"The Bush Song"

In This Issue: April 2005

Editorial Letters To The Editor Traditional Featured Poet - Henry Lawson Modern Featured Poet - Max Merckenschlager - The Pomberuk Poet Events & Competitions Your Chance To Win This Issues Competition Subject Copyright Information Subscription Information Navigation Tip: Click on any of the above listings to take you directly to the spot. When finished use your back button to bring you back to the menu.

Editorial or "Ric's Ramblings"

G'day and welcome to another edition of "The Bush Song". You are visitor number:

Hope you have all had a great couple of months since our last edition.

Changes To The Site

Well they say that a website is always a work in progress and this is certainly the case with johnstaufferbooks.com. In the last month we have modified the navigation system to place clear divider lines between the sections and have also spaced out the paragraphs a little more to assist with clearer reading. If you have any comments on the site itself, please don't hesitate to post them in the Forum under the Web Site & Forum section. Anything we can do to improve the user friendliness of the site will be taken into consideration.

Last month was also a record month for visitors to the site. It's great to see more people accessing the site because this means that the message of bush poetry and music is being spread. Hopefully, we will gain more and more devotees!

Bushverse.com Forum

Are you a member yet? The forum is free to join. The reason that registration is required is simply to keep the spammers out. Whilst you can always view the posts on the Forum without registration, becoming a member can help both you and us in keeping you informed.

The Forum allows us to do a bulk email to all members, (providing you put an email address in your profile when joining). If we feel something significant needs to be communicated to our members, such as the site going down for maintenance or to let you know it is up again after going down, we can do this through Forum membership. Apart from that, we would love you to be part of the community on the Forum and post an introduction about yourself. I know from our joining list for the Newsletter that we now have subscribers from Europe, Germany, the UK, the US and New Zealand. That's fantastic that we are reaching our international friends and we would love to know more about you and your interests in an introduction on the Forum.

Click here to go to the Forum and join. The Forum will open in a new browser page, so when you are finished, just close it to come back to the Newsletter.

Travelling Around

Jude and I have been on a few trips of late. We attended the Victorian State Championships in Benalla a few weeks ago. Over the weekend of the 1st to 3rd April, we travelled to Corryong in North East Victoria for the Man From Snowy River Bush Festival. Both events were fantastic experiences, despite the travel distance. Corryong is about six hours from home and Benalla is about four hours. The great thing about attending these events is communing with other poets, the yarns, the stories and the socialising. It's so wonderful to catch up with people that you don't see on a regular basis. If you aren't attending festivals and competitions, make a date to do so, even if you aren't competing you will have a wonderful experience.

More about the Events in the "Events Section" of the Newsletter.

Thanks to all our subscribers and contributors for supporting the site and the newsletter. Talk to you all again soon.

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Letters To The Editor

Got something to say about the site, the Forum or the Newsletter or anything else you think might be relevant? Then drop us a line and mention it's for inclusion in the Newsletter.

Well, you wouldn't believe it would you! I have actually received a letter to publish here. You may recall from the last issue that I mentioned that Jude and I had travelled to Mount Gambier and as a result we made Adam Lindsay Gordon our Featured Traditional Poet for the February issue of The Bushsong.

When I was in Warrnambool, I met a lady who told me that her grandfather knew Adam Lindsay Gordon and was present when he made his famous leap at Mt Gambier. The following is a letter I received from her about Adam Lindsay Gordon.

Dear Ric,

Do hope this letter find you OK. As promised, a little bit of memorabilia on Adam Lindsay Gordon.

An incredible horseman from what I've been told. My grandfather knew him and was present and witnessed the "leap" at the Blue Lake in Mt Gambier. I recall him telling me how that horse could spin on a threepenny piece and spit out the change!

In the early 1900's, Adam was on his way to Ballarat from Dingley Dell, near Mt Gambier. He decided to travel through to Hamilton with Cobb & Co coach which did the mail run and carried travellers as well, stopping at Strathdownie PO, at Ardno, Strathdownie, staying overnight at Strathdownie Station, then continuing on to Casterton, Hamilton and then return to Mt Gambier.

