rebuttal-
(which goes down in our history as the moment most un-subtle.)

The black man knows his reptiles, and he calls a snake a snake
He’s watched since Keating's Redfern speech as Canberra turned fake
He wants a white man’s true respect, prepared to have it earned
But he needs a chance – and the chance is here – ....

may the rebuttal be returned.

Howard admits failings on Indigenous issues
check the 1 minute mark

 

[2020hindsight]

http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2007/10/15/2059904.htm

Carer's week (could just as easily be mental health I guess - something that doesn't have the jingle of a productivity cash register attached and where less fortunate Aussies are doing it real real tough - in the case of carers, try a life sentence - closest thing you can compare it to)
http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2007/10/16/2060642.htm

THE LONELY VOICE OF CARERS IN AN ELECTION CAMPAIGN

Forget the nation's dilemnas
forget its moral soul
forget single mum's bleak Decembers
or the carers left out in the cold
forget the nation's ethics
let's go for something more bold
....
what they offer to be re-elected
are thirty odd pieces of gold

 

[wayneL]

One of my favourites:

The Story of Mongrel Grey

This is the story the stockman told
On the cattle-camp, when the stars were bright;
The moon rose up like a globe of gold
And flooded the plain with her mellow light.
We watched the cattle till dawn of day
And he told me the story of Mongrel Grey.

He was a knock-about station hack,
Spurred and walloped, and banged and beat;
Ridden all day with a sore on his back,
Left all night with nothing to eat.
That was a matter of everyday
Normal occurrence with Mongrel Grey.

We might have sold him, but someone heard
He was bred out back on a flooded run,
Where he learnt to swim like a waterbird;
Midnight or midday were all as one --
In the flooded ground he would find his way;
Nothing could puzzle old Mongrel Grey.

'Tis a trick, no doubt, that some horses learn;
When the floods are out they will splash along
In girth-deep water, and twist and turn
From hidden channel and billabong,
Never mistaking the road to go;
for a man may guess -- but the horses know.

I was camping out with my youngest son --
Bit of a nipper, just learnt to speak --
In an empty hut on the lower run,
Shooting and fishing in Conroy's Creek.
The youngster toddled about all day
And there with our horses was Mongrel Grey.

All of a sudden a flood came down,
At first a freshet of mountain rain,
Roaring and eddying, rank and brown,
Over the flats and across the plain.
Rising and rising -- at fall of night
Nothing but water appeared in sight!

'Tis a nasty place when the floods are out,
Even in daylight; for all around
Channels and billabongs twist about,
Stretching for miles in the flooded ground.
And to move seemed a hopeless thing to try
In the dark with the storm-water racing by.

I had to risk it. I heard a roar
As the wind swept down and the driving rain;
And the water rose till it reached the floor
Of our highest room; and 'twas very plain --
The way the torrent was sweeping down --
We must make for the highlands at once, or drown.

Off to the stable I splashed, and found
The horses shaking with cold and fright;
I led them down to the lower ground,
But never a yard would they swim that night!
They reared and snorted and turned away,
And none would face it but Mongrel Grey.

I bound the child on the horse's back,
And we started off, with a prayer to heaven,
Through the rain and the wind and the pitchy black
For I knew that the instinct God has given
To prompt His creatures by night and day
Would guide the footsteps of Mongrel Grey.

He struck deep water at once and swam --
I swam beside him and held his mane --
Till we touched the bank of the broken dam
In shallow water; then off again,
Swimming in darkness across the flood,
Rank with the smell of the drifting mud.

He turned and twisted across and back,
Choosing the places to wade or swim,
Picking the safest and shortest track --
The blackest darkness was clear to him.
Did he strike the crossing by sight or smell?
The Lord that held him alone could tell!

He dodged the timber whene'er he could,
But timber brought us to grief at last;
I was partly stunned by a log of wood
That struck my head as it drifted past;
Then lost my grip of the brave old grey,
And in half a second he swept away.

I reached a tree, where I had to stay,
And did a perish for two days' hard;
And lived on water -- but Mongrel Grey,
He walked right into the homestead yard
At dawn next morning, and grazed around,
With the child strapped on to him safe and sound.

We keep him now for the wife to ride,
Nothing too good for him now, of course;
Never a whip on his fat old hide,
For she owes the child to that brave grey horse.
And not Old Tyson himself could pay
The purchase money of Mongrel Grey.

A B Banjo Paterson

 

[2020hindsight]

Here you go Wayne - a going away present
must admit, I've always pictured the water a bit deeper than she's painted it here lol.

PS I agree - that is one ripper poem.
http://www.acay.com.au/~severn/illust/illust.htm

Julianne Kershaw
Woombye, Queensland, AUSTRALIA
"The Story of Mongrel Grey" - 2001, relief print using Graphic Chemical oil based inks and printed on Stonehenge Paper

Source of Inspiration:
The Story of Mongrel Grey, a poem by A. B. "Banjo" Paterson.

