Australian Poetry – Australian Identity
We value the masterpieces of the past, but we also need the news of today. Good poets usually write about their own times; their inspiration comes from here and now. But `here' and 'now' have a way of turning into `over there' and 'back then'. The things that are 'common knowledge' change so fast. Write a satire on today's Prime Minister, and in five years' time it will need footnotes! Poets have been writing poetry for so many centuries that most of the world's great poetry is about things that happened long ago. This is a pity, because, as we all know, nothing spoils a poem, or a joke, like having to explain the point.
That problem is at its worst when you study poetry in school, because when you're in senior high school you probably don't, for instance, remember many world events that are more than ten years old. And you probably haven't visited many of the foreign countries that are mentioned in poems.
To make things worse, Australian students have often been made to concentrate on British rather than Australian poetry. Some people have said that this was because Australian poetry wasn't good enough; but the real reason may have been a 'colonial cringe'-the feeling that everything was better in Britain, the motherland, than in a primitive place like Australia.
Two hundred years is time enough for a lot of things to change... But in Australia even the things that have gone are still part of our recent past. 'The past is another country'-it has also made us what we are.
from Two Centuries of Australian Poetry
In the collection of poems that follow you will hear many different Australian voices. These are voices that share experiences that have often influenced ideas about what it means to be Australian. You will also notice that many of the voices are competing, representing very different views. As a young 21st century reader you will be able to lend your own unique perspective to the texts you encounter. You will find many different facets of life represented and hopefully you will be inspired to find your own poems that represent your view of what it means to be Australian today.
COLONIAL BUSH BALLADS
Wild Colonial Boy
There was a wild colonial boy, Jack Doolan was his name,
Of poor but honest parents he was born in Castlemaine.
He was his father's only hope, his mother's only joy,
And dearly did his parents love the wild Colonial boy.
Chorus: Come, all my hearties, we'll roam the mountains high,
Together we will plunder, together we will die.
We'll wander over valleys, and gallop over plains,
And we'll scorn to live in slavery, bound down with iron chains.
He was scarcely sixteen years of age when he left his father's home,
And through Australia's sunny clime a bushranger did roam.
He robbed those wealthy squatters, their stock he did destroy,
And a terror to Australia was the wild Colonial boy.
In sixty-one this daring youth commenced his wild career,
With a heart that knew no danger, no foeman did he fear.
He stuck up the Beechworth mail coach, and robbed Judge MacEvoy,
Who trembled and gave up his gold to the wild Colonial boy.
He bade the judge 'Good morning', and told him to beware,
That he'd never rob a hearty chap that acted on the square,
And never to rob a mother of her son and only joy,
Or else you may turn outlaw, like the wild Colonial boy.
One day as he was riding the mountain-side along,
A-listening to the little birds, their pleasant laughing song,
Three mounted troopers rode along - Kelly, Davis, and FitzRoy -
They thought that they would capture him, the wild Colonial boy.
'Surrender now, Jack Doolan, you see there's three to one.
Surrender now, Jack Doolan, you daring highwayman.'
He drew a pistol from his belt, and shook the little toy.
'I'll fight, but not surrender,' said the wild Colonial boy.
He fired at Trooper Kelly and brought him to the ground,
And in return from Davis received a mortal wound.
All shattered through the jaws he lay still firing at FitzRoy,
And that's the way they captured him - the wild Colonial boy.
Waltzing Matilda by A B Paterson
Oh! there once was a swagman camped in the billabong,
Under the shade of a coolibah-tree;
and he sang as he looked at his old billy boiling,
'Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?'
Chorus: Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling,
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag -
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
Down came a jumbuck to drink at the water-hole,
Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him in glee;
And he sang as he stowed him away in his tucker-bag,
'You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me!'
Down came the squatter a-riding his thoroughbred;
Down came policemen - one, two and three.
'Whose is the jumbuck you've got in the tuckerbag?
You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me'
But the swagman he up and jumped in the water-hole,
Drowning himself by the coolibah-tree;
And his ghost may be heard as it sings in the billabong,
'Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?'
The Dying Stockman – Anonymous
A strapping young stockman lay dying,
His saddle supporting his head;
His two mates around him were crying,
As he rose on his elbow and said:
Chorus: 'Wrap me up with my stockwhip and blanket,
And bury me deep down below,
Where the dingoes and crows can't molest me,
In the shade where the coolibahs grow.
'Oh! had I the flight of the bronzewing,
Far o'er the plains would I fly,
Straight to the land of my childhood,
And there I would lay down and die.
'Then cut down a couple of saplings,
Place one at my head and my toe,
Carve on them cross, stockwhip, and saddle,
To show there's a stockman below.
'Hark! there's the wail of a dingo,
Watchful and weird - I must go,
For it tolls the death-knell of the stockman
From the gloom of the scrub down below.
'There's tea in the battered old billy;
Place the pannikins out in a row,
And we'll drink to the next merry meeting,
In the place where all good fellows go.
'And oft in the shades of the twilight,
When the soft winds are whispering low,
And the darkening shadows are falling,
Sometimes think of the stockman below.'
CONVICT AUSTRALIA
The Old Prison by Judith Wright
The rows of cells are unroofed,
a flute for the wind's mouth,
who comes with a breath of ice
from the blue caves of the south.
0 dark and fierce day:
the wind like an angry bee
hunts for the black honey
in the pits of the hollow sea.
Waves of shadow wash
the empty shell bone-bare,
and like a bone it sings
a bitter song of air.
Who built and laboured here?
The wind and the sea say
-Their cold nest is broken
and they are blown away-
They did not breed nor love.
