Hi Troops,
            just wondering what are your thoughts on Bush Poetry?
I for one love it but I know it's not for everyone. I have what I consider a few pearlers but will only post if other Kemo Sabe's would like.

Regards Skip

Go for it Skip. I understand it better than Shakesphere
LogFire

Skip, there are a couple of poets here.  

At one point well over a year ago The Furph posted poems about members.  I started something where we all made up one about him.  They're around somewhere.

So, if you start, we might get The Furph in the mood again and the other one or two too.

:)  :)  :)  :)  :)

Yep I love Australian Verse.  New and old.  I have a great book here by Hugh Sawrey.  he is an artist and has drawn art to go with many old poems of the likes of Lawson, Goodchild, Evans, Foott, Gordon and Kendell.

I also like reading the sort of things that Furph does and of course old The Grey.

LK I remember that poem about that you started but for the life of me cannot find it.

Found it in the middle of here http://www.aussiecampovenforum.com/cgi-bin/yabb2/YaBB.pl?num=1158729799  ;D ;D ;D ;D

OK then, it's no secret that my favourite at this stage in time is Mark Kleinschmidt. He can be found at the Stockman's Hall of Fame working & also has a large cattle station there as well. If you ever get to Longreach and  stay at Gunnadoo Caravan Park - he does some great shows there also.

This one is pretty long but stay with me it's worth it I reckon.

THE DAMP EYED BLOKE

They laughed at him & his teary eye
As he read of tragic days gone by.
Clean-nailed hands laid down the book
And he met their eyes with a misty look,
"There's many a man with a core of steel
That goes to water when tough's the deal,
And many a cove with a soft, soft heart, Who comes to the fore when the rough stuff starts."
They laughed again at the words he spoke
And shook their heads at the damp-eyed bloke.

Those rough tough men of the mustering camp
Had no time at all for an eye that's damp.
And that first-day fella with the fresh-shaved look,
The neat rolled swag and the bag of books,
Was opportune for a spot of jest
And they wagered high he'd fail the test.
Only the cook,with a contrary nod,
Said, "I'll put a fiver on the hapless sod."
They chuckled, almost fit to choke,
They'd crucify that damp-eyed bloke.

The dawning saw the ringers grin
As they caught the horse to suck him in.
Old Charcoal's gentle when first he's rode,
But when clear of the camp, he's wont to explode;
He'll rattle your teeth as he bucks around
And jar your spine when he hits the ground.
But they didn't let on to the new-chum there
As they threw him aboard with never a care.
Then charcoal was lashed with the end of a rope
And they laughed at the back of the damp-eyed bloke.

The horse shot off straight into the trees,
Hooves churning dust through a flurry of leaves.
The ringers rolled round, their sides set to bust,
But their mirth was cut short when out of the dust
Came charcoal and rider, unable to steer,
Smack bang through the middle of all the camp gear.
Blankets and wraps flung this way and that,
Clothes were trampled all over the flat.
The only two spots those hooves never smote
Were the swags of the cook and the damp-eyed bloke.

Cookie just smiled and raked in the dough
As the new-chum dismounted that rough so n so.
The ringers stared round, dismay in their eyes,
Mouths dropping open to welcome the flies.
They knew that it must be beginner's good luck,
How else could it be, old Charcoal could buck.
They planned and they schemed, and agreed on a way
To fix the new man, they'd lose him today
Out there in the bush, and have time to gloat
While waiting in camp for the damp-eyed bloke.

They swept through the scrub and 'round through the rough,
Checked out the creek flats and down by the bluff.
Not once was he sighted, that object of scorn,
They chuckled with feeling and thought him forlorn.
By the end of the day he still hadn't shown
So they started the mob of cattle for home,
And entered the camp with eyes all agog;
The "lost" man had beaten them home with a mob
About twice the size, but he didn't gloat,
They just copped a wink from the damp-eyed bloke.