 

[2020hindsight]

Obviously some difference of opinion between Banjo Paterson and Henry Lawson (the solicitor and the sometimes-alcohol-challenged-but-loved story teller) ....

http://whitewolf.newcastle.edu.au/w...o/verse/saltbushbillandother/answerbards.html

An Answer to Various Bards
Andrew Barton ‘Banjo’ Paterson

WELL, I’ve waited mighty patient while they all came rolling in,
Mister Lawson, Mister Dyson, and the others of their kin,
With their dreadful, dismal stories of the Overlander’s camp,
How his fire is always smoky, and his boots are always damp;
And they paint it so terrific it would fill one’s soul with gloom,
But you know they’re fond of writing about “corpses” and “the tomb”.
So, before they curse the bushland they should let their fancy range,
And take something for their livers, and be cheerful for a change.

Now, for instance, Mr. Lawson—well, of course, we almost cried
At the sorrowful description how his “little ’Arvie” died,
And we lachrymosed in silence when “His Father’s Mate” was slain;
Then he went and killed the father, and we had to weep again.
Ben Duggan and Jack Denver, too, he caused them to expire,
And he went and cooked the gander of Jack Dunn, of Nevertire;
So, no doubt, the bush is wretched if you judge it by the groan
Of the sad and soulful poet with a graveyard of his own.

And he spoke in terms prophetic of a revolution’s heat,
When the world should hear the clamour of those people in the street;
But the shearer chaps who start it—why, he rounds on them in blame,
And he calls ’em “agitators” who are living on the game.
But I “over-write” the bushmen! Well, I own without a doubt
That I always see a hero in the “man from furthest out”.
I could never contemplate him through an atmosphere of gloom,
And a bushman never struck me as a subject for “the tomb”.

If it ain’t all “golden sunshine” where the “wattle branches wave”,
Well, it ain’t all damp and dismal, and it ain’t all “lonely grave”.
And, of course, there’s no denying that the bushman’s life is rough,
But a man can easy stand it if he’s built of sterling stuff;
Tho’ it’s seldom that the drover gets a bed of eider-down,
Yet the man who’s born a bushman, he gets mighty sick of town,
For he’s jotting down the figures, and he’s adding up the bills
While his heart is simply aching for a sight of Southern hills.

Then he hears a wool-team passing with a rumble and a lurch,
And, although the work is pressing, yet it brings him off his perch.
For it stirs him like a message from his station friends afar
And he seems to sniff the ranges in the scent of wool and tar;
And it takes him back in fancy, half in laughter, half in tears,
To a sound of other voices and a thought of other years,
When the woolshed rang with bustle from the dawning of the day,
And the shear-blades were a-clicking to the cry of “Wool away!”

Then his face was somewhat browner and his frame was firmer set—
And he feels his flabby muscles with a feeling of regret.
But the wool-team slowly passes, and his eyes go sadly back
To the dusty little table and the papers in the rack,
And his thoughts go to the terrace where his sickly children squall,
And he thinks there’s something healthy in the bush-life after all.
But we’ll go no more a-droving in the wind or in the sun,
For our fathers’ hearts have failed us and the droving days are done.

There’s a nasty dash of danger where the long-horned bullock wheels,
And we like to live in comfort and to get our reg’lar meals.
For to hang around the townships suits us better, you’ll agree,
And a job at washing bottles is the job for such as we.
Let us herd into the cities, let us crush and crowd and push
Till we lose the love of roving and we learn to hate the bush;
And we’ll turn our aspirations to a city life and beer,
And we’ll slip across to England—it’s a nicer place than here;

For there’s not much risk of hardship where all comforts are in store,
And the theatres are plenty and the pubs are more and more.
But that ends it, Mr. Lawson, and it’s time to say good-bye,
We must agree to differ in all friendship, you and I;
So we’ll work our own salvation with the stoutest hearts we may,
And if fortune only favours we will take the road some day,
And go droving down the river ’neath the sunshine and the stars,
And then return to Sydney and vermilionize the bars.

('vermilionize' = paint blood red (?), colourful language perhaps?)

