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McQuade, you’re not forgotten

Tallarook (pop. ±790), a town  in central Victoria, became infamous in 19th-century Australia as the folk-tale of McQuade’s Curse spread throughout the colonies. Who he was and why he cursed the town  is not known, but the expression “things are crook in Tallarook” is still in use today.

As an Australian disgusted by the way this country is being dragged into the muck by the self-styled “political class” – who do they think they are, these ideology driven egoists who love to boast we are a classless society in which all are entitled to a fair go – I thought Mr McQuade should rise again. Here are a a few stanzas from his wonderful curse:

May every paddock yield a stook, of smutty wheat in Tallarook;
May good St Peter overlook, the good deeds done in Tallarook;
May each Don Juan who forsook, his sweetheart live in Tallarook;

There is also an old “shearer’s curse”:

May the Lord above, send down a dove,
With wings as sharp as razors;
To cut the throat, of the heartless goat,
Who lowered shearers’ wages.

I homage to these unknown  battlers I’d like to add these lines (the latter first):

May the powers that be who stiffened me, by cutting my aged pension,
Be caged for all eternity, on Manus in detention.

And now back to McQuade

May those who pray in Scomo’s flock find heaven is a barren rock;
May those who on dull Dutton dote, be roundly swiven by a goat;
May all who marked the Hanson chit, spend eternity neck-deep in shit;
May all who preach mad Abbott’s lies, spend their lives ingesting flies.

Scomo is Scott Morrison, a smug, born-again Pentecostal and member of the Liberal Party and treasurer in the Liberal/National Coalition government. If it’s only his lot that are going up to heaven, why is he pretending to be running the economy for all Australians?

Dutton is Peter Dutton (Liberal Party). Seemingly bloodless and devoid of any human emotion, he now heads the new Department of Home Affairs, a super-portfolio covering immigration, national security and what else only Old Harry knows. Among the troops at his command are those of Border Force, a new body, whose name and B-grade US TV cop drama uniforms are down to

Tony Abbot (Liberal Party), failed seminarian, failed prime minister. Once known as the Mad Monk he is the right-wing Christian’s Christian. His antics and Putinesque dress sense would be funny if it were not for the position he holds, and are too well known to bear repeating here, but suffice it to say that he once turned up for a meeting with Japan’s Prime Minister dressed in a Lycra urban Olympian bikerider outfit and wheeling a pushbike.

Hanson is Pauline Hanson, a self-styled patriot who was first elected to Parliament on a platform of stripping Indigenous Australians of what rights they have managed to regain, and holding back the Asian hordes massing in some unspecified lair to overwhelm Australia and breed us out of existence. She didn’t last long the first time round, but in the most recent election made a comeback on a platform of stopping Sharia law, banning the burqua and halal food, and suppressing the spread of scientists’ lies about climate change. Believing the royalties raised by brands bearing halal certification are used to fund terrorism, she asked a witness during a Senate inquiry into the matter whether or not it was true that cows were alive before they were killed. She also urged Australians to buy non-halal Easter eggs.

Manus and Nauru are small Pacific islands on which “boat people” escaping oppressive regimes are illegally detained in concentration camps. The present government justifies this on moral grounds by claiming they are “stopping the drownings at sea”. The policy, backed by the Labor Opposition, is turning Australia into an international pariah.

And a note to our US cousins, “Liberal” in Australian equates to Republican in your country and, like that party, is increasingly hostage to the backward forces within the party. I refuse to use the word conservative, properly defined as moderate; avoiding extremes.

Suffer The Little Children

Written at the height of public interest in Australia’s Royal Commission into the institutional abuse of children

For the first couple of lines I wish to acknowledge my admiration of Joe Hill, who influenced them.
Your altars are of marble, your plate of beaten gold,
But your souls are of base metal and your hearts are stony cold;
Your bells are cast of finest bronze and they peal your man-god’s name,
But all the bells in all the world can’t drown out years of pain.

Gentle jesus meek and mild, look upon this weeping child
Please let me die before I wake…

You march to your salvation, with tambourine and drum,
And say you’ll be uplifted on a day that’s yet to come;
On judgment day you will be saved, and bathed in holy light,
While those that you have raped and flogged remain in dreadful night.