Strathdownie Station was owned by a chap call McFibbon at the time of Adam's journey. Cobb & Co stayed there along with its travellers. Adam asked if he could stay overnight as well, even offered to sleep in the barn as long as he could get feed and water for his horse and himself. (Cobb & Co travellers having priority of accommodation.)

Mr McFibbon refused to let him stay and told him to move on, so Adam rode about a quarter of a mile down the road to Eel Drain Creek, watered his horse then went over to Strathdownie Cemetery, about 200 metres from the creek, let his horse go in the cemetery yard and slept under the stars for the night and joined Cobb & Co on the journey next day.

Before leaving Stathdownie Station, Adam wrote a note for Mr McFibbon and sat it on the gate post under a stone. It read:-

To hell and damnation
With Stathdownie Station
If you ever want water or grass
As as for McFibbon, he wants friggin'
And shovin' up Cobb & Co's arse.

I don't believe this poem would have been published, but to the best of my knowledge is true. I was bred and born at Strathdownie. My parents moved there in the 1930's as rabbit trappers, lived in a tent and had three stag hound dogs and 150 rabbit traps, travelled around local properties trapping rabbits and helped out with farm work until they were able to buy their own farm there called "Woodlands". Stathdownie Station still stands and is owned by Ian and Jan Harvey. It's now called Strathdownie Estate and is operated as a beef and sheep property.

Hope this little ode tickles you and thanks for putting me in touch with Neil McArthur.

Yours truly,

Marilyn Heaver.

Well, what a great story! That piece of verse is just the sort of thing a bush poet would write if a little angry I imagine.

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Traditional Featured Poet - Henry Lawson

HENRY LAWSON (1867-1922),
short story writer and poet, was born in a tent near Grenfell, New South Wales, on 17 June 1867. His birth is officially registered as Henry Lawson, but his name has sometimes been given as Henry Herzberg Lawson, sometimes as Henry Archibald Lawson. In his books it appears simply as Henry, and his usual practice was to sign his name in that form. His father, Peter Hertzberg Larsen, was a Norwegian sailor, a well-informed and educated man, who had much appreciation of the poetry of the Old Testament, but had no faculty for writing. As it was known that Lawson's father's second name was Hertzberg it has been suggested that Archibald may have been a mistake for Hertzberg made at Henry's christening, but there appears to be no evidence that he was ever baptized. His father, having tried his fortunes on various goldfields, came to Pipeclay, now Eurunderee, New South Wales, and there met Louisa Albury (1848-1920), daughter of Henry Albury, a timber-getter. He married her on 7 July 1866, being then 32 years of age and his wife 18. She was to become a remarkable woman, who, after rearing a family, took a prominent part in the women's movements, and edited a women's paper called Dawn which lasted from May 1888 to July 1905. She published her son's first volume, and about the year 1904 brought out a volume of her own, Dert and Do, a simple story of about 18,000 words. In 1905 she collected and published her own verses, The Lonely Crossing and other Poems, the work in which is of more than average quality. She died on 12 August 1920, a woman of unusual character and ability, who probably exercised a strong influence on her son's literary work in its earliest days. Lawson believed that through his mother he inherited gypsy blood, but there is no evidence for this.

Peter Larsen was working at the diggings near Grenfell when Henry their first child was born, and apparently the family took the name of Lawson when Henry's birth was registered. The family soon returned to Eurunderee where the father took up a selection. The land was poor and little could be done with it, and as Henry grew up, like so many other bush children, he helped in the work; but, as he said in his autobiography, he "had no heart in it; perhaps I realized by instinct that the case was hopeless". Probably the strain of the hard life was partly responsible for his parents' married life becoming unhappy, but in the interview with Mrs Lawson, recorded on the Red Page of the Bulletin on 24 October 1896, she showed herself as a masterful woman with a strong prejudice against men in general, and one feels when reading it that even as a young woman she would probably have been difficult to live with. This is confirmed by private information from a relative of Mrs Lawson still alive at the time of writing. But the unhappiness of the family life re-acted on the child, and in his autobiography at the Mitchell library, Lawson said his home life "was miserably unhappy", and though he goes on to say, "there was no one to blame". the sketch in Triangles of Life, "A Child in the Dark and a Foreign Father", was in all probability founded on his own experience.

