THE LONGYARD

[Maureen K Clifford]

THE LONGYARD


The shadows lengthen into dark beneath the she oak tree.
Lit by the fires red and blue flame flicker..
In the black billy water boils and roils - he throws in tea,
hears his mare Dark Thunder softly whicker.

He sits wrapped in a blanket, quietly contemplates the night.
Somewhere nearby he hears a mopoke call.
His days work‘s done, it’s time to roll a smoke and have a brew,
he’d done what he’d set out to after all.

No need to wait for buses or to travel far on trains.
No need of clocks or watches way out here.
His transport is four legged and she’s guided by the reins.
His days are long – but hard work holds no fear.

He hears the local Tiddalik, the water holding frogs
start their concert , from within dam waters brown.
He sees a cloud, a colony of fruit bats heading out
to feeding fields – the orchards close to town.

Around him ghostlike wraiths drift by – but they don’t worry him.
He knows it’s the ewes and lambs out feeding.
His two dogs sleep beside the fire – unworried by it’s sounds,
they’re both still – but he knows that they are breathing.

He pours another brew into the old enamelled mug,
and banks the fire down safely for the night.
His swag is waiting ready – he won’t need rocking to sleep,
the land of nod will claim him till first light.

They’ve many miles to travel as they slowly head for home
where rains have fallen bringing sweet relief.
His paddocks now will wear a mantle, green and soft and sweet
a sight so wondrous it beggars belief.

At first light bright and early as the Kookaburras call,
he’d saddle up Dark Thunder – move the mob
out on the longyard. A head start ‘fore the morning mist burns off,
and heat makes worse a dusty sweaty job.

He’d become used to brown for it was all he’d seen for years,
which was why he rode the longyard months on end.
A solitary seeker of the green for sheep and steers,
but the best road was the one that homeward wends.

[Maureen K Clifford]

Gone back in and had a fiddle with this as I wasn't particularly happy with it and still don't like the last line - any and all suggestions welcomed. It should be 14/10/14/10 all the way through but one verse didn't quite make it

Cheers

Maureen

[Neville Briggs]

If the second last verse does not fit your syllabic scheme..change it, Maureen.
If you're not happy with the last line, delete it then see if you ever needed it.
And I suggest considering whether you can re-arrange the order of the stanzas and see if that does away with the need for the last line.
Do you think it is better at the end if a suggestion is made rather than "spelling it out"

One of the hardest things for us bush poets to do..change what we have written..

One of my teachers has said that you should write your poems in pencil not pen, because writing in pen might give the idea that you cannot change it.
Another teacher said that we should consider our poems like packing a suitcase for a holiday. Put all the things you think you need and then go back and take out the things that you really won't need at all.

Does this help ? ..... No she says

[Maureen K Clifford]

Actually it did help Neville and I think I like the last line much better now. It seems to be a nice ending to it whereas the previous one was a bit iffy.

I took your advice but decided against rewriting it as I have done that about 4 times and wasn't getting where I wanted to go with it at all - but I think I am pretty happy for the moment with it as it stands.

Your old teachers advice re the suitcase rings with me as it is my formula for catering. Work out what you need, what you are going to make and the quantities required and then reduce by a third.

Have never yet sent anyone away hungry and don't have heaps of leftovers cluttering the fridge for a week and then being thrown out

Cheers

Maureen

[Zondrae]

G'day Maureen and Neville,

I agree with you, Neville. When I have looked back at several poems I thought I had finished, I found whole stanzas that could be dropped without touching the intended story line. I have even found a whole 'other poem' mixed in with one. I extracted it and with a bit of a fiddle, not much mind you, I had two poems. A good days work in any language.
Having said this I am going to sit myself down and have a little chat as to what I am doing with my time. I'm behind in everything.

[Neville Briggs]

It's my wife Maureen, for visitors she makes a feast enough to feed a regiment and then the visitors just eat normal portions of course. I hate throwing food out, but I recycle it in the compost so that's not too bad I hope.

G'day Zondrae, I once took out two stanzas from a poem. I could hardly bear to do it because those stanzas represented my supposed creative work, but it was the correct move, made it much better.