ABPA - Australian Bush Poets Association

G'day Dave. The other angle I thought of when I read your poem, is how there was a time when men thought it a great honour to serve and a sense of shame of they could not do what they perceived as their duty.
From some things I see in the media, I get the impression that we have been persuaded that looking after " me ' is more admirable now. I think modern thought cannot any more come to grips with the notion of obligation or duty, or heaven forbid !!, sacrifice.

In a way I think your poem conveys that indictment of modern thinking.


Neville

Thanks Zondrae & Mal, &, Neville I think you hit the nail on the head mate.

I had another go at that suss stanza as well.

David J Delaney, you old son have a way of getting right to the guts of things, I too have the shame of not being allowed to stand up for my country’ some of my siblings went to Vietnam and to stand on the foot path and watch them march past still sticks in your neck even after fifty years.
I am fiercely proud of our country and have never been a good bystander, mate I get where you are coming from.

Very good poem.

Dave Smith.

G'day Dave, thank you mate, I'm sure there are a few of us around.

I am posting here an oldie of mine some members will have seen before on the old site. I was in the very last draft in September 1972 so we never went anywhere but Singleton. In 2002, my old one legged mate, an ex soldier said to me-"Its been 30 years scince you were drafted mate...last of the national serviceman". You know how lines run around in your head......

The Last of the National Servicemen
©Mal McLean

The last of the national servicemen
rolls up his weather worn sleeves
and his weather worn arm
is full proof of the harm
of his years on the land or the seas.

His face once so smooth is charactered now
with lines deep in joy and woe
and the weathering years
filled with laughter and tears
is the brush that has painted him so.

He thinks now and then of seventy-two,
he thinks of the years between,
and then once in a while
he might crack a grim smile
at the thought of that old jungle green.

They didn’t do much, they weren’t in that long,
yet his memories are clear,
then he thinks of the last
of young men who were cast
into a land of mud, blood and fear.

He knows a few blokes who came home from ‘Nam,
some good, some broken or bent
and it cuts like a blade
how his country betrayed
the young soldiers She trained and then sent.

He thinks of the kids of men back from war.
He thinks of his father’s hell.
He remembers the dreams,
the grog, violence and screams;
Soldiers’ children are victims as well.

He bends to his tasks with a weary strain,
whether sinew or of pen,
and he sets back his mind
to the damnable grind,
this last of the national servicemen.


………………………………

G'day Mal, love the poem mate, these lines stand out for me,

"He thinks of his father’s hell.
He remembers the dreams,
the grog, violence and screams;
Soldiers’ children are victims as well"


my step-father-in-law is pushing 90 & an ex Changi survivor, after all this time he still wakes in fright during the night.