In 1876 a little school was opened at Eurunderee and on 2 October 1876 Lawson became a pupil. It was about this time that he began to be deaf, but his master John Tierney was kind and appears to have done his best for the shy sensitive boy. Later on he went to a Roman Catholic school at Mudgee about five miles away. Here again the master, a Mr Kevan, was good to Lawson and would sometimes talk to him about poetry. The boy was steadily reading Dickens and Marryat and such novels as Robbery under Arms and For the Term of his Natural Life, when they appeared as serials. An aunt gave him a volume of stories by Bret Harte which fascinated him and introduced him to a new world. These books no doubt helped to educate him for writing, for handicapped by his deafness he could learn little at school, he was no good at arithmetic, and never learned to spell.

When Henry was about 14 he left school and began working with his father who had got the contract to build a school at Canadian Lead. His childhood was now at an end. He had lived in poor country, where the selectors slaved for a wretched living, and his experiences were to colour the whole of his subsequent literary work. Some time after this his parents agreed to separate, the exact time is uncertain, but in 1884 Mrs Lawson and her family were living in Sydney. The house, however, seems to have been taken in the father's name as he appears in the Sydney Directory for both 1885 and 1886 as Peter Lawson, builder, 138 Phillip Street. Henry worked as a painter and at 17 years of age was earning thirty shillings a week. Though his hours were long he also worked at a night school, and twice entered for public examinations at the university of Sydney without success. He paid for his night-schooling himself, and when about 20 years old went to Melbourne and attended the eye and ear hospital there. But nothing could be done for him and he returned to Sydney. There he worked as a painter at the low wages of the time, saw something of the slums and how the poor lived, and "wished that he could write". He was working as a coach-painter's improver at five shillings a day when in June 1887 the Bulletin printed four lines of a poem he had submitted and advised him to "try again". In October his "Song of the Republic" was published in the Bulletin, and in the Christmas number two poems "Golden Gully" and "The Wreck of the Derry Castle" appeared. Lawson has told us with what excitement he opened this Bulletin and found his poems. Prefixed to the second was an editorial note:--"In publishing the subjoined verses we take pleasure in stating that the writer is a boy of 17 years, a young Australian, who has as yet had an imperfect education and is earning his living under some difficulties as a housepainter, a youth whose poetic genius here speaks eloquently for itself." Lawson was then 20 years of age, not 17, but the editor showed remarkable prescience in recognizing the poet's ability so early. Lawson's first story, "His Father's Mate", was published in the Bulletin for 22 December 1888 greatly to the pride of his father, who, however, died a few days later aged 54. Lawson in his autobiography said of him: "I don't believe that a kinder man in trouble, or a gentler nurse in sickness ever breathed. I've known him to work hard all day and then sit up all night by a neighbour's sick child." Though Lawson may have inherited his capacity for writing from his mother, he probably owed the love of humanity that illumines all his work to his father.

