The Ghost of Ginger Mick
Posted: Wed Oct 26, 2016 7:37 am
I was very happy to win Third Prize in the Themed Section (a poem inspired by "The Moods of Ginger Mick") of the 2016 Toolangi C. J. Dennis Written Poetry Competition with the following poem.
The Ghost of Ginger Mick
The ghost of Ginger Mick came down on Anzac Day this year.
It sauntered round, and scratched its chin to see folks shed a tear.
I could see it clearly, but I was the only one.
I sidled up, and nudged its ribs with, “Good to see you, son!
“It’s been too long since you’ve appeared down here on faulty Earth.
You did so much to give this whole Gallipoli myth birth.
You should come here more often. This is where you best belong.
You fit right in amongst this mirthless marching mournful throng.”
It turned and looked me up and down. It held between its teeth
A single blade of grass. “Ghosts do not visit underneath;
They do not come down here at all lest something is awry.”
And then it stopped, and there we held each other, eye to eye.
“So, what’s the problem, then?” I ask. “What’s brought you down from high?
Why aren’t you with the others, plucking lyres in the sky?
Why aren’t you up by God’s right hand, and wearing lacy wings?”
And when at last it deigns to speak at all, its answer stings.
“You fight too many wars,” it says. “You’re always on the go.
You’re always in the middle of some ugly little show.
And not too little, either. There’s a lot of killin’ done
In the name – or to the glory? – of the noble Southern Sun.
“I know you say our scrap was mad. I think you’re pretty right.
At least it was a fairly honest, manful sort of fight.
We didn’t pull a lever twenty thousand miles away,
And set a city blazing, turning night-time into day.
“We didn’t wipe out families, the way you buggers do.
We set ourselves some principles, and tried to see them through.
I had to drop from Heaven ‘cos I couldn’t sleep at night.
The way you’re waging wars today, it makes a dreadful sight.”
I couldn’t really argue. I could see that he made sense.
Comparisons were grim between the past and present tense
And so I simply stood up straight, and gave a crisp salute,
And felt a little tawdry in my freshly ironed suit.
The ghost of Ginger Mick moved off. He sauntered, slow and soft,
And then I saw it gently at the edges rise aloft.
The bugle played “The Last Post” and I answered to the call,
While the ghost of Ginger Mick rose gracefully above it all.
© Stephen Whiteside 24.05.2016
The Ghost of Ginger Mick
The ghost of Ginger Mick came down on Anzac Day this year.
It sauntered round, and scratched its chin to see folks shed a tear.
I could see it clearly, but I was the only one.
I sidled up, and nudged its ribs with, “Good to see you, son!
“It’s been too long since you’ve appeared down here on faulty Earth.
You did so much to give this whole Gallipoli myth birth.
You should come here more often. This is where you best belong.
You fit right in amongst this mirthless marching mournful throng.”
It turned and looked me up and down. It held between its teeth
A single blade of grass. “Ghosts do not visit underneath;
They do not come down here at all lest something is awry.”
And then it stopped, and there we held each other, eye to eye.
“So, what’s the problem, then?” I ask. “What’s brought you down from high?
Why aren’t you with the others, plucking lyres in the sky?
Why aren’t you up by God’s right hand, and wearing lacy wings?”
And when at last it deigns to speak at all, its answer stings.
“You fight too many wars,” it says. “You’re always on the go.
You’re always in the middle of some ugly little show.
And not too little, either. There’s a lot of killin’ done
In the name – or to the glory? – of the noble Southern Sun.
“I know you say our scrap was mad. I think you’re pretty right.
At least it was a fairly honest, manful sort of fight.
We didn’t pull a lever twenty thousand miles away,
And set a city blazing, turning night-time into day.
“We didn’t wipe out families, the way you buggers do.
We set ourselves some principles, and tried to see them through.
I had to drop from Heaven ‘cos I couldn’t sleep at night.
The way you’re waging wars today, it makes a dreadful sight.”
I couldn’t really argue. I could see that he made sense.
Comparisons were grim between the past and present tense
And so I simply stood up straight, and gave a crisp salute,
And felt a little tawdry in my freshly ironed suit.
The ghost of Ginger Mick moved off. He sauntered, slow and soft,
And then I saw it gently at the edges rise aloft.
The bugle played “The Last Post” and I answered to the call,
While the ghost of Ginger Mick rose gracefully above it all.
© Stephen Whiteside 24.05.2016