Each in his cell alone
cried as the wind now cries
through this flute of stone
THE SILENCED
The Shearer’s Wife by Louis Esson
Before the glare o’ dawn I riseTo milk the sleepy cows, an’ shake
The droving dust from tired eyes,
Look round the rabbit traps, then bake
The children’s bread.
There’s hay to stook, an’ beans to hoe,
An’ ferns to cut in the scrub below,
Women must work, when men must go
Shearing from shed to shed.
I patch an’ darn, now evening comes,
An’ tired I am with labour sore,
Tired o’ the bush, the cows, the gums,
Tired, but we must dree for long months more
What no tongue tells.
The moon is lonely in the sky,
Lonely the bush, an’ lonely I
Stare down the track no horse draws nigh,
An’ start . . . at the cattle bells.
ABORIGINAL POETRY
We Are Going by Oodgeroo of the tribe Noonuccal, custodian of the land Minjerribah(formerly Kath Walker)
For Grannie Coolwell
They came in to the little town
A semi-naked band subdued and silent,
All that remained of their tribe.
They came here to the place of their old bora ground
Where now the many white men hurry about like ants.
Notice of estate agent reads: `Rubbish May Be Tipped Here'.
Now it half covers the traces of the old bora ring.
They sit and are confused, they cannot say their thoughts:
`We are as strangers here now, but the white tribe are the strangers.
We belong here, we are of the old ways.
We are the corroboree and the bora ground,
We are the old sacred ceremonies, the laws of the elders.
We are the wonder tales of Dream Time, the tribal legends told.
We are the past, the hunts and the laughing games, the wandering
camp fires.
We are the ' lightning bolt over Gaphembah Hill
Quick and terrible,
And the Thunder after him, that loud fellow.
We are the quiet daybreak paling the dark lagoon.
We are the shadow ghosts creeping back as the camp fires burn low.
We are nature and the past, all the old ways
Gone now and scattered.
The scrubs are gone, the hunting and the laughter.
The eagle is gone, the emu and the kangaroo are gone from this
place.
The bora ring is gone.
The corroboree is gone.
And we are going.'
Consultation by Kevin Gilbert
Me, mate?
You'll get no views from me!
Where did I ever go?
Who did I ever meet?
What did I ever see?
Nothin' just the old river, the gumtree
The mission. Me seven kids, four grandkids
Blacks gamblin' drunk, fightin', laughin', cryin'.
Mostly gamblin'. Playin' `pups' wild deuces game
Doin’ it, risking their twenty cents to try to win thirty
Price of bread, you know. You know, life ain’t too bad here
No runnin' water, no fireplaces, huh, no houses even
Just the kerosene tin and hessian bag humpies.
They say there's `welfare ' for blacks these days
But the mission looks the same to me. Seven I got
An' another one in the barrel put there by the `manager'
'Cause his wife cut him short or somethin'
Nothin' changes. I don't ever see nothin' much
An' no-one asked me my view before.
Okay, Let's be Honest by Robert Walker
Okay, let's be honest:
I ain 't no saint,
but then again,
I wasn 't born in heaven,
Okay, Okay!
So let's be honest:
I've been in and out,
since the age of eleven.
And I've been mean,
hateful
and downright dangerous.
I've lain in my own blood
in hotels
boys' homes,
and cop shops.
I've cursed my skin:
not black, not white.
just another non-identity,
fighting to be Mr Tops.
Yeah, so I'm called a bastard,
an animal, a trouble maker;
while my accusers watch my brothers smashed,
thrown into dog boxes drunk, crying for the dreamtime
My memory is still wet with my mother's tears,
flowing by my father's grave.
Just another black family
alone and lost in the race for a dime.
As early as I can remember,
I was made aware of my differences,
and slowly my pains educated me
either fight or lose.
`One sided', I hear you say.
Then come erase the scars from my brain,
and show me the other side of your face:
the one with the smile painted on with the colours
of our sacred land you abuse.
.`One sided?' Yeah mate!
Cop it sweet 'n all.
`After all, you stepped out of line
and got caught.
So take it easy,' you say,
`You're not like the rest.
You have got brains and a bright future,
there's no battle to be fought.'
But that don't tell me what I want to know.
So tell me: why do we have to stand in line?
Why do we have to live your way, in subtle slavery
to earn the things that once were free?
Why do I have to close my eyes,
and make believe I cannot see
just what you are doing:
to my people-OUR PEOPLE-and me?
Well, bloody hell, Mate!
It ain 't one sided at all!
Come read the loneliness and confusion
On the walls of this cell of seven by eleven.
Yeah, okay, I'll be honest:
I ain't no saint.
But then again,
I SURE WASN'T BORN IN HEAVEN!
Life is Life by Robert Walker
The rose among thorns
may not feel the sun's kiss each mornin'
and though it is forced to steal the sunshine
stored in the branches by those who cast shadows,
it is a rose and it lives.
No Time for Laughter by Irene Calgaret
I never heard her laugh
But I did see her cry twice
That was all in my adult life I had
To share with her, my mother.
Her pain was as real as mine
We had no way to make up for
The lost years, lost chances
To love each other
With the special love
Of a mother for her daughter and
A daughter for her mother.
Together but apart we lost the chance
But never the love we should have shared
The bonds, the invisible bonds
Were there and still are so strong.
Even though she has gone
God rest her soul l loved her so
I never heard her laugh
If she did, did she sound like me
And did she think of me
As often as I would think and yearn for her?
And what would my life have been like with
A Mum, my Mum to