Lawson went to Albany, Western Australia, in 1889, but found conditions no better there, and was in Sydney again for most of 1890. He then obtained a position on the Brisbane Boomerang at £2 a week, but the paper stopped about six months later, and Lawson was back in Sydney again working at his trade for the usual low wages, writing a good deal for the socialistic press, as a rule without pay, and getting an occasional guinea from the Bulletin and smaller sums from Truth. In 1892 he did some writing for the Sydney Worker at twelve and sixpence a column, and about the end of that year went by train to western New South Wales and carried his swag for six months doing odd jobs. Much of his experience of this period was afterwards included in his writings. Towards the end of 1893 Lawson landed in Wellington, New Zealand, with one pound in his pocket, worked in a sawmill for a short period, and tried his hand at a variety of tasks. He then found his way to Sydney again hoping to get work on the Daily Worker, which, however, had stopped publication before he arrived. In 1894 his Short Stories in Prose and Verse was published by his mother, a poorly-printed little volume of 96 pages, which was favourably received but brought in little money. He had made a life-long friend in J. Le Gay Brereton (q.v.), who had been introduced to him by Mary Gilmore, and other friends of his early literary days were Victor Daley (q.v.), E. J. Brady, and F. J. Broomfield. In April 1896, while In the Days When the World was Wide was in the press, he married Bertha Marie Louise Bredt, and soon afterwards took her to Western Australia. In August While the Billy Boils, a collection of his short stories mostly from the Bulletin, was published, and when Lawson returned to Sydney from Western Australia shortly afterwards, he found that both of his books had been cordially received by the critics and were selling well. He next went to New Zealand, where he and his wife were for a time in charge of a Maori school. There he met Bland Holt (q.v.) the well-known actor, who suggested that he should write a play. The play was written though Lawson had no knowledge of the technique of play-writing. Holt gave him an advance against it, and took it away hoping he might knock it into shape, but nothing more was heard of it. In January 1899 an article by Lawson appeared in the Bulletin which stated that in 12 years he estimated that he had made a total of about £700 by his writings. This included the receipts from his first three books. He had returned to Sydney and made a new friend in the governor of New South Wales, Earl Beauchamp, who gave him the financial help that enabled him to go to England with his wife and two young children. They sailed from Sydney on 20 April 1900. In the same year his Verses Popular and Humorous, and a collection of prose stories On the Track and Over the Sliprails, were both published at Sydney.

Though it was not easy for either Lawson or his wife to fit themselves into the conventional pattern of the England of 1900, for a time everything went well. Blackwood and Sons took two books of prose for publication, The Country I Came From and Joe Wilson and his Mates, both of which appeared in 1901. Methuen and Company also took a book made up of prose and verse, Children of the Bush, which was published in 1902. Lawson stuck closely to his work at first, but for some time drink had been a temptation to him, and he began to have trouble with it again. His wife had a serious illness, both found the long winter months very trying, and both pined for the sunshine of Australia. They were glad to return to a little cottage at Manly before the end of 1902. But difficulties arose between husband and wife and they agreed to part. An account of their association, written by Mrs Lawson without rancour and with understanding of Lawson's temperament, will be found in Henry Lawson by his Mates.

At 35 years of age most of Lawson's best work was done. When I was King and other Verses was published in 1905, The Rising of the Court and other Sketches in Prose and Verse, and The Skyline Riders and other Verses in 1910, Triangles of Life and Other Stories, and For Australia and other Poems in 1913. My Army, 0, My Army! was published in 1915, and reissued in England under the title of Song of the Dardanelles and other Verses in 1916. Various minor works, reprints, selections, and collected editions will be found listed in Miller's Australian Literature and Serle's Bibliography of Australasian Poetry and Verse. Lawson lived mostly in Sydney, but had a happy holiday in 1910 with his friend, T. D. Mutch, at the home of another friend, E. J. Brady, at Mallacoota, Victoria, and in 1917 Bertram Stevens (q.v.) and other friends arranged a deputation to the premier, W. A. Holman (q.v.), which resulted in Lawson being given a position at Leeton on the Yanco irrigation settlement. Lawson described it as the driest place he had ever been to, but his health improved very much while he was there. On his return to Sydney he reverted to his old habits, and became a rather pathetic though lovable figure in the streets of Sydney. He was only a shadow of his former self when he died on 2 September 1922. He was survived by his wife, a son and a daughter. He had a small allowance from his publishers and a small literary pension. That he did not lack friends may be gathered from the volume Henry Lawson by his Mates published nine years after his death. He was given a state funeral. A portrait by Longstaff (q.v.) is at the national gallery, Sydney, and there is a monument by Lambert (q.v.) in Hyde Park, Sydney, erected by public subscription.