Now the ringers were smart; at least they weren't dumb,
By now they had twigged he was no new-chum,
But they still hadn't learnt, you just cannot guess
A book by it's cover, a man till the test.
And what did they see as they took a fresh look,
A man who could muster, yet cry at a book
And where would he be when the bull tried to gore?
He'd probably "snatch it" straight out the back door.
Would be wiser by far to look like a goat
Than depend on the likes of the damp-eyed bloke.

The first watch was taken, so close was the air
that the men all looked up to the clouds brewing there.
By the way they had gathered, some rain looked a chance,
Then lightning began to flicker and dance.
Across from the distance the thunder rolled low,
And wind off a storm had started to blow.
"Get everyone mounted, don't spare the time,
If the mob rushes now ther'll be life on the line."
They all knew the tone when experience spoke,
And it came from none less than the damp-eyed bloke.

The horsemen rode off as the mob stirred in fright
At the lightning flash close that lit up the night.
They circled and crooned to soothe the unease,
But fear, once felt, is hard to appease.
Then a thunderbolt struck with a crack and a boom
And terrified cattle rushed fast through the gloom,
If ever a cool head, then now was the need
As the ringers spurred hard to get to the lead.
And right to the fore as the took on a slope
Was bloody old Charcoal and the damp-eyed bloke.

The lead of the mob was nearing the bluff,
For most of the ringers, well that was enough.
They reined in their horses and quietly withdrew,
And looked on in fear at the last silly two
Who battled to turn them, to make the mob veer,
Then Curly went down in front of a steer.
The ringers withdrawn were still as a post,
Their faces downcast and white as a ghost.
And the cry from poor Curly came out like a croak
When he screamed for the help of the damp-eyed bloke.

Old Charcoal responded to the stab of the steel,
Shouldered the steer, sent him head over heel.
The rider plucked Curly from the path of the rush
And set him down safely, no fanfare or fuss.
Then he spurred on ahead and uncurled his lash
And worked 'mongst the leaders with a crack and a slash.
From this way and that he worried the lead,
Bodies bounced off his galloping steed.
He worked like a thresher, drew blood with each stroke,
Till they turned from the fury of the damp-eyed bloke.

He circled them tight till they came to a halt,
Old Charcoal still prancing like a fresh-broken colt.
The ringers were sheepish as they took up the herd,
From the man on the black,there wasn't a word.
And none from them either,they knew they mistook
For weakness the fact that he cried at a book.
And Curly was greatful to just be alive
He knew he'd seen death in the very next stride.
And those ringers,as they settled the cattle,had hope
To,one day, be just like the damp-eyed bloke.

How's that for Bush Poetry
All the Best
Skip

Are there any in your computer by a chap known as Skip?


:-?

G'day All,
LK wants ME to post a poem eh!

There once was this dude his name was Skip
He loved nothing more than to skinny dip  :D
His wife had said "Dear your early too bed"
Yeah that's because I've had too much bloody red.

Can't think of anything at the moment LK
But I'll see if I can think of something today
I'll post it tonight after some Rum
When I'll spend some time  on my Bum! ;D

Gee this writing poetry is easy
I'm sitting here typing with a smile that's cheesy
I'll see you all later my trusted Kemo Sabe
My troops want breaky - cooked on the barby. ;D ;D

All the best
Skip

What! no bush poets to show me how it's done
I can't write verse so I guess there'll be none ;D

I can't stop thinking in rhyme
This will obviously pass with time-

See what I mean (creepy) :)
Have a nice day!
Regards Skip

Poetry is words in pattern.

Haiku pattern,

Line 1 5 syllables
Line 2 7 syllables
Line 3 5 syllables.

Ok to try.

Skip to my roosel
With coals over under
Shoulder in oven

:-[


(How many syllables in shoulder?)

G'day Skip
It was probably a bit of a marathon to post 'The Damp-Eyed-Bloke' but I certainly enjoyed it, so thanks for that.
Hooroo [smiley=1.gif]

It was a pleasure T_Pensioner I'm glad you enjoyed it. I have read this Poem at least 100 times and enjoy it just as much as the last. I keep a copy in my briefcase actually.

All the best
Skip

Bummer, I thought this was a thread about poetry of George Bush.  ;)

Cornelius wrote on Feb 27^th, 2008 at 2:12am:

Bummer, I thought this was a thread about poetry of George Bush.  ;)

George who??????