 

[INORE]

Benny's in the poo again
He's got himself arrested
But not for indecent exposure
Although he was bare-chested

Give us a sample of your blood young Ben
He heard the coppers say
But Benny flatly refused to comply
His answer was "No Way"

So they searched the car from top to bottom
Until they found the loot
They cuffed our Benny on the spot
And chucked him in the boot

The Eagles have to sack him now
They have no other choice
They have to get together
And speak with one loud voice

The trouble with these heroes is
They get paid too much money
With so much time to spend it
They flush it down the dunny

Juddy's gone to Carlton now
And Wooden has retired
Chicky's not on contract
And Benny "you are fired"

But alls not lost, do not despair
You'll have to face your 'Mockers'
You've done the crime, now do your time
And come and join the Dockers!!


yeah i think benny and the dockers deserve eachother

 

[2020hindsight]

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Earth_clock_hg.png

WILL THE WORLD LAST TWO MORE MILLISECONDS? (i.e. 200 more years)

It was 17 seconds to midnight
that man and his madness evolved
that he watched his first sunset sink westward
as a welcoming wide world revolved;

With a full 12 hour clock as creation
(making 4.5 billion years old)
we’ve had 17 seconds probation
(we’ve watched 1.8 million unfold).

Will we see out another second?
(that’s a THOUSAND centuries to run? -
heck the way we are going you’d reckon
we’d be lucky to see out just ONE.)

Praps mankind will miss the inventory
(if you've something to do, do it quick),
praps we’ll see out about ?? two centuries ??
that’s just two milliseconds to tick.

May all creatures between then and now
dance as two milliseconds elapse -
maybe man's final sunset somehow
will give life to the others - ? perhaps?



https://www.aussiestockforums.com/forums/showthread.php?p=158576&highlight=pleistocene#post158576
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geologic_time_scale

An Earth clock showing relationship of duration of the various era/periods of the earth history to one day. The Quaternary, comprising the last 2 million years, is just 17 seconds on a clock where 24 hours (** see note) are related to the total age of the earth of 4.5 Billion years.

Permission ..(Reusing this image) Own work, share alike, attribution required (Creative Commons CC-BY-SA-2.5)

Note ** Although that website says that it's a 24 hourclock, I think they mean 12 hour .

easy to check
17 seconds = 1.8 million years of man
therefore 4.5 million years is only 12 hours ( not 24)

also (as I say above), 1 second = 1/17 x 1.8 million = 100,000 = one thousand centuries
and one millisecond = 1 century.
two milliseconds = 2 centuries etc

 

[2020hindsight]

FILES ARE PEOPLE

when the docs lady gets a case study
all so neat in it's red-ribboned file
praps she paws through the words all so muddied (?)
praps she'll walk in their shoes a brief mile (?)
when she reaches to grasp that brown folder
she'll imagine she's shaking their hand (?)
sunken cheeked, some in need of a shoulder
do those words cry out.... "life's so unplanned"?.

 

[2020hindsight]

Beautiful regular rhythm in this ballad by Banjo Paterson...
(personally I really like these "galloping rhythmical rhymes" )

HOW GILBERT DIED
Andrew Barton ‘Banjo’ Paterson

THERE’S never a stone at the sleeper’s head,
There’s never a fence beside,
And the wandering stock on the grave may tread
Unnoticed and undenied,
But the smallest child on the Watershed
Can tell you how Gilbert died.

For he rode at dusk, with his comrade Dunn
To the hut at the Stockman’s Ford,
In the waning light of the sinking sun
They peered with a fierce accord.
They were outlaws both””and on each man’s head
Was a thousand pounds reward.

They had taken toll of the country round,
And the troopers came behind
With a black that tracked like a human hound
In the scrub and the ranges blind:
He could run the trail where a white man’s eye
No sign of a track could find.

He had hunted them out of the One Tree Hill
And over the Old Man Plain,
But they wheeled their tracks with a wild beast’s skill,
And they made for the range again.
Then away to the hut where their grandsire dwelt,
They rode with a loosened rein.

And their grandsire gave them a greeting bold:
“Come in and rest in peace,
No safer place does the country hold””
With the night pursuit must cease,
And we’ll drink success to the roving boys,
And to hell with the black police.”

But they went to death when they entered there,
In the hut at the Stockman’s Ford,
For their grandsire’s words were as false as fair””
They were doomed to the hangman’s cord.
He had sold them both to the black police
For the sake of the big reward.

In the depth of night there are forms that glide
As stealthy as serpents creep,
And around the hut where the outlaws hide
They plant in the shadows deep,
And they wait till the first faint flush of dawn
Shall waken their prey from sleep.

But Gilbert wakes while the night is dark””
A restless sleeper, aye,
He has heard the sound of a sheep-dog’s bark,
And his horse’s warning neigh,
And he says to his mate, “There are hawks abroad,
And it’s time that we went away.”

Their rifles stood at the stretcher head,
Their bridles lay to hand,
They wakened the old man out of his bed,
When they heard the sharp command:
“In the name of the Queen lay down your arms,
Now, Dunn and Gilbert, stand!”

Then Gilbert reached for his rifle true
That close at his hand he kept,
He pointed it straight at the voice and drew,
But never a flash outleapt,
For the water ran from the rifle breech””
It was drenched while the outlaws slept.