Lawson was tall, spare, good looking in his youth, with remarkable eyes. He was shy, diffident and very sensitive, with great powers of attracting friends to him. A convinced socialist as a young man, he was always passionately concerned about the under dog. There has been much discussion about his place as a poet, and opinions have ranged between those of people who consider him to be no more than a mere verse-writer, and those who speak of him as "Australia's greatest poet". The truth lies between these extremes. No one can surely deny the title of poet to the author of "The Sliprails and the Spur", "Past Carin'", passages in "The Star of Australasia", "The Drover's Sweetheart" and that pathetic little poem of his later days "Scots of the Riverina". But a large proportion of his poetry is merely good popular verse. However, every writer is justified in being judged by his best work, and in virtue of his best work Lawson is a poet. There is no difficulty about his position as a prose-writer. His short stories are practically all based on his own experience, and that a proportion of them are gloomy should give no surprise to anyone familiar with the struggling lives of the men on the land in Lawson's youth. He had had little education, and no doubt his earliest efforts were sub-edited to some extent by Archibald and others. But fundamentally he was an artist, and his absolute sincerity and sympathy with his fellows counted for much. He had a quiet sense of humour, his pathos came straight from the heart, his gift of narration is unfailing. The combination of these qualities has given him the foremost place in Australian literature as a writer of short stories.

"Henry Lawson's Early Days", The Lone Hand, March 1908; The Bulletin, 21 January 1899, Geo. G. Reeve, Windsor and Richmond Gazette, 4 December 1931; Peter J. Lawson, ibid, 5 October 1928; Ed. by G. Mackaness, introduction to A Selection from the Prose Works of Henry Lawson, 1930; Henry Lawson, by his Mates; J. Le Gay Brereton, Knocking Round; E. Morris Miller, Australian Literature; H. M. Green, An Outline of Australian Literature; T. S. Browning, Henry Lawson Memories; D. McKee Wright, preface, Selected Poems of Henry Lawson; A. G. Stephens, Art in Australia, third series, No. 2; F. J. Broomfield, Henry Lawson and His Critics; Bertha Lawson, My Henry Lawson; private information.

Information from The Dictionary of Australian Biography by Percival Serle

A Poem from Henry Lawson - In The Days When The World Was Wide

The world is narrow and ways are short, and our lives are dull and slow,
For little is new where the crowds resort, and less where the wanderers go;
Greater, or smaller, the same old things we see by the dull road-side -
And tired of all is the spirit that sings of the days when the world was wide.

When the North was hale in the march of Time, and the South and the West were new,
And the gorgeous East was a pantomime, as it seemed in our boyhood's view;
When Spain was first on the waves of change, and proud in the ranks of pride,
And all was wonderful, new and strange in the days when the world was wide.

Then a man could fight if his heart were bold, and win if his faith were true -
Were it love, or honour, or power, or gold, or all that our hearts pursue;
Could live to the world for the family name, or die for the family pride,
Could fly from sorrow, and wrong, and shame in the days when the world was wide.

They sailed away in the ships that sailed 'ere science controlled the main,
When the strong, brave heart of a man prevailed as 'twill never prevail again;
They knew not whither, nor much they cared - let Fate or the winds decide -
The worst of the Great Unknown they dared in the days when the world was wide.

They raised new stars on the silent sea that filled their hearts with awe;
They came to many a strange countree and marvellous sights they saw.
The villagers gaped at the tales they told, and old eyes glistened with pride -
When barbarous cities were paved with gold in the days when the world was wide.

'Twas honest metal and honest wood, in the days of the Outward Bound,
When men were gallant and ships were good - roaming the wide world round.
The gods could envy a leader then when 'Follow me, lads!' he cried -
They faced each other and fought like men in the days when the world was wide.

They tried to live as a freeman should - they were happier men than we,
In the glorious days of wine and blood, when Liberty crossed the sea;
'Twas a comrade true or a foeman then, and a trusty sword well tried -
They faced each other and fought like men in the days when the world was wide.

The good ship bound for the Southern seas when the beacon was Ballarat,
With a 'Ship ahoy!' on the freshening breeze, 'Where bound?' and 'What ship's that?' -
The emigrant train to New Mexico - the rush to the Lachlan Side -
Ah! faint is the echo of Westward Ho! from the days when the world was wide.