Onward christian soldiers, marching as to war
With the cross of Jesus, crushing all before

You took the dark-skinned children, and stole both tongue and mind,
Defiled their bodies and their souls and left just shells behind;
You scoured the streets of England for the children of the poor,
And gave them into slavery, then locked and barred the door.

Jesus loves the little children, all the little children of the world;
Black, yellow brown and white, they are precious in his sight

At least that’s what your hymnals say, the ones you make them read,
To sing your holy songs of praise, to spread your blighted creed;
But all the hymns and all the psalms, shouted at the sky,
Will not erase the wrong you’ve done, and know that when you die

Washed in the blood of the lamb

Your prayers and praise of jesus’ name, your blinding faith in god,
Won’t serve to straighten out the path, the crooked road you trod;
It seems a pity, really, that one day you will die,
For if you lived for ever, you might just learn to cry.

Your father, who art in heaven;
Blackened is his name

To Ms L McC

Written after the 2017 Gulgong Folk Festival. It never did go any further
than friendly conversations on social media.

Well, at last I’ve plucked up courage,
My spine’s no longer slack;
No more prevarication,
Straight in – no holding back.

So here I go, chin tucked in,
Fingers curled and tense,
Poised above the keyboard,
And hang the consequence.

It was easier on Friday,
Before I knew your name;
I could stare and think more freely
The words more eas’ly came.

I was taken by your outfit –
Your trilby and your top –
And the cheeky way you bagged us,
The men you gave the chop.

And your face was springtime raindrops,
Gleaming in the sun;
Your smile lit up the pub yard,
And spoke of endless fun.

But then, on Lawson Sunday,
It became a little hard,
Just as I was leaving,
I asked you for your card.

(That’s poetic licence,
It had to be I fear,
To repeat the “conversation”,
Wouldn’t fit in here.)

Actually, you offered it,
For which I’m very glad,
But just before the giving,
Things went well – or bad!

Depend which way you want to look,
And how you make it twist;
If the looker’s always hopeful,
Or a die-hard pessimist.

But I’m dodging round the subject,
I’m drifting right away;
The boots that once would jump right in,
Are now on feet of clay.

You walked right up to talk to me,
But didn’t slow your pace,
And gently bumped what I’d admired,
Into a touchy place.

A sort of ero-wotsit zone,
On my middle chest,
Just above my diaphragm,
And just below the rest.

And so comes the great big question,
The reason for this mail;
Strewth, the very thought of asking,
Is making me quite pale.

Was it, I just want to know,
An action of intent,
Or misjudging of the distance,
Completely innocent?

See, I really fancied you,
I really like your smile;
The way you looked and acted,
This musician to beguile.

But I’ve never been an expert,
At signals from the girls;
I’d never ask them face to face –
The thought my toenails curls.

So that’s the reason for this poem,
This bland, pathetic verse;
To get from you an answer –
For better or for worse.

An e-mail would be lovely,
In poesy or prose;
’specially if it didn’t read:
‘You’re getting up my nose’.

But if you dialled the number Oh
Then four eight eight, five zero seven,
And followed up with four one four –
That would indeed be seventh heaven.

Literacy and the feral goat

This was written while at the 2016–17 Gulgong Folk Festival. In addition to my musical performances, I was moderator of a Henry Lawson celebration that was part of the festival and thought I had best contribute, so I dashed this off the night before. As usual, it’s rough, but as I am with recording music, I hate going back over what was spontaneous. Poetic licence has treated the people of Bourke unfairly. Since the day I arrived to perform at the 1000 Stories Festival in September, 2016 and lobbed again in November as soon-to-be managing editor of their newspaper, ‘The Western Herald’, they have shown me nothing but kindness and warmth. However, the goats do seem to have vanished. On two long trips down the Mitchell Highway since I have taken up residence here, I have seen not one. When I drove up from Tasmania for the Festival, they were everywhere.

 

“Goat abattoir for Bourke”, it read,
In letters bold and black;
The headline in our paper,
That serves the great outback.

The Western Herald’s never slow,
To print the latest news;
And this, I thought, will lift our town,
From its economic blues.

There’d been no decent crops for years,
But now with soaking rain,
There’ll be cotton in, this year at least,
It’ll help to ease the pain.

Those Dorper sheep have helped a bit,
They’ve saved the situation;
An economic boost to life,
On many a western station.

But unlike goats, those feral goats,
To whom life’s just a breeze,
The Dorper doesn’t do so well,
At climbing up in trees.