Then he dropped the piece with a bitter oath,
And he turned to his comrade Dunn:
“We are sold,” he said, “we are dead men both,
But there may be a chance for one;
I’ll stop and I’ll fight with the pistol here,
You take to your heels and run.”

So Dunn crept out on his hands and knees
In the dim, half-dawning light,
And he made his way to a patch of trees,
And vanished among the night,
And the trackers hunted his tracks all day,
But they never could trace his flight.

But Gilbert walked from the open door
In a confident style and rash;
He heard at his side the rifles roar,
And he heard the bullets crash.
But he laughed as he lifted his pistol-hand,
And he fired at the rifle flash.

Then out of the shadows the troopers aimed
At his voice and the pistol sound,
With the rifle flashes the darkness flamed,
He staggered and spun around,
And they riddled his body with rifle balls
As it lay on the blood-soaked ground.

There’s never a stone at the sleeper’s head,
There’s never a fence beside,
And the wandering stock on the grave may tread
Unnoticed and undenied,
But the smallest child on the Watershed
Can tell you how Gilbert died.

 

[2020hindsight]

An Extract from Gordon's "Bush Ballads and Galloping Rhymes"

HOW WE BEAT THE FAVOURITE by Adam Lindsay Gordon (1833 - 1870)
A LAY OF THE LOAMSHIRE HUNT CUP

"Aye, squire," said Stevens, "they back him at evens;
The race is all over, bar shouting, they say;
The Clown ought to beat her; Dick Neville is sweeter
Than ever - he swears he can win all the way.

"A gentleman rider - well, I'm an outsider,
But if he's a gent who the mischief's a jock?
You swells mostly blunder, Dick rides for the plunder,
He rides, too, like thunder - he sits like a rock.

"He calls 'hunted fairly' a horse that has barely
Been stripp'd for a trot within sight of the hounds,
A horse that at Warwick beat Birdlime and Yorick,
And gave Abdelkader at Aintree nine pounds.

"They say they have no test to warrant a protest;
Dick rides for a lord and stands in with a steward;
The light of their faces they show him - his case is
Prejudged and his verdict already secured.

"But none can outlast her, and few travel faster,
She strides in her work clean away from The Drag;
You hold her and sit her, she couldn't be fitter,
Whenever you hit her she'll spring like a stag.

"And p'rhaps the green jacket, at odds though they back it,
May fall, or there's no knowing what may turn up.
The mare is quite ready, sit still and ride steady,
Keep cool; and I think you may just win the Cup."

Dark-brown with tan muzzle, just stripped for the tussle,
Stood Iseault, arching her neck to the curb,
A lean head and fiery, strong quarters and wiry,
A loin rather light, but a shoulder superb.

Some parting injunction, bestowed with great unction,
I tried to recall, but forgot like a dunce,
When Reginald Murray, full tilt on White Surrey,
Came down in a hurry to start us at once.

"Keep back in the yellow! Come up on Othello!
Hold hard on the chestnut! Turn round on The Drag!
Keep back there on Spartan! Back you, sir, in tartan!
So, steady there, easy!" and down went the flag.

We stared, and Kerr made strong running on Mermaid,
Through furrows that led to the first stake-and-bound,
The crack, half extended, look'd bloodlike and splendid,
Held wide on the right where the headland was sound.

I pulled hard to baffle her rush with the snaffle,
Before her two-thirds of the field got away;
All through the wet pasture where floods of the last year
Still loitered, they clotted my crimson with clay.

The fourth fence, a wattle, floor'd Monk and Bluebottle;
The Drag came to grief at the blackthorn and ditch,
The rails toppled over Redoubt and Red Rover,
The lane stopped Lycurgus and Leicestershire Witch.

She passed like an arrow Kildare and **** Sparrow,
And Mantrap and Mermaid refused the stone wall;
And Giles on The Greyling came down at the paling,
And I was left sailing in front of them all.

I took them a burster, nor eased her nor nursed her
Until the Black Bullfinch led into the plough,
And through the strong bramble we bored with a scramble -
My cap was knock'd off by the hazel-tree bough.

Where furrows looked lighter I drew the rein tighter -
Her dark chest all dappled with flakes of white foam,
Her flanks mud-bespattered, a weak rail she shattered -
We landed on turf with our heads turn'd for home.

Then crash'd a low binder, and then close behind her
The sward to the strokes of the favourite shook;
His rush roused her mettle, yet ever so little
She shorten'd her stride as we raced at the brook.

She rose when I hit her. I saw the stream glitter,
A wide scarlet nostril flashed close to my knee,
Bewteen sky and water The Clown came and caught her,
The space that he cleared was a caution to see.

And forcing the running, discarding all cunning,
A length to the front went the rider in green;
A long strip of stubble, and then the big double,
Two stiff flights of rails with a quickset between.