South, East, and West in advance of Time - and, ay! in advance of Thought
Those brave men rose to a height sublime - and is it for this they fought?
And is it for this damned life we praise the god-like spirit that died
At Eureka Stockade in the Roaring Days with the days when the world was wide?

We fight like women, and feel as much; the thoughts of our hearts we guard;
Where scarcely the scorn of a god could touch, the sneer of a sneak hits hard;
The treacherous tongue and cowardly pen, the weapons of curs, decide -
They faced each other and fought like men in the days when the world was wide.

Think of it all - of the life that is! Study your friends and foes!
Study the past! And answer this: 'Are these times better than those?'
The life-long quarrel, the paltry spite, the sting of your poisoned pride!
No matter who fell it were better to fight as they did when the world was wide.

Direct budget hosting for portals Boast as you will of your mateship now - crippled and mean and sly -
The lines of suspicion on friendship's brow were traced since the days gone by.
There was room in the long, free lines of the van to fight for it side by side -
There was beating-room for the heart of a man in the days when the world was wide.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

With its dull, brown days of a-shilling-an-hour the dreary year drags round:
Is this the result of Old England's power? - the bourne of the Outward Bound?
Is this the sequel of Westward Ho! - of the days of Whate'er Betide?
The heart of the rebel makes answer 'No! We'll fight till the world grows wide!'

The world shall yet be a wider world - for the tokens are manifest;
East and North shall the wrongs be hurled that followed us South and West.
The march of Freedom is North by the Dawn! Follow, whate'er betide!
Sons of the Exiles, march! March on! March till the world grows wide!

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Modern Featured Poet - Max Merckenschlager - the Pomberuk poet

Max is a great writer of bush poetry and a regular contributor to the Forum. He is actively involved at present with the organisation of the South Australian Stumpy Festival which will incorporate the South Australian State Champinships. Max has won many awards for his work, but it seems he is too modest to mention this in his biography! You will find Max's website by clicking here. Here is his story.

Max Merckenschlager - the Pomberuk poet

When I began submitting poetry to our local paper some decade or so ago citing my address as "Pomberuk SA", many people thought I had moved away. In fact, I was simply promoting the Ngarrindjeri name, meaning "place of ashes" - a meeting and trading place, for my hometown of Murray Bridge. I'm passionate and proud of our Australian heritage, and an advocate for reconciliation in the broadest sense of that word. A significant number of my poems are about black history and black-white interaction. I also use our natural environment for much of my inspiration.

In 1989/90, my wife Jacqui and I were invited to teach children in Yemen Arab Republic. We got to know many Moslem people as friends and enjoyed their frailties as well as their strengths. Take Saleh, our principal, for example. I remember him knocking furtively on my flat door one day during Ramadan and asking my permission to come inside for a quick smoke, forbidden during that time.

One of the best things about teaching in Yemen was "coming back" to poetry, as a means to extract creative expression. Most of the children's learning, we discovered, was by rote drill. So we introduced poetry and other creative writing to free up the minds of our students, with pleasing results. And when we returned home, just before the start of the Gulf war, I already had a small collection of new poems to add to those I had written as a young boy 35-40 years before, kick-starting me as a "born-again poet".

I'm keen to see bush poetry accepted among our peers of the writing fraternity as a legitimate style, equal to the many other poetry forms. For that to happen, I believe we need to encourage more writing which is "poetic" - that is, poetry which has an indefinable beauty distilled and glistening within its lines … as well as promoting the popular and recognisable bush poetry which is simply up for large audience performance entertainment and doesn't necessarily have to be either polished or enduring. I hope you may find something poetic within the lines of my chosen poem "Ben".
Cheers, the Pomberuk poet.

BEN

© Max Merckenschlager
As dusky fingers lengthen and his vistas dim and fade,
the old dog stirs from fitful sleep and quits the shifting shade.
He rests his nose on gathered tail to form a dreaming coil,
and lives again his glory days, on bed of powdered soil:

when travel was a traytop-ute he'd catch with flying leap,
and scrambles round the drafting yards on woolly backs of sheep,
and bashes through the mulga riding pillion on a bike;
an acrobat par excellence, that sticky-seated tyke!

