Blackened Billy Bush Poetry Written Competition Results,
and
Golden Damper Bush Poetry Performance Competition Results

Memoirs of a Sheep
© 2008 Colin Driscoll

The ewes were drafted off last night and left out in the yards,
But us boys were penned inside the shed, ‘cos rain was on the cards.
So I’ve had to stand up all night long in this tiny little space
With another wethers daggy bum pressed hard against my face.

“I hate this bloody place,” the wether next to me recalls,
“The first time we were in here they removed our tails and balls.
And now they bring us back each year to take away our fleece.
Why can’t those bloody farmers leave us poor old sheep in peace?”

The big shed door rolls open and it floods the place with light,
And then, in strolls the dopy sod that penned us up last night.
He stands outside the catching pen and counts us one by one.
200 wethers stare back at the farmers’ teenage son.

A scrawny looking specimen to say the very least.
With only half the intellect of your average barnyard beast.
Earrings hanging from his ears, and tattoos on his arm.
Tagged and branded, just like the other creatures on this farm.

Twas he who put us in this shed and crammed us in so tight.
Twas he who laughed each time the bloody kelpie laid a bite.
Twas he who kicked us in the ribs each time we doubled back.
Twas he who grabbed me by the ears and gave my nose a whack.

So now you know his background it should come as no surprise
When I tell you that we spent all night plotting his demise.
And if the opportunity presents itself today,
We’ll get that little mongrel in our own sweet, sheepish way.

Enter now the shearers and the roustabout as well.
We all stand there listening to the bull dust that they tell.
They rattle off the biggest load of bollocks that you’ve heard.
With the farmers’ dopy teenage son believing every word.

“Enough chat,” yells the farmer as he blunders through the door.
“Its time you had the first of those big wethers on the floor.
You’ve got to get a hundred each across those boards today.
So cut the yap and get to work and earn ya bloody pay.”

“And what would you like me to do?” came the question from his son.
“I’m sure there’s lots of easy little jobs that can be done.”
“Just stay out of the bloody way,” came the farmers’ quick retort.
“When it comes to doing hard work, you’re as good as one man short.”

We said nothing; we just stood there, all waiting to be shorn,
As the young bloke looked across the pens, his expression quite forlorn.
And he stood there in a daydream as the shearers made a start,
The sharpness of his fathers words like daggers in his heart.

We couldn’t help but notice as a tear welled in his eye,
But he wiped it back and bit his lip, determined not to cry.
Then he took his anger out on us and cursed us one by one.
200 wethers stare back at the farmers’ teenage son.

Just then the young man looked up and quickly turned his head
As he heard the call of “Sheepo” echo out across the shed.
Was this his chance to finally that he was somehow skilled,
By making sure those catching pens were well and truly filled.

He leapt into the empty pen and opened up the race,
But that was when he met a wall of crossbreds face to face.
Nothing stood between us and the person we despised.
So now’s the time to implement the plan that we’d devised.

Two big wethers rushed his legs and knocked him on his back,
And that was when the rest of us decided to attack.
Twenty sets of sharpened hooves all trampled on his guts,
As I applied my trademark move; a head butt to the nuts.

And as he lay there on the floor in a crumpled, moaning heap
We piled in to the catching pen ‘til it was filled with sheep.
And with him trapped beneath me in that tiny little space
I pressed my sweaty, daggy bum down firmly on his face.

And the harder that he struggled, the more pressure I applied.
The shearers and the roustabout all laughed until they cried.
And when they were convinced he couldn’t take it any more
A shearer dragged him from the pen and sat him on the floor.

He lifted up the hand piece and he kicked it into gear,
Then came those classic words that he was hoping he would hear.
The farmer gave his orders out in no uncertain terms,
“Just crutch his locks and pizzle and then drench him up for worms.”

So next time you work a mob of sheep, please treat them with respect,
Because we’re slightly more intelligent than what you might expect.
And if you don’t believe me mate, just think this story through,
Next time you find 200 wethers staring back at you.

DESERTION
© 2008 David Campbell

For the land has been our living, it’s the gift that keeps on giving,
but I fear we’ve passed the point of no return.
Though we’ve tried to keep together, in the harshness of the weather
we have seen our expectations crash and burn.”

Then he pauses in his sorrow at the pain of each tomorrow,
and I see him brush away a sudden tear.
In that instant of emotion I can glimpse his long devotion
to the lifestyle he has always held so dear.

And the moment is revealing, for I’ve never known that feeling,
never shared his eager passion for the land.
From my youth I talked of leaving for, although it left him grieving,
it was something that I couldn’t understand.

For the days are long and tiring, with a farmer’s life requiring
a commitment I was not prepared to give,
and the still, cold light of morning was, to me, a daily warning
this was not the way that I would choose to live.

I detested herding cattle and the unrelenting battle
with a climate that was always at extremes.
I could only watch and wonder at the floods that came to plunder,
and the droughts that ravaged all his hopes and dreams.

