Gulgong Henry Lawson Bush Poetry Festival Results 2009

I stood in awe as the land beneath me trembled,
and waited where the furrow-horse would draw my father’s plough,
to watch the finest working team assembled,
erupt in bold precision on the green and chocolate brow.

Eight bodies glistened brightly under tension;
with traces taut, their massive pistons drove the mouldboard on.
I stepped aside in trepid apprehension,
and passed the midday nosebags up, as eyes of liquid shone…

....that scene from yesteryear is sadly burning;
an adult now, my thankless task awaits me in the shade
of redgum; seven left won’t be returning –
old veterans, who’ll shuffle as they make their last parade.

With dry and dusty harness from the stable,
l walk the mile to slip their headgear on for one last time.
Five more the team must plod - l pray they’re able;
a distance they’d have swallowed, had they walked it in their prime.

Behind me on their tragic trek they stumble,
and pass the heap of ashes where some twenty months before,
old Harry dragged their honest mate and humble;
his death the last surrender, for we had a team no more.

We pensioned off those faithful, ageing horses,
to pasture out their final days. so easy at the time,
but found ourselves at odds with other forces;
a lingering and painful death was far the crueller crime.

They lift their heads and look toward the stables,
where father and his father swear the years they spent were best;
blue ribbons on the walls of teamster fables,
a place of warmth and harmony, of energy at rest.

Now watching their retreat in silent witness,
the cold blue-metal Fordson stands in passive victory.
They had its measure while they passed the fitness,
but time became their nemesis, to snatch supremacy.

lt tears at me to see these legends falter,
their idle days and ageing made them limping casualties;
high-steppers during working days in halter,
their nostrils flared and blowing, as they challenged soil and breeze.

The schoolhouse to our right has stopped my dreaming;
ahead a railway loading ramp reminds me why I’m here.
An engine waits. its boiler boxes steaming;
the horses are unsettled and they toss their heads in fear.

l walk them in and stand there looking, checking,
and gently stroke their outstretched heads with loving words and pride.
Old Carb is close beside me on the decking;
I slide an arm around his neck - he taught the boy to ride.

The whistle blows and wheels are slowly turning;
with shoo, shoo, shoo and hiss of steam, a farm tradition ends.
I watch them disappear, my tummy churning,
and shed a tear for noble hearts of seven, more-than-friends...

... I like to think they’re grazing now in Heaven;
my father wouldn’t cash the cheque for lifetime servants sold.
He passed it on, in memory of seven;
donated to our local home, where human friends grow old.

He owns the farm,
He is the boss.
Annoying pups,
Make him cross.

He knows the gates,
On all the farm.
He barks at snakes,
To sound the alarm.

He’s always loyal,
To his mate.
When called for dinner,
He’s never late.

To the old wooden yards,
He musters sheep.
Under the wool table,
He likes to sleep.

On the whistle,
He knows what to do.
He’s one in a million,
There ’s only a few.

He’s fierce on cattle,
With bark and bite.
To his kennel,
He sleeps all night.

He’s tougher than most,
He is the best.
When his work is done,
He has to rest.

JUDGES COMMENTS
I enjoyed most of these poems very much. Unfortunately the task of judging means picking out just a few of the many.

Judging process:
Quite a few of the poems discarded did not rhyme. There were some beautiful words and lines, but competition rules requested bush poetry. This means rhyme and rhythm as well as an Australia theme. Many writers need to pay more attention to the metre. This is easiest done by reading your work aloud. Errors will jump out of you and grab you by the throat.

Poems were discarded after the first few stanzas because there were spelling errors. Come on, people! Spell check or a dictionary. Incorrect punctuation or none at all then saw a few more poems filed in the “I don’t think so…” stack. Story lines that have been done to death were next to go. Judges are always looking for something a bit different. Titles are important. It’s the first thing anyone sees and hopefully describes the story while grabbing attention. And then we have typing errors. Sometimes they can be forgiven, but if there are a few poems difficult to separate, typing errors will be taken into account. Lecture ended. As I said in the beginning, there were many entries I enjoyed a great deal. If yours missed out, go back and edit it a few more times. You many find that missing element that ruled it out of the winners.

Congratulations all.
Janine Haig