Mick.

Skip,
One of my favourites is a poem by Bruce Simpson (Packhorse Drover) called
'Gold Star'. Like you, when you have a bit of a favourite, I can read it time & time again & not seem to get sick of it. It near puts a lump in me throat each time I read it.
At about 18 verses long, I'd take all night to bash it out otherwise I'd certainly list it.
I was tell'in Furph about the book earlier on though I don't think he was familiar with it. It is basically a collection of verse & stories centred around droving in Australia  during the 1950's. Even if one doesn't go much on poetry, the stories are well worth the read. Not sure how'd you'd get a copy now. Are any other members familiar with Bruce's work? Anyway, am trying to keep my posts short so,
Hooroo for now [smiley=1.gif]  

Hey Pensioner check this out


http://www.abpa.org.au/Bush_Poetry/Modern_Poetry/Bruce_Simpson.html

enjoy the Furphy

That was a great read thanks Skip.

My father often quoted "The Man from Snowy River" amongst many other bits and pieces and somehow I never tired of them.

I have enjoyed poets breakfasts at both Tamworth and the Gympie Stampede but havent had that much exposure to bush poetry.  

One year at Tamworth I stopped behind reading while Sparky and a mate went to see a show, a lump of what I thought was left behind junk moved nearby and in the middle was a man.  All he had he said was his swag, it was very hot so I gave him a drink and some food.  He told me he was a poet and after getting up early had decided to take a nap, he said he only ever took his swag with him.  He was very interesting and insisted on giving me some of his poems.  I will try to find the book and see if they might be of interest in here.

I have played with Haiku but found it frustrating.

My fingers unfortunately fly on ahead of my brain mostly  ;D

Furphyslinger wrote on Feb 28^th, 2008 at 7:15pm:

Hey Pensioner check this out http://www.abpa.org.au/Bush_Poetry/Modern_Poetry/Bruce_Simpson.html enjoy the Furphy

G'day There Furph,
Thank's for the link. It's not hard to soak up some time there, I can tell ya ;D
Matter of fact, I've nearly absorbed my quota for today on it ;)
I'd be happy to list a few of Bruce's poems here, but the way I type - more like 'hunt & peck' it'd take all night, as most of his verse are quite long.
It's like Skip said about the 'Damp Eyed Bloke', even though some are quite long, if you stay with 'em, it's well worth the read.
Hooroo for now [smiley=1.gif]
Ad

I DIDN’T GO
By Don Lloyd from his book No Dogs Aloud

A friend of mine rang me up,
He said, “I thought you’d like to know,
There’s a talent quest on here tonight,
So, I told them you’d like to go.
I told them you’d written some poems,
Some people thought they weren’t bad.
They said they were short of performers,
And if you’d come, they’d be glad.

The only thing they have a dress code,
Track pants are simply not worn.
You might get in with joggers and socks,
But thongs are looked on with scorn.
As for tee shirts, there’s no more to be said
For they will turn you back at the door,
And if you argue and go calling them names,
You’ll never get in there no more.

Your shirt must have a collar attached,
And we hope you’ll be wearing a tie.
Please remember you’ll be on a stage
Right in front of everyone’s eyes.
Now as to your hair, please get it shorn,
It’s way past the back of your neck.
I mean, for a man way past fifty,
You do seem to lack some respect.

Some of your poems are quite crude,
They leave much to be desired, that’s a fact.
We think you should take out the bad words
And generally clean up your act.
I said, “Is it about talent or fashions,
You really got me in the dark,
If getting in is going to be such a problem,
Why don’t they hold the damn thing in a park?

Remember, you are the ones who asked me to come
And help to make up a show,
But, it seems you don’t want me or my rhymes
So I’ll stay home and simply not go.”


p.s.  I met Don at Tamworth probably over ten years ago, his health wasn't all that good and I hope he is still around the bush poets gatherings.  He was very much his own man and as mostly a casual kind of person myself, I enjoyed a cuppa and chat with him and was rewarded with some of his poems.