But “abattoir”, that magic word,
It made the townsfolk gloat;
An economic miracle,
Wrought by the feral goat.

You see, there’s goats in great big heaps,
Along the roads out west;
From Nyngan on they’re everywhere,
A proper flamin’ pest.

They treat the blasted countryside,
Like some caprine supermarket;
And in droughts that stiffen camels,
Goats never seem to kark it.

But since I wrote that headline,
Things have somewhat queered;
From all round Bourke and elsewhere,
The goats have disappeared.

Drive from dawn to dusk each day,
You’d see ’em by the ton;
But since that paper hit the street,
I haven’t seen a one.

And townsfolk, who a week ago,
Were glad to see me there;
Now cross the street to dodge me,
Or simply stand, and glare.

They look at me as if I’d crawled,
From some dank and smelly ditch;
And this from one young cheeky kid:
‘Me gran says you’re a witch.’

Had some superstitious citizen,
Spread the word about;
That I’d tempted fate and providence,
When I let the news leak out?

But I’ve hatched a scheme, a good one,
I’m going to lift my game;
The town on even keel to set,
And restore my honest name.

I’ll pen an editorial,
“To whom it may concern;
(I won’t pursue identity,
The name no-one will learn).

“Would that scoundrel, name unknown,
Of dubious mongrel breed,
Desist, forthwith, instanter,
From teaching goats to read.”

In a past life?

We once swam together, you and I;
In some viscous, tropic sea, aglow
With phosphorescence; corals spread
In vivid chaos, like rumpled bedding
Beneath our naked bodies.

I felt your legs brush mine; soft
As the touch of lapping wavelets and so
I stroked your stomach, watching
As your wriggled, magic sea-thing
Beckoning me to follow as you swam to shore

Where, caressed by wavelets, you took me
Into your being, rising and falling with the sea
And as you came, you cried in joy, to feel
The wavelets lap us, claiming what we’d given…

The moon smiled and earth turned once more.

A discussion on rivers

In September 2016 I was invited to give music and song performances at the 1000 Voices Festival held at Bourke, in western NSW. Bourke is an isolated town in a shire the size of Denmark with a total population 0f somewhere about 3000 and on the boundary between the zones of (relatively) reliable rainfall where grazing and some cropping under irrigation are still viable (the latter in good seasons) and the arid zone. The iconic Darling River, part of the country’s largest river system and once the highway for a bustling riverboat trade, still pervades the character and life of this resilient and warm-hearted town. As one of the artists in residence on a poet’s trek that retraced the footsteps of Lawson and Ogilvie during the festival, I thought I’d better contribute something original, so I penned this simple tale during a dinner camp. For the non-Australian, Hughie is the bloke who brings the rain – especially violent downpours. In the latter years of the twentieth century he also assumed the mantle of a surfing god.

One man’s creek is another man’s Barwon

You see a lot of rivers as you wander here and there —
I reckon in my travels I’ve seen a decent share —
But one feller’s “mighty river”, is another codger’s creek;
Try to tell him different, and he’ll argue for a week.

The south-west’s Avon River would be sneered at in the east;
And the Torrens? Strike me purple, it’s a weird sort of beast.
More mud than flamin’ water, like a claypan upside down;
And there’s another one just like it, runs through Melbourne town.

I lived in Old Kentucky, of Stephen Foster fame —
Though the beggar never went there, he just liked to use its name —
And if I said “the river” when I spoke of Cedar Creek;
It kept the boys in Stamping Ground laughin’ for a week.

To get to little Stamping Ground, you have to go across,
The South Branch of the Elkhorn Creek, where the buff’lo used to cross;
More water than the Murray — though nowhere near as long,
And wider, too, in places, with a flow that’s awful strong.

A 46-inch annual rainfall, keeps her flowing well,
And it’ll up and drown you, easy, when the summer storms give hell;
For what them durned hillbillies call a “summer shower”,
Is the edge of a tornado, and a foot of rain an hour.

But still, it’s just “a crik” to them, though it seemed much more to me,
The blow-in from the Old Brown Land, a place they’ll never see.
But like us old-time Aussies, those hill-folk love a yarn;
They love to hear what life is like on someone else’s farm.