Old scents of love rise sweetly now and cause his nose to twitch;
how fondly he recalls the nights he trekked to join the bitch …
the spirit of excitement, fleeing home before the shot
that bitch's owner sprayed at him, to undermine their plot!

The day he proved his mettle, and his master called him “Hur”;
with hackles raised, he fought to flight the cattle-drover's cur …
the flood of pats around the pub, the words of praise and cheer -
the legs that buckled under when they primed his bowl with beer!

The swarming flies of summer - kamikazes round his nose;
he'd snap them up in twos and threes at any time he chose …
the musters and the droving days, the starry nights of sleep,
then up each dawn and onward, matching eyeballs with the sheep.

The ferals of the Pilliga, whose razored-tusk and grunt
would test a dog's defences if he flushed them on a hunt …
the water-troughs at sundown greeting cattle nagged by thirst,
who had to wait his plunge and drink, 'cause bosses visit first!

Like seasoned wood the old dog stood, when life was at its prime;
so knotty-strong in limb and song, a doer in his time:
now stretching shadows blanket Ben with chilly twilight shade …
but in the sun he's had his day, where midnight myths are made.

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Would you like to be a featured poet?

I am very keen to hear from other bush poets who would like to feature in the newsletter. It's a great way to become known to a wider audience than you maybe already and an opportunity to promote yourself, your work and your products. Simply email me a photo, a biography and one poem to appear in the newsletter.

Next issue's feature poet will be Ellis Campbell.

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Events & Competitions

Rather than post all details of events and competitions in the newsletter, please go to the pages on the site at www.johnstaufferbooks.com . You can also have a look at the Bush Verse Contacts page on the site for a listing of regular events in your area and what clubs you might like to join.

If you know of a particular event, please simply post it on the Forum at the Bush Verse website and I will transfer it to the Events pages. There is now a special section on the Forum for Events, Competitions and the like. This is not only to give notice of events, but also to post results if you have been involved.

We have full pictures and a report on the Victorian State Championships which you can view at http://www.johnstaufferbooks.com/vicchamps/vicchamps.htm . The report will open in a blank page so you can simply close it to return here.

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Your Chance To Win

The "Bush Song" Poetry Competition

Win what - you may well ask, and the answer is simply fame and glory. This issue's theme is the contribution of women to the building of our nation. Get your poems written and post it on the Forum at the Bush Verse site. All poems submitted will be judged by an anonymous bush poet (and I can assure you it isn't me) and the winner announced in the next edition of the newsletter.

We have found an excellent judge for our little competitions. The name of the judge is A. Judi Cater. Our thanks must go to this anonymous person who is putting in the hard yards in pouring over the works to select winners. This wonderful person has even agreed to do critiques on the work submitted, which will be in a positive vein, to assist writers. If anyone wishes to contact A. Judi Cater, they can do so via ric@johnstaufferbooks.com and I will pass it on to the judge.

The winner of our February competition for writing a poem on an the contribution of women in building our nation is Merv Webster with his poem entitled "Who Will Sing Their Praises?" Congratulations Merv. It was a bit disappointing that we only had two entries and even more surprising that these were both by men! Hopefully this issues subject will attract some more entries.

Here is Merv's winning poem:-

WHO WILL SING THEIR PRAISES?

It was when I paused a moment from my workload's beck'ning call
That I gazed upon the picture frames which lined my office wall
And I sensed a strange sensation and was happy to beguiled
By the host of beaming faces as six generations smiled.

Though I lauded the pioneering skills my grandfathers had showed,
My thoughts drifted to the women folk who also walked that road
And I sensed that all our hist'ry books, our ballads and poems too,
Failed to sing the women's praises in the way they ought to do.

From the dreamtime of our nation and the Aborigine,
Long before the new white visitor arrived from 'cross the sea.
The indigenous black mothers would seek out bush tucker food,
In an effort to give sustenance to her nomadic brood.

And the wretched convict woman with her love child by her side
Forced to labour in the work house and in vain as her child died.
How she struggled for existence in the infant colony
With the hope of serving out her time and one day being free.

