Who'll Come A-Waltzing Matilda With Me?

I liked the jolly swagman

camped by his billabong

but Gough, who was PM then,

insisted on Advance Australia Fair

even though we all said, 'Wot's this "girt 

by sea" bit – who the heck's Gert?'

Still, anything was better than,

'God - save - our - GRAY - shushQueen'

not that I wished her any harm, mind,

but it was boring slow, a dirge.

So now we sing that our hearts 

are young and free, our beauty

rich and rare – in this ancient continent

usurped from its first people.

We might do better 

to remember the starving swaggie

tramping the outback roads

looking for work or just a feed.

England colonised this country

with starving men and women

and with political rebels, 

all brought here on prison ships.

Now we turn away boat-loads

of hungry families and 

political refugees. 

Or imprison them worse 

than in those convict ships or even

the stone-walled hells like Port Arthur. 

Yet our anthem says

 – get this –

'For those who've come across the seas

we've boundless plains to share.'

So – 'Down came a jumbuck

to drink by the billabong.'

(Down came a sheep

to drink from the waterhole.

Those other words we took

from the first people

while we also took their land

and their children.)

It was the Depression. Many

tramped the endless tracks.

'Up jumped the swagman

and grabbed it with glee.'

'He sang as he stowed

that jumbuck in his tuckerbag.' 

And then came the rich landowner,

and then came the cops. It was

a serious crime. And the system 

then as now was skewed against the poor.

'Australians all, let us rejoice.'

'We've golden soil and wealth for toil.'

' "You'll never take me alive!" said he.'

What became of our nation of rebels?

'... his ghost may be heard ...'

Advance, Australia Fair.


Written for dVerse: National Anthem Poetry 

Advance Australia Fair original lyrics.
(To be truthful, they no longer include sharing our plains.)

Lyrics of Waltzing Matilda

Some people, including me, would have preferred Waltzing Matilda as our national anthem, but now I like the idea that it remains what it always was: our outlaw anthem.

Loss

A woman – me –

sits alone

in a small garden

surrounded by 

trees and sky

no cat beside her

no man alive

inside house,

garden, anywhere.

In 'Play It Again' at 'imaginary garden with real toads' we are asked to revisit an earlier challenge: either lists, imagism, or encapsulating our own recurrent 'power image' in 25 words. I have tried to do all three at once. 

Demurrals: 

The three lists are very small: trees and sky; no cat ... no man; house, garden, anywhere. 

The bereavement theme is recurrent, sometimes people find it powerful, and it often includes being in that garden -- but I would hope to move away from it eventually. 

I'm not sure this is sufficiently descriptive to be Imagist. 

And just for the heck of it, I gave myself a syllabic pattern to adhere to, too.

Eating Wild Violets for Breakfast

After the feast of Brigid

these were left,

some in the glass flower vase

we set on the altar before her,

the rest in a box in the fridge

on a sheet of wet white tissue paper.

‘You can eat them!’ said one

who had gathered them for us,

her smile lighting her face.

 

It is three days later,

but they kept.

I pick up a few, singly,

and place them in turn on my tongue.

Surprisingly, they don’t melt.

I must chew the tiny petals.

Then I scatter them all

on my morning cereal, and eat.

My senses open to Faerie.

I am at once ethereal

and rooted in earth;

more decadent

than Marie Antionette,

yet innocent as a wisp of air

breathed from a baby’s lips.

I thank the Goddess for sharing,

and open my mouth

to speak beauty.

Linked to Poets United's Midweek Motif: Beauty

This poem also appears in Sherry's Poets United feature: A Chat With Rosemary Nissen-Wade ~ On Poetry and Witchcraft.

The Night Before

My boy, you have become so small,

curled here, asleep against my leg.

My ancient boy, over 90 in human years,

your time has come. Tomorrow,

to save you pain and long decline,

I will take you to the vet, and she

will inject you with your final sleep,

your death. She has worked so hard,

this vet, to get you to like her. Last time

we went in, she could stroke you;

you even purred (you who were once

all claw and fang and fierce hissing

for any vet). Nice timing – now 

you need not fight your death, but meet it

peacefully. My hands, too, will be on you

so that you feel my love to the end –

my hands, that even now caress

your sleek black fur. You wake 

and give a happy little murmur

at my touch, then shift position. Hard 

to find comfort, these last weeks.

But now you sleep, almost as deeply

as you will tomorrow night and afterwards

forever, all your nine lives used.

I'm glad you won't be dragging your bones

off to some secret resting place I'd never find, 

like other cats I've loved. I'm glad

of all the years you've spent with me.

One day is left to us, and then –

go sweetly, dear old friend! 

