Competition

Second Prize

The Dead Aussie Poets’ Society
by David Campbell
Beaumaris, Vic

A little bit of Heaven tucked in behind The Gates
is set aside for poets…your Wordsworth, Blake and Yeats…
or else the likes of Shakespeare, Lord Byron, Pope and Pound,
and all the other scribblers who down the years have found
that fame and maybe forture (and sometimes drinking’s curse)
have followed in their footsteps as they have penned their verse.

They like to sit and ponder, these artisans of rhyme,
on all the wondrous poems and images sublime
created by the wordsmiths who’ve laboured long and hard
to give the world such beauty…the blessings of the bard.
But as they idly chatter in Heaven’s gentle light
they’re constantly distracted by three old blokes who fight.

For out beyond the Black Stump, apart from all the rest,
you’ll find these Aussie poets debating who’s the best.
“My swaggie,” says The Banjo, “is known throughout the land,
and none of you no-hopers has anything so grand!
And what about my Clancy, he of the Overflow,
who went to Queensland droving those many years ago?”

“That’s nonsense!” rages Henry. “The stuff you wrote is cheap…
just clumsy country ballads ‘bout billabongs and sheep!
But if you want the outback to grab you by the throat
in lines of flowing splendour that folks just love to quote,
forget about your Clancy and watch my Harry Dale
take cattle up to Queensland and fight a roaring gale.”

And that’s when C.J. Dennis jumps up to stake his claim:
“I reckon yer both barmy, ‘cos mine’s the famous name!
You lot are two a penny…I’m far the best, no joke…
Remember who created The Sentimental Bloke,
An’ Ginger Mick, ‘is cobber, that bonzer peach Doreen,
The sweetest little lady wot you ‘ave ever seen!”

“There’s Mulga Bill!” screams Banjo. “His bicycle’s a hoot!”
“The Glugs of Gosh,” cries C.J., “would give yer Bill the boot!”
“And what about my Andy,” says Henry with a shout,
“who crossed the Queensland border to battle ‘gainst the drought?
Now there’s a moving story, Australian to the core,
Of Andy and his cattle…now who could ask for more?”

“Well, any thinking reader,” says Banjo with a snort,
“your rhyming’s bloody hopeless, it’s all so over-wrought…
like ‘snarling’ stuck with ‘Darling’, ‘worry’ with ‘ Macquarie ’…
you really should be pleading, saying that you’re sorry!
And while we’re on the subject I wish you’d tell me how
you thought it was so clever to partner ‘now’ with ‘now’!”

“That’s just poetic licence, the repetition’s fine,
and only serves to focus the power of the line.
But if you want a winner, a piece of strength and charm,
then all the world knows Lawson’s The Fire at Ross’s Farm,
where Robert Black showed courage to fight the smoke and heat
for love of his dear Jenny…and saved her field of wheat.”

“That’s bunkum…fer a bushfire an’ makin’ goo-goo eyes,
I reckon Flames by C.J. would ‘ave ter win the prize.
Them lines is so romantic, my ‘ero suffers ‘ell
ter battle through the messmates an’ reach his angel Nell.”
“What sentimental rubbish! You’ve got to lift your gaze,
appreciate our fortune, The Old Australian Ways!

For there are words of beauty that capture all our pride…
the laughing breeze that whispers, and Clancy on his ride…
the days of mines and shearing, of fortune further out,
the blooming of the wattle, the pain of heat and drought.
Or take my jolly swagman…” “I sure wish someone would!
That stupid load of nonsense is just no flamin’ good!”

And so it goes, they argue, the words fly thick and fast,
as each in turn shouts insults to justify their past.
They pace and point and threaten, they mutter and they yell:
“It’s me who’s right in Heaven, but you should be in Hell!”
While Shakespeare and the others, quite fed up with the strife,
just wish that Aussie poets could have eternal life.