She raced at the rasper, I felt my knees grasp her,
I found my hands give to her strain on the bit;
She rose when The Clown did - our silks as we bounded
Brush'd lightly, our stirrups clash'd loud as we lit.

A rise steeply sloping, a fence with stone coping -
The last - we diverged round the base of the hill;
His path was the nearer, his leap was the clearer,
I flogg'd up the straight and he led sitting still.

She came to his quarter, and on still I brought her,
And up to his girth, to his breastplate she drew,
A short prayer from Neville just reach'd me, "The Devil!"
He muttered - lock'd level the hurdles we flew.

A hum of hoarse cheering, a dense crowd careering,
All sights seen obscurely, all shouts vaguely heard;
"The green wins!" "The crimson!" The multitude swims on,
And figures are blended and features are blurr'd.

"The horse is her master!" "The green forges past her!"
"The Clown will outlast her!" "The Clown wins!" "The Clown!"
The white railing races with all the white faces,
The chestnut outpaces, outstretches the brown.

On still past the gateway she strains in the straightway,
Still struggles, "The Clown by a short neck at most,"
He swerves, the green scourges, the stand rocks and surges,
And flashes, and verges, and flits the white post.

Aye! so ends the tussle - I knew the tan muzzle
Was first, though the ring-men were yelling "Dead heat!"
A nose I could swear by, but Clarke said, "The mare by
A short head." And that's how the favourite was beat.

 

[2020hindsight]

and again .. (ALG)
too long to post the entire poem ( which can be found here) ..
http://whitewolf.newcastle.edu.au/w...dsay/verse/SeaSpraySmokeDrift/kettledrum.html

The Roll of the Kettledrum;
or, THE LAY OF THE LAST CHARGER
Adam Lindsay Gordon

ONE line of swart profiles and bearded lips dressing,
One ridge of bright helmets, one crest of fair plumes,
One streak of blue sword-blades all bared for the fleshing,
One row of red nostrils that scent battle-fumes.

Forward! the trumpets were sounding the charge,
The roll of the kettledrum rapidly ran,
That music, like wild-fire spreading at large,
Madden’d the war-horse as well as the man.

Forward! still forward! we thunder’d along,
Steadily yet, for our strength we were nursing;
Tall Ewart, our sergeant, was humming a song,
Lance-corporal Black Will was blaspheming and cursing.

Open’d their volley of guns on our right,
Puffs of grey smoke, veiling gleams of red flame,
Curling to leeward, were seen on the height,
Where the batteries were posted, as onward we came.

Spreading before us their cavalry lay,
Squadron on squadron, troop upon troop;
We were so few, and so many were they””
Eagles wait calmly the sparrow-hawk’s stoop.

Forward! still forward! steed answering steed
Cheerily neigh’d, while the foam flakes were toss’d
From bridle to bridle””the top of our speed
Was gain’d, but the pride of our order was lost.

One was there leading by nearly a rood,
Though we were racing he kept to the fore,
Still as a rock in his stirrups he stood,
High in the sunlight his sabre he bore.

Suddenly tottering, backwards he crash’d,
Loudly his helm right in front of us rung;
Iron hoofs thunder’d, and naked steel flash’d
Over him””youngest, where many were young.

Now we were close to them, every horse striding
Madly;””St. Luce pass’d with never a groan;””
Sadly my master look’d round””he was riding
On the boy’s right, with a line of his own.

Thrusting his hand in his breast or breast-pocket,
While from his wrist the sword swung by a chain,
Swiftly he drew out some trinket or locket,
Kiss’d it (I think) and replaced it again.

Burst, while his fingers reclosed on the haft,
Jarring concussion and earth shaking din,
Horse ’counter’d horse, and I reel’d, but he laugh’d,
Down went his man, cloven clean to the chin!

Wedged in the midst of that struggling mass,
After the first shock, where each his foe singled,
Little was seen, save a dazzle, like glass
In the sun, with grey smoke and black dust intermingled.

Here and there redden’d a pistol shot, flashing
Through the red sparkle of steel upon steel!
Redder the spark seem’d, and louder the clashing,
Struck from the helm by the iron-shod heel!

Over fallen riders, like wither’d leaves strewing
Uplands in autumn, we sunder’d their ranks;
Steeds rearing and plunging, men hacking and hewing,
Fierce grinding of sword-blades, sharp goading of flanks.

Short was the crisis of conflict soon over,
Being too good (I suppose) to last long;
Through them we cut, as the scythe cuts the clover,
Batter’d and stain’d we emerg’d from their throng.

Some of our saddles were emptied, of course;
To heaven (or elsewhere) Black Will had been carried!
Ned Sullivan mounted Will’s riderless horse,
His mare being hurt, while ten seconds we tarried.

And then we re-formed, and went at them once more,
And ere they had rightly closed up the old track,
We broke through the lane we had open’d before,
And as we went forward e’en so we came back.