6 August 2015

Shared at dVerse Open Link Night #153

Saying the Names

(with apologies to Al Purdy)

Launceston, Tasmania –

they always get it wrong.

Lawn-CESS-ton, strangers will pronounce

instead of LON-suh-ston.

Tasmania's harder to mis-speak,

but those who grew up there

mis-speak it fondly, purposely.

We say Taswegia.

And Launceston we say as Lonnie.

It's meant affectionate.

But visitors should not presume –

that's much too intimate.

I grew up there but now I'm here,

and sure I'm here to stay

in Northern Rivers, New South Wales,

with other names to say.

You must not call it Ty-al-gum

although it's spelt like that.

It's TAL-gum to the locals,

if you want to know what's what.

And when you see the word Mooball

you say the moo like moe –

and not moe-BALL but MOE-b'l, see –

despite the cows on show.

Tum-BUL-gum isn’t TUMble-gum,

although that makes you smile.

To speak of Pottsville Beach as Pottie

borders on the vile.

Yes, Limpinwood you say like that,

but don't know what you speak.

It's named for the exact same man

as Hopping Dick's Creek.

His name was Richard Wood, who had

a gammy leg, I'm told.

But that was long before my time;

the story has grown old.

I've grown a little old myself;

the hour is getting late.

The names of places lived and loved

are sweet to contemplate.

Murwillumbah, Wollumbin, Tweed.

Tamar, Roland, the Bluff.

To live with oceans, mountains, streams 

has always been enough.

To know the way to say the names

and never get them wrong

is how you tell yourself you're home:

the place where you belong.

For Midweek Motif at Poets United, where we are invited to be inspired by Al Purdy's 'Say the Names'.

Riverwalking Moon Poets Escape the City

I thought I'd try a spine poem. It took a lot of spines! And I added some words and phrases of my own to connect them (as well as playing with what I found). These are a few of the books in my bedroom, some partly read – who reads only one book at a time? – others waiting.

Steering the Craft / Riverwalking / Moon Poets / The City of Words / God is no Laughing Matter / Finding Water / A Fig at the Gate

The Habit of Art / Novels of Yen-Ching / Ordinary Genius / Rent or buy me / Bringers of the Light / Modern Magic / The Celtic Shaman's Pack / Tarot for Grownups

Hiroshima / Birds of Passage / You've Had Your Time / Subhuman Redneck Poems / Affluenza / Fred Hollows: the updated autobiography / Myths and Legends / Yours etc / Cry Ma Ma to the Moon / The Way Forward is with a Broken Heart / Duty / The Plays of Oscar Wilde / Marlowe The Plays

Riverwalking Moon Poets Escape the City

Moon poets

finding water,

steering their craft

through the sleeping

city of words,

don't give a fig 

at the gate of escape 

that God

is no laughing matter.

They are intent

on riverwalking.

Riverwalking poets

dressed in the habit of art

are Celtic shamans,

in a pack like wolves.

You can't rent or buy

these bringers of the light.

Ordinary genius

and modern magic

don't cut it. This is

Tarot for grown-ups, as told

in the novels of Yen-Ching.

How novel, this yen they have!

They are birds of passage,

these poets. They tell duty:

'We are not yours, etc.

You have had your time,

you subhuman redneck.

You are as annihilated

as Hiroshima.'

They play, wild

in the hollows.

And again play.

And in the city a gain

reeks of affluenza,

that illness of greed.

Myths and legends,

updated, masquerade

as autobiography.

The poets know

the way forward

is with a broken heart.

'Ma!' low they cry,

'Ma, Ma!' to the moon.

Gogyoshi for Frankie and Tony

I’m cooking risoni.

My dear friends fly to Perth

today, leaving me

with a pantry full of food

they can’t take … leaving me.

Gogyoshi: a 5-line Japanese form invented by Taro Aizu. Further details here. Differentiation of gogyoshi and other 5-line forms here.

Linked to Poets United's Poetry Pantry #271

Early Spring

Lorikeets swoop in and out of my bottlebrush.

I went for my first walk of Spring today,

though Winter isn’t officially gone.

Ah, but it feels over!

A pink camellia blooms on my neighbour’s bush.

Bougainvillea starts across the way.

The nature strips up the hill and my lawn
are dotted with balls of clover.

A 55-word poem for flash 55 at 'imaginary garden with real toads'. 

Warm Whispers: Erotic haiku, July 2015

long fingers

play me skilfully

I twang

7/7/15

my breast aches

for the firm warm touch

of your palm

25/7/15

your breath

caresses my ear

warm whispers

27/7/215

Linking to the Tuesday Platform for 22 Sept. 2015, at 'imaginary garden with real toads'.