ABPA Forum - 1890s style...

[Stephen Whiteside]

Banjo said to Henry, "I've been checking out the forum.
It seems to be all aggro there, and not too much decorum.
I think I'll surf some other sites, and give this one a rest;
Let some tempers settle down. It might be for the best."

Henry flicked his iPhone off. "I reckon you are right.
Watching poets blow their stack is not a pretty sight.
I know we fight each other in The Bulletin each day,
But that is just a great pretence. We do it for the pay."

Banjo laughed. "That's true enough, but surely you must own
That barb you lobbed last Tuesday shaved some splinters off the bone;
We swore it would be comic, but you're turning up the heat.
I'd thank you very kindly not to venture a repeat."

Henry grunted haughtily. "Oh, mate. You can't be real.
I'm speaking out in self defence. I never will conceal
Emotions that mean much to me. It's fine for you, of course,
Prancing all about the place upon a fine bred horse."

"Prancing round upon a horse? At least I've got some dough.
I do not beg upon the streets, and make an ugly show.
I do not drink and turn folks off. I've never been to jail.
Against your great atrocities, my peccadilloes pale."

Henry rose onto his feet…we'll draw the curtain there.
The scenes that quickly followed are not scenes I wish to share.
But here's a little thought to place before you at the last.
Could this current barney be an echo of the past…?

[Shelley Hansen]

Then CJ came along and said, "It's time to take a pause
and realise we're working to advance a common cause.
It doesn't matter whether we are workers or elite
or if we write of droving or the faces in the street."

"My Bill, he said the mooch o' life is something to behold,
and through a poet's eye we watch its wonderment unfold;
and so each one communicates his special brand of verse
that's coloured by experience - for better or for worse."

"So put the 'peccadilloes' and 'atrocities' away
and celebrate uniqueness in the message we convey.
A hundred years from now our fits and foibles will have passed
but we'll have built an Aussie bush verse heritage to last!"

[Stephen Whiteside]

Dyson, Brady, Ogilvie, and Hartington and Co.
Reached for big fat cream pies, which they then began to throw.
Dennis raised his chin and roared, "This is a great disgrace!"
But a gooey disc of pastry caught him full square in the face.

He raised his fingers to his eyes to clear his line of sight,
Then licked them. "Hey, that's pretty good. The balance is just right!
Not too sweet, and not too moist. Congratulate the cook!"
By now the joint was jumping, and the rafters bounced and shook.

Lawson was delirious. He'd never had such fun,
But judging by behaviour, he was not the only one!
Spencer dealt with fifty pies, and kept on hurling more,
But then he hailed his hero…and McDougal topped the score!

Meanwhile, Pincher ran around between the poets' legs,
Slurping fruit and cream and dough, and licking up the dregs.
Then Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
But protested, "This fruit's not fresh. I reckon it's been canned!"

Said Ginger Mick, "I'll show you how we did at the Nek!"
But thirty seconds later, he had copped one in the neck.
The Sentimental Bloke than cornered Clancy in a rage.
"I grew that fruit myself! Young CJ wrote it on the page!"

At last the pie supply ran out, and biscuits were too light,
So, bit by bit, the poets slowly drifted from the fight.
Then Doreen turned to Rose and groaned, "I reckon you can guess.
It's us poor womenfolk who'll get to clean this soggy mess!"

[Shelley Hansen]

Oh wow, Stephen - that's a hard act to follow! It's fabulous! But in the spirit of keeping the fun going, I'll try ...

"We'll all be rooned", said Hanrahan,
"the profits are all gone
since these great poets took to stoush
and it went on and on."

"It's lookin' crook", said Daniel Croke,
"at Gazza's Bakery
since Henry, Banjo and the rest
went on their pie-filled spree."

"They've splattered pies from north to south -
two hundred, maybe more.
The dog has got a bellyache
from lickin' up the floor."

The township stood about and stared,
the busybodies peered
at messy fruity aftermath
from floor to ceiling smeared.

While Rose and Doreen, hands on hips,
directed mop and broom
to bring a semblance of respect
to Murphy's Drinking Room.

The women fixed it (as they do
by stepping in the breach),
and boxed the ears of more than one
who strayed within their reach!