Our numbers were few, and our loss far from small,
They could fight, and, besides, they were twenty to one;
We were clear of them all when we heard the recall,
And thus we returned, but my tale is not done.

For the hand of my rider felt strange on my bit,
He breathed once or twice like one partially choked,
And sway’d in his seat, then I knew he was hit;””
He must have bled fast, for my withers were soak’d,

And scarcely an inch of my housing was dry;
I slacken’d my speed, yet I never quite stopp’d,
Ere he patted my neck, said, “Old fellow, good-bye!”
And dropp’d off me gently, and lay where he dropp’d!

Ah, me! after all, they may call us dumb creatures””
I tried hard to neigh, but the sobs took my breath,
Yet I guess’d gazing down at those still, quiet features,
He was never more happy in life than in death.

. . . . .

. . . . .
Our gallant old colonel came limping and halting,
The day before yesterday, into my stall;
Oh! light to the saddle I’ve once seen him vaulting,
In full marching order, steel broadsword and all.

And now his left leg than his right is made shorter
Three inches, he stoops, and his chest is unsound;
He spoke to me gently, and patted my quarter,
I laid my ears back, and look’d playfully round.

For that word kindly meant, that caress kindly given,
I thank’d him, though dumb, but my cheerfulness fled;
More sadness I drew from the face of the living
Than years back I did from the face of the dead.

For the dead face, upturn’d, tranquil, joyous, and fearless,
Look’d straight from green sod to blue fathomless sky
With a smile; but the living face, gloomy and tearless,
And haggard and harass’d, look’d down with a sigh.

. . . . .
Scoff, man! egotistical, proud, unobservant,
Since I with man’s grief dare to sympathise thus;
Why scoff?””fellow-creature I am, fellow-servant
Of God, can man fathom God’s dealings with us?

The wide gulf that parts us may yet be no wider
Than that which parts you from some being more blest;
And there may be more links ’twixt the horse and his rider
Than ever your shallow philosophy guess’d.

You are proud of your power, and vain of your courage,
And your blood, Anglo-Saxon, or Norman, or Celt;
Though your gifts you extol, and our gifts you disparage,
Your perils, your pleasures, your sorrows we’ve felt.

We, too, sprung from mares of the prophet of Mecca,
And nursed on the pride that was born with the milk,
And filtered through “Crucifix”, “Beeswing”, “Rebecca”,
We love sheen of scarlet and shimmer of silk.

We, too, sprung from loins of the Ishmaelite stallions,
We glory in daring that dies or prevails;
From ’counter of squadrons, and crash of battalions,
To rending of blackthorns, and rattle of rails.

In all strife where courage is tested, and power,
From the meet on the hill-side, the horn-blast, the find,
The burst, the long gallop that seems to devour
The champaign, all obstacles flinging behind,

To the cheer and the clarion, the war-music blended
With war-cry, the furious dash at the foe,
The terrible shock, the recoil, and the splendid
Bare sword, flashing blue, rising red from the blow.

I’ve borne ONE through perils where many have seen us,
No tyrant, a kind friend, a patient instructor,
And I’ve felt some strange element flashing between us,
Till the saddle seem’d turn’d to a lightning conductor.

Did he see? could he feel through the faintness, the numbness,
While linger’d the spirit half-loosed from the clay,
Dumb eyes seeking his in their piteous dumbness,
Dumb quivering nostrils, too stricken to neigh?

And what then? the colours reversed, the drums muffled,
The black nodding plumes, the dead march and the pall,
The stern faces, soldier-like, silent, unruffled,
The slow sacred music that floats over all!

Cross carbine and boar-spear, hang bugle and banner,
Spur, sabre, and snaffle, and helm””Is it well?
Vain ’scutcheon, false trophies of Mars and Diana,””
Can the dead laurel sprout with the live immortelle?

It may be,””we follow, and though we inherit
Our strength for a season, our pride for a span,
Say! vanity are they? vexation of spirit?
Not so, since they serve for a time horse and man.

They serve for a time, and they make life worth living,
In spite of life’s troubles””’tis vain to despond;
Oh, man! WE at least, WE enjoy, with thanksgiving,
God’s gifts on this earth, though we look not beyond.

You sin, and you suffer, and we, too, find sorrow,
Perchance through your sin””yet it soon will be o’er;
We labour to-day, and we sumber to-morrow,
Strong horse and bold rider!””and who knoweth more?

. . . . .
In our barrack-square shouted Drill-sergeant M’Cluskie,
The roll of the kettledrum rapidly ran,
The colonel wheel’d short, speaking once, dry and husky,
“Would to God I had died with your master, old man!”