Through the heat mirage’s shimmer I would try to catch a glimmer
of the beauty he insisted that he saw,
but the ever-present danger left me nothing but a stranger
in a landscape that was rugged, rough and raw.

So I left, despite his pleading, and the life that I’ve been leading
since departing has a pace that suits me well.
I enjoy the noisy clamour, and the gloss, the glitz, the glamour;
I have fallen for the city’s magic spell.

I am not alone in leaving, with my childhood friends perceiving
that their future on the land is looking bleak.
So they’re following ambition and are breaking with tradition,
for they’ve learnt that there are other goals to seek.

With the land so unforgiving it is time to make our living
in the townships and the cities, where we try
to create a fresh beginning, find a brand new way of winning,
where the wilful laws of nature don’t apply.

But it’s hard, upon returning, to observe my father yearning
for a future that he knows will never be.
He can sense my irritation, but it fosters his frustration,
and he has to take his anger out on me.

“Ever since we lost your mother I’ve relied on you, no other,
to attain the things we’ve wanted to achieve,
but you’re lacking any vision…I can’t cope with your decision
to just turn your back on all we’ve done and leave.

You see ruin, I see beauty…it’s desertion of your duty,
a betrayal of all those who’ve gone before.
There are problems that need solving in a climate that’s evolving,
and that can’t be done by walking out the door!

It’s a certain sign of failure, a disaster for Australia,
for we need you youngsters out here to survive,
but you walk away forever, and that says to me there’ll never
be another chance to pull through and revive.”

I say nothing, fully knowing that the reasons for my going
are a fact of life I simply can’t explain.
Though my visit is but fleeting, from the moment of his greeting
I’ve anticipated leaving home again.

For the fine, red dust is clinging and the perspiration’s stinging
as the stifling heat of summer presses down.
While the sun climbs even higher I have only one desire…
for my air-conditioned office back in town.

But I can’t escape dejection for there is, in his reflection,
an acknowledgement that we are just a part
of a movement that’s increasing, growing daily without ceasing,
and it’s striking at the nation’s fragile heart.

A tradition’s disappearing as the early pioneering
is forgotten in this electronic age,
and my father’s generation is weighed down by desperation
while our history now writes another page.

THE BLACKENED BILLY VERSE COMPETITION 2009

Judge's Comments
There were 284 entries for the Blackened Billy Verses Competition for 2009 and, I must admit, I continue to enjoy reading these cleverly written entries from far and wide. This year we received two entries from the United States, and it is obvious that the writing of Bush Poetry is not only popular, but it is also universal. Congratulations to Jan and her committee for their efforts in continually attracting writers to participate in the “Blackened Billy”.

Once again it was most difficult to eliminate many first class entries from the final thirteen place getters. There were so many wonderful entries. The imagination and feeling which was so inherent in many entries was truly amazing, and I can empathise with writers when they are faced with putting the final touches to their work. In this year’s competition, there were at least sixty entries that, in my opinion, showed extreme merit in creativity.

I was emotionally affected by many entries depicting hardship and sorrow, of beauty and imagery, and I fully enjoyed the many humorous entries containing great imagination and poetic licence. We have some very clever people in the country, and it is wonderful that the urge to put pen to paper to perpetuate this heritage is not waning. In fact, it seems to be increasing. Congratulations to all the entrants. Keep writing this work of extremely high standard.

FIRST PLACE: DESERTION by DAVID CAMPBELL, Beaumaris Vic.
From the very first stanza, the writer captures our interest with a beautiful rhythm and meter to accentuate the message. This is the too familiar story of the heritage of the land, and the continuing struggle for survival. In this narrative, the writer has crafted the viewpoints of father and son, and their contrasting outlooks on the future. Those of us who are not connected with the changing rural outlook have been well and truly informed by this ballad. An emotional and cleverly crafted story by a gifted writer. A worthy winner of the Blackened Billy for 2009.

SECOND PLACE: THE LONELY MINER by ELLIS CAMPBELL, Dubbo NSW
This is a well constructed and beautifully illustrated narrative depicting a gold miner’s dream of becoming wealthy; all the while, wistful and lonely because his loved one is so far away. And, realistically, his efforts are in vain and hopeless. It appears he will not be able to be re-united with his Monique. I found myself deeply moved by the imagery and lyrical phrasing which so successfully depicts the story.

THIRD PLACE: MY AUSTRALIA – FROM A DIGGER by VAL WALLACE, Glendale NSW
A beautifully and emotionally written spiritual message from the ghost of a Digger killed in France during the Great War. The writer, with a blend of imagery and clever prose, has captured a thought-provoking and emotional plea for remembrance of Australian forces who served in World War I; all the while hearing the sound of foreign voices, and longing for a semblance of their own Australian heritage in some tangible and comforting form.