And so we’d pass the evenin’s, swopping tales—all mostly true,
Though sometimes lightly seasoned with a little lie or two;
They loved to hear my stories, of a country that, to them,
Seemed strange—well weird really— and far beyond their ken.

One night as I recall it, a memory slipped out,
Of the Darling down at Wentworth, in the middle of a drought.
I told ‘em how that mighty stream, was down to three foot wide;
How the carp were wriggling up the banks, to pull grass from off the side.

I tried to tell them how, the mighty river gums,
Seemed to hunch their shoulders, as drought he country numbs;
And push their roots down deeper, into the drying mud,
To wait the Darling’s blessing, as she brings another flood.

“And,” I began — here I paused as all good yarners should,
To ratchet up the tension, make the telling of it good—
Here I ask indulgence, I should have taken time,
To do a little extra and fix that bloody awful rhyme…

“And,” I said, and drew a breath, adding drama to my tale,
“When the mighty Darling River floods, she’d drown a bloody whale!”
“Thar h’aint be whales in rivers,” the local cynic scoffed;
“He’s a-paintin’ pitchers, cuz you cain’t read, hush your mouth, Clem Goff.”

Rescued for the moment, I went on to tell them how,
The rains would always come at last – “Like it’s doing here right now”.
And then that sluggish river that they might call a creek,
Spreads out to cover acres by the million in a week.

Down she comes majestic like, a relentless, sliding flow,
Ignoring bends and channels, spreading as she goes.
The TV news might tell us that the “country is in strife”;
In strife Aunt Fanny’s bed socks! The country’s come to life!

The livestock will get fat again, the wildflowers bloom;
There’s money for improvements and for an extra room.
The outback wife will smile again, her old man not so gruff;
For when that river’s banking, things never seem so tough.

It was Dorothea Mackellar said they “could not understand”,
Our love for what outsiders see as barren, sunburned land;
Perhaps because they never wait, they never stick it out,
To see that Aussie miracle, the breaking of a drought.

They never know the joy that’s felt along the Darling side,
When Hughie smiles upon us and sends the swift brown tide.
When life’s transformed and the world’s turned bright, all in a single week,
As the mighty Darling River proves, she isn’t just a creek.

To Ms L McC

Written following my attendance at two poets’ mic sessions and the compering of one of them, a tribute to Henry Lawson.

Feet of Clay

Well, at last I’ve plucked up courage,
My spine’s no longer slack;
No more prevarication,
Straight in – no holding back.

So here I go, chin tucked in,
Fingers curled and tense,
Poised above the keyboard,
And hang the consequence.

It was easier on Friday,
Before I knew your name;
I could stare and think more freely
The words more freely came.

I was taken by your outfit –
Your trilby and your top –
And the cheeky way you bagged us,
The men you gave the chop.

And your face was springtime raindrops,
Gleaming in the sun;
Your smile lit up the pub yard,
And spoke of endless fun.

But then, on Lawson Sunday,
It became a little hard,
Just as I was leaving,
I asked you for your card.

(That’s poetic licence,
It had to be I fear,
To repeat the “conversation”,
Wouldn’t fit in here.)

Actually, you offered it,
For which I’m very glad,
But just before the giving,
Things went well – or bad!

Depends which way you want to look,
And how you make it twist;
If the looker’s always hopeful,
Or a die-hard pessimist.

But I’m dodging round the subject,
I’m drifting right away;
The boots that once would jump right in,
Are now on feet of clay.

You walked right up to talk to me,
But didn’t slow your pace,
And gently bumped what I’d admired,
Into a touchy place.

A sort of ero-wotsit zone,
On my middle chest,
Just above my diaphragm,
And just below the rest.

And so comes the great big question,
The reason for this mail;
Strewth, the very thought of asking,
Is making me quite pale.

Was it, I just want to know,
An action of intent,
Or misjudging of the distance,
Completely innocent?

See, I really fancied you,
I really like your smile;
The way you looked and acted,
This muso to beguile.

But I’ve never been an expert,
At signals from the girls;
I’d never ask them face to face –
The thought my toenails curls.

So that’s the reason for this poem,
This bland, pathetic verse;
To get from you an answer –
For better or for worse.

An e-mail would be lovely,
In poesy or prose;
’specially if it didn’t read:
‘You’re getting up my nose’.

But if you dialled the number Oh
Then four eight-eight, five zero seven,
And followed up with four one four –
That would be seventh heaven.