 

[2020hindsight]

WHAT DO TRADING AND ELECTIONS HAVE IN COMMON

My mate is into "control freak"
he’s taken to trading in shares
he bought oh so bold – ( and then sold meek )
seems he can’t control bovines and bears (?)
it’s not that he’s stricken with cold feet
it’s just that he treads with more care
once you’ve bought you’re up “out-of-control” creek
and no paddle except “double dare”.

many pollies can kerb their control streaks
to advance baby kissing careers
they have alternate out-of-control weeks
needing breath fresh! or breath of fresh air!?
one day they’re like god - then the polls reek
of Fed onions (unions?) (up with which we’re all fed)
but for mine it’s called national soul week
for my kids’ greener pastures ahead.

sure a few kids are "lazy lousy dole cheats"
but then a streetkid’s sole friend is a louse
once you’ve voted, swap “**** creek” for “shot crete”
and no paddle except Upper House.-
what they need is a house of rebuke
to get back to a moral core
what we needed? a reconciled spook
what we got? some Iraqi war.

first we decimate Aus R&D (editor’s note : scientists overseeing our Research & Devt)
and ignore Kyoto with others (editor’s note : USA)
now our scientists “oversee” overseas
they’re the ones that can call the world “brothers”
yes we chased out our bright sparks and finest
now in fact we are miners ! – no more !
what will happen when we no more are miners ?
guess there’s always the US and some war.

what we need are a few more lone voices
to remind what democracy’s for
so the tones that are Barnaby Joyce’s
aren’t so lonely when crossing the floor.
what they need is to feel voters’ push
thick or thin, green or brown, man or mouse
- (man or mouse when it comes to George Bush)
Green and Brown when you talk upper house.


........
Footnote on the way Politicians answer the question "Why did we go to Iraq?"

when the willing coaltion are questioned
why they went into blood-soaked iraq
they will mumble some futile regression
they will answer miles wide of the mark
they will try to escape to the future
and ignore what they did in the past
cos to talk of past sins doesn’t suit ya
when you’re nailed to a fast-sinking mast.

If the GM of BHP mining
went and set up on Fiji for oil -
spose there’s none – would he then be resigning ?
or say “trust me, and stick to your toil!!” ?
....
If John’s asked "was intelligence twisted
and were countless prime speeches all spin ?"
Can he answer “we were just ham fisted" (?)
- "we invented a war there to win".(?)

 

[2020hindsight]

RUMSFELD'S LAMENT

there are things that we know we don’t know
(there’s “Iraq” where “good oil’s” all he lacked)
there are things we don’t know we don’t know
.....
(I wonder if he knew he’d be sacked. )

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Donald_Rumsfeld
[edit] Calls for resignation
Eight retired generals and admirals called for Rumsfeld to resign in early 2006 in what was called the "Generals Revolt", mostly questioning his military planning and strategic competence.[40][41][42] Rumsfeld rebuffed these criticisms, stating that "out of thousands and thousands of admirals and generals, if every time two or three people disagreed we changed the secretary of defense of the United States, it would be like a merry-go-round."[43] Conservative commentator Pat Buchanan reports that "Washington Post columnist David Ignatius, who travels often to Iraq and supports the war, says that the generals mirror the views of 75 percent of the officers in the field, and probably more."[44] President Bush responded to the criticism by stating that Rumsfeld is "exactly what is needed,"[45] and also defended him in his controversial decider remark.


[edit] Resignation

Rumsfeld shakes the President's hand as he announces his resignation, November 8, 2006.On November 1, 2006, President Bush stated he would stand by Rumsfeld as defense secretary for the length of his term as president.[46] Rumsfeld wrote a resignation letter dated November 6th, and, per the stamp on the letter, Bush saw it on Election Day, November 7th.[47] In the elections, the House and the Senate shifted to Democratic control. After the elections, on November 8, Bush announced Rumsfeld would resign his position as Secretary of Defense. Many Republicans were unhappy with the delay, believing they would have won more votes if voters had known Rumsfeld was resigning.[47]

Investigative journalist Robert Perry reported that Bush had asked Rumsfeld to resign because he disagreed with Bush's "surge" plan to escalate the war in Iraq, and had suggested in his November 6, 2006 memorandum to the president considering “an accelerated drawdown of U.S. bases" and withdrawal of U.S. troops from their vulnerable locations[48]

 

[2020hindsight]

........
Footnote on the way Politicians answer the question "Why did we go to Iraq?"

when the willing coaltion are questioned
why they went into blood-soaked iraq
they will mumble some futile regression
they will answer miles wide of the mark
they will try to escape to the future
and ignore what they did in the past
cos to talk of past sins doesn’t suit ya
when you’re nailed to a fast-sinking mast.

