When The Bush Rises
Posted: Fri Oct 18, 2013 9:20 am
Thanks Heather, OK I will take up your very kind invitation.... and give it a go! cross fingers.
I have always been a huge fan of the late Leonard Teale and his recitations. Also as there are of course quite a number of excellent Performance Poets in the ABPA, the following poem may be of some professional interest to them. I put down this piece, inspired by Leonard's resonant voice and superb diction, believing that he would have enjoyed reciting it. Starting softly, building up a little in volume and incisiveness until towards the end he is truly at a restrained crescendo? Anger. The final verse gently spoken in a warning tone. Sort of.. "getting inside a poem" to "work it" well. Performers would no doubt understand perfectly what I am describing.
It still needs some fine tuning but then I suggest that most poems you can always improve upon.... ad infinitum. (I have re-written parts even as I type it here!)
It is my very first poem-post, and so naturally I hope it makes the grade... is not too old-fashioned.. and I apologise in advance if it falls short.
When The Bush Rises.
Have you ever sensed the silence of the calm before a storm,
Have you felt the apprehension in your breast.
Did your heart just for a moment miss a beat or start to race,
When the lightning seemed like gunfire in the west.
I can see them in battalions all converging from the bush
As from south and north they rally to the call.
Farmers from the Darling river; wool and cattle men and cane,
And the Queensland boys are fiercest of them all.
Veterans of a thousand battles; hardened bush-campaigners they,
Men who daily suffer fire and drought and flood,
There is murder in their manner and no mercy in their soul,
And their knives will not be sheathed till they draw blood.
Like the roll of distant thunder, hoofbeats drum a steady roar,
For they have no fear of musketry or shell.
Death to them is unimportant, they are Soldiers of the Land,
And their final goal is victory or hell.
Now their blood is boiling over for the wrongs that they must right,
They are patriots who do not covet thanks.
Gathered now to fight oppression; bronzed and resolute and tough,
Not a single word is spoken in their ranks.
All are privates in this army with no regulations fast,
Be they called from drover's camp or shearing shed,
And unseen behind the riders troop the Anzacs in khaki,
Phantom diggers from the Legions of the Dead.
Still no uniform is sported by the bushmen, black or white.
Some are men who've tramped for years on cattle tracks.
They have paid their hard-won wages to the useless bureaucrats,
Who have plundered them with tax and tax and tax.
How the Capital will tremble when the mighty bushmen come,
Some whose fathers lie at peace on foreign turf.
Where the tyrants make a castle and declare a "government",
And the master seeks ascendance over serf.
Just reward for those who earn it; charity where it is due.
It is from this task the army will not swerve.
Where the parasites are feasting, they will feed on mutton stew,
And the ruling public servants made to serve.
And the lying politicians who show treason to the Crown,
While Australia to the foreigners is sold
Will be marked for special treatment by the miners of the west.
They have lined their greedy pockets with their gold.
Then no longer will the stone-fruit on the trees be left to rot,
While the countryside for men has been devoid.
You will see a giant muster of the dole-dependent mob,
And the Unemployed will find themselves Employed!
— There are fifty thousand coming with a common purpose grim,
For a nasty job that none will seek to shirk,
And the sun will set one evening on a dreadful battleground,
When the stern-faced Bush Brigades have done their work.
cheers, Gary
I have always been a huge fan of the late Leonard Teale and his recitations. Also as there are of course quite a number of excellent Performance Poets in the ABPA, the following poem may be of some professional interest to them. I put down this piece, inspired by Leonard's resonant voice and superb diction, believing that he would have enjoyed reciting it. Starting softly, building up a little in volume and incisiveness until towards the end he is truly at a restrained crescendo? Anger. The final verse gently spoken in a warning tone. Sort of.. "getting inside a poem" to "work it" well. Performers would no doubt understand perfectly what I am describing.
It still needs some fine tuning but then I suggest that most poems you can always improve upon.... ad infinitum. (I have re-written parts even as I type it here!)
It is my very first poem-post, and so naturally I hope it makes the grade... is not too old-fashioned.. and I apologise in advance if it falls short.
When The Bush Rises.
Have you ever sensed the silence of the calm before a storm,
Have you felt the apprehension in your breast.
Did your heart just for a moment miss a beat or start to race,
When the lightning seemed like gunfire in the west.
I can see them in battalions all converging from the bush
As from south and north they rally to the call.
Farmers from the Darling river; wool and cattle men and cane,
And the Queensland boys are fiercest of them all.
Veterans of a thousand battles; hardened bush-campaigners they,
Men who daily suffer fire and drought and flood,
There is murder in their manner and no mercy in their soul,
And their knives will not be sheathed till they draw blood.
Like the roll of distant thunder, hoofbeats drum a steady roar,
For they have no fear of musketry or shell.
Death to them is unimportant, they are Soldiers of the Land,
And their final goal is victory or hell.
Now their blood is boiling over for the wrongs that they must right,
They are patriots who do not covet thanks.
Gathered now to fight oppression; bronzed and resolute and tough,
Not a single word is spoken in their ranks.
All are privates in this army with no regulations fast,
Be they called from drover's camp or shearing shed,
And unseen behind the riders troop the Anzacs in khaki,
Phantom diggers from the Legions of the Dead.
Still no uniform is sported by the bushmen, black or white.
Some are men who've tramped for years on cattle tracks.
They have paid their hard-won wages to the useless bureaucrats,
Who have plundered them with tax and tax and tax.
How the Capital will tremble when the mighty bushmen come,
Some whose fathers lie at peace on foreign turf.
Where the tyrants make a castle and declare a "government",
And the master seeks ascendance over serf.
Just reward for those who earn it; charity where it is due.
It is from this task the army will not swerve.
Where the parasites are feasting, they will feed on mutton stew,
And the ruling public servants made to serve.
And the lying politicians who show treason to the Crown,
While Australia to the foreigners is sold
Will be marked for special treatment by the miners of the west.
They have lined their greedy pockets with their gold.
Then no longer will the stone-fruit on the trees be left to rot,
While the countryside for men has been devoid.
You will see a giant muster of the dole-dependent mob,
And the Unemployed will find themselves Employed!
— There are fifty thousand coming with a common purpose grim,
For a nasty job that none will seek to shirk,
And the sun will set one evening on a dreadful battleground,
When the stern-faced Bush Brigades have done their work.
cheers, Gary
I'm not sure but that bit doesn't sound right to me - where's Neville
with they at the end of the phrase has been an accepted arrangement in poetry, but mainly archaic, not usual in modern use. 