The comradeship had been restored
with handshakes all around
as finally all realised
they shared a common ground.

And so the optimism flowed
until the moment when
"We'll all be rooned", said Hanrahan,
"if they start up again!"

Shelley

[Stephen Whiteside]

Touche!

[David Campbell]

And, just to add to the fun, a little more history!

The Dead Aussie Poets’ Society

© David Campbell, 2004

A little bit of Heaven tucked in behind The Gates
is set aside for poets…your Wordsworth, Blake and Yeats…
or else the likes of Shakespeare, Lord Byron, Pope and Pound,
and all the other scribblers who down the years have found
that fame and maybe fortune (and sometimes drinking’s curse)
have followed in their footsteps as they have penned their verse.

They like to sit and ponder, these artisans of rhyme,
on all the wondrous poems and images sublime
created by the wordsmiths who’ve laboured long and hard
to give the world such beauty…the blessings of the bard.
But as they idly chatter in Heaven’s gentle light
they’re constantly distracted by three old blokes who fight.

For out beyond the Black Stump, apart from all the rest,
you’ll find these Aussie poets debating who’s the best.
“My swaggie,” says The Banjo, “is known throughout the land,
and none of you no-hopers has anything so grand!
And what about my Clancy, he of the Overflow,
who went to Queensland droving those many years ago?”

“That’s nonsense!” rages Henry. “The stuff you wrote is cheap,
just clumsy country ballads 'bout billabongs and sheep!
But if you want the outback to grab you by the throat
in lines of flowing splendour that folks just love to quote,
forget about your Clancy and watch my Harry Dale
take cattle up to Queensland and fight a roaring gale.”

And that’s when C. J. Dennis jumps up to stake his claim:
“I reckon yer both barmy, ‘cos mine’s the famous name!
You lot are two a penny…I’m far the best, no joke…
remember who created The Sentimental Bloke,
an’ Ginger Mick, ‘is cobber, that bonzer peach Doreen,
the sweetest little lady wot you ’ave ever seen!”

“There’s Mulga Bill!” screams Banjo. “His bicycle’s a hoot!”
“The Glugs of Gosh,” cries C. J., “would give yer Bill the boot!”
“And what about my Andy,” says Henry with a shout,
“who crossed the Queensland border to battle ’gainst the
drought?
Now there’s a moving story, Australian to the core,
of Andy and his cattle…now who could ask for more?”

“Well, any thinking reader,” says Banjo with a snort,
“your rhyming’s bloody hopeless, it’s all so over-wrought…
like ‘snarling’ stuck with ‘Darling’, ‘worry’ with ‘Macquarie’…
you really should be pleading, saying that you’re sorry!
And while we’re on the subject I wish you’d tell me how
you thought it was so clever to partner ‘now’ with ‘now’!”

“That’s just poetic licence, the repetition’s fine,
and only serves to focus the power of the line.
But if you want a winner, a piece of strength and charm,
then all the world knows Lawson’s The Fire at Ross’s Farm,
where Robert Black showed courage to fight the smoke and heat
for love of his dear Jenny…and saved her field of wheat.”

“That’s bunkum…fer a bushfire an’ makin’ goo-goo eyes,
I reckon Flames by C. J. would ’ave ter win the prize.
Them lines is so romantic, my ’ero suffers ’ell
ter battle through the messmates an’ reach his angel Nell.”
“What sentimental rubbish! You’ve got to lift your gaze,
appreciate our fortune, The Old Australian Ways!

For there are words of beauty that capture all our pride…
the laughing breeze that whispers, and Clancy on his ride…
the days of mines and shearing, of fortune further out,
the blooming of the wattle, the pain of heat and drought.
Or take my jolly swagman…” “I sure wish someone would!
That stupid load of nonsense is just no flamin’ good!”

And so it goes, they argue, the words fly thick and fast,
as each in turn shouts insults to justify their past.
They pace and point and threaten, they mutter and they yell:
“It’s me who’s right in Heaven, but you should be in Hell!”
While Shakespeare and the others, quite fed up with the strife,
just wish that Aussie poets could have eternal life.

[Shelley Hansen]

Stephen ... I think we're licked!!!

[Stephen Whiteside]