If the GM of BHP mining
went and set up on Fiji for oil -
spose there’s none – would he then be resigning ?
or say “trust me, and stick to your toil!!” ?
....
If John’s asked "was intelligence twisted
and were countless prime speeches all spin ?"
Can he answer “we were just ham fisted" (?)
- "we invented a war there to win".(?)

it's an interesting thing when you ask of Iraq
why they always look forward and never look back
would the manager stand up? the one in the know?
may I ask you again sir, why is it so?

 

[2020hindsight]

https://www.aussiestockforums.com/forums/showthread.php?p=160645&highlight=quarter#post160645

nothing to do with the quarter moon - in fact it was pretty full last weekend.

Just that I bought this new digital camera - and I'm practicing to do my own version of the "Hubbel photo"

...... Praps a softly whispered hello to this space companion mellow
compliment her gold and yellow (where Egyptians used to pray)
Rolling silently with Earth, dragging tides around its girth
Giving night skies their rebirth and deserved sleep by day.

....
As it hung there after dusk, as the farmer swept his husk
there's an old man stopped his busking and he chewed his daily bread
and he sang an evening tune to that glowing golden spoon
"HERE's TO YOU" he calls "THE MOON, and to time and tide" he said.

And long after we are gone, men will still find poem and song
to the magic of a moonbeam from its rheostatic height
Just one night of many millions for Earth's piggy-backing pillions
...I'll be dead for maybe zillions, ...
I'll enjoy the moon tonight.

 

[2020hindsight]

now for the poem to go with it ...
there was a sad one back there about bushfire season ..
https://www.aussiestockforums.com/forums/showthread.php?p=100976&highlight=flailing#post100976

Koalas chewing tips of gums, swing heads to face the threat of fire, !
the booming of the angry drums, that turn a brave man to a liar, !
“Be still my soul, Godzilla comes! I wonder should I climb on higher ?
I wonder with this death that numbs, will I make handsome funeral pyre ?”
and in the end like blackened crumbs, a martyred bear, all black and dire.
and wedged there between boughs and bums, small arms still flailing at the fire,
I wonder did he feel the pain, as hair was burnt and flames got nigher?
a grizzley sight, his blackened thumbs ,- and yet I hear some heaven’s choir.

 

[2020hindsight]

A POSTSCRIPT TO ALVIN TOFFLER's "FUTURE SHOCK"
or
SHOULD I WORRY ABOUT HOW WE ARE GONNA CUT OUR FINGERNAILS IN THE FUTURE?
(when we've run out of fingernail cutters - having just noticed 4 pairs here, one pair of which works )

A wasteful lot us baby boomers, (X & Y are worse)
take cutting nails, with clippers steel ! (the planet's in reverse !)
why not just ONE such set of clippers? - in some drawer that's near?
we waste today - tomorrow ? - gee I bite my nails in fear.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alvin_Toffler

 

[2020hindsight]

Extract from "The Adventure of English" - The Biography of a Language - by Melvyn Bragg
..

Queen Elizabeth I has a fair claim to be the best educated monarch ever to sit on the throne of England. Apart from her mastery of rhetoric, she spoke six languages and translated French and Latin texts. Furthermore she enjoyed writing poetry...

"I grieve and dare not show my Discontent;
I love and yet am forc'd to seem I hate;
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant;
I seem stark mute but Inwardly do prate. "

England was seeking a literature to reflect its newly enriched status and it was to the courtiers, the knights of Elizabeth's entourage, that the role fell to turn the English language into literature.

 

[2020hindsight]

Is Heaven Monogamous?

Mrs Walsh was widowed
not once, two times, but thrice
and each of them thrice widowered
(and chasing marital "spice")
but personally I ponder
how they're gonna sort things out
when they go to Heaven yonder -
and they all share just one cloud

 

[2020hindsight]

The Man From Snowy River - Banjo's Poem

Banjo Paterson wrote the poem 'The Man From Snowy River'. Its as Australian as you can get. He tells the story of the tough horsemen of Snowy Mountains. Footage is from the movie 'Man From Snowy River' presented by Michael Edgley International & Cambridge Films - perhaps the greatest movie ever made in Australia by Australians. It stars Tom Burlinson, Jack Thompson, Sigrid Thornton and Kirk Douglas (for US distribution purposes & the money men), he did a pretty good job all in all

Man From Snowy River - The Descent

My Kid Loves Man from Snowy River

Sydney 2000 Opening Ceremony - Welcome

The Opening Ceremony began with a tribute to the heritage of the Australian Stock Horse, with the arrival of a lone rider, Steve Jefferys, whose Australian Stock Horse, Ammo, reared. Steve Jefferys then cracked his stockwhip and a further 120 riders and their Stock Horses entered the Stadium and performed intricate steps, including forming the five Olympic Rings, to the music of Bruce Rowland who composed a special Olympics version of the main theme which he had composed for the 1982 film The Man from Snowy River. A giant banner, painted by Sydney artist Ken Done, said "G'Day" to the world.