Loyal wives of military men who too were forced to dwell
Far away from native England and to live here quite a spell.
Also women of free settlers proud to stand beside their men,
In a land of sweat and sorrow and rebuild their lives again.

When the question of imbalance of the genders rose its head
Many women sought to immigrate and hoped that they might wed,
But the immigration policy developed many flaws
Till the Chisolms of the century took up the women's cause.

Once the mountains to the west were crossed the steadfast settler's wife
Sought to find a piece of country where she might live out her life.
Far from comforts of the cities to some isolated run
Where they fought a running battle with the searing summer sun.

Where a slab hut was her castle, though a white ant bed the floor,
And she always had a handout for the traveller at her door.
Though she bore a swag of youngsters with the aid of a black friend,
Sadly some would battle whooping cough, which won out in the end.

Too the wives of shearers, drovers and the teamsters of the day
Fought the months of isolation while their husbands where away.
Still they kept the home fires burning and would do the manly chores
Just to keep at bay the hunger which came knocking at their doors.

Scalpers, miners, railway wives, who lived their lives in canvas tents,
Wives of pearlers, fishermen, who feared the seas cruel elements.
Nuns and missionaries' wives; a source of comfort to lost souls.
Mothers in suburban streets; these were no rudimentary roles.

Social stigma though saw all these tasks as simply women's work
Till the feminist reformers fought for freedom from such murk.
Working women formed trade unions in the clothing industry
And work wages and conditions were put under scrutiny.

Nursing women rose to prominence, establishing their worth,
Seen by many of the nations as God's angels here on earth.
Women took on roles as teachers and in offices as well,
Filled the post of budding journalist, in which they did excel.

With the growth of towns and cities came more opportunities,
Shop assistants and pub workers were now women employees,
But indigenous black women found it hard to understand
Why the white boss took their children and had cast them off their land.

Some would serve the boss's missus as domestics in the house
Or perhaps wet nurse her suckling child and comfort too her spouse.
Melanesian women worked long hours with children in the fields,
Clearing scrub and trees with men folk to increase the sugar yields.

Too Victorian moral codes kept women in subjective roles,
Dressed in clothes from neck to toe as modesty would guard their souls.
Movements like the suffragettes sought out the right to gain the vote
And one by one the states succumbed; a turning point of note.

When the nation lost its men folk to the call of two world wars
Many women took the challenge to perform the nation's chores;
Whether it was on the land or back in city factories
Proudly they performed the work for all their lads now overseas.

Though the nation opened up its doors and migrant fam'lies came,
Still the struggle to assimilate was tough though just the same;
Exploitation in the work force would be sadly forced on some
While for others isolation was the thing to overcome.

Subtle changes were forthcoming though and through the post war years
Opportunities would rise for women to pursue careers,
Some hung to the stigma though that women's work was in the house;
Just someone who's always there, attending to her young and spouse.

Then the Germain Greers arose to liberate all female souls
And the nation came of age as women now fill many roles.
In careers, on sporting fields, out in the bush or scientist
Law and order, politics; so many its and endless list.

Still the moulding of this country, through the many, many, years
Saw the men folk, not the women, share the glory and the cheers,
But at last the nations women folk, who struggled for decades,
Have been asked to stand and take a bow and share the accolades.

I am sure though that my forefathers would proudly stand with me
To sing out the women's praises and in solidarity.
So perhaps you'd like to join us and express how much you care
And applause the working women who advanced Australia fair.

©Bush Poet
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

This poem was written specifically for the opening ceremony of Stage 1 of
the Working Women In Australia Project at the Workers Heritage Centre
at Barcaldine in central Queensland on July the 20th, 2002. I had the
privilege the present the recorded poem that evening in the presence of
Margaret Whitlam, The Premier of Queensland, Mr Peter Beattie and
other dignitaries. My tribute to the wonderful role that many of our
women played in making this great country our home. This poem is
available on our CD, Blacklisted.

And now for the official comments from our judge, A. Judi Cater who we thank very much for the time and trouble taken to peruse all the entries.

JUDGES COMMENT

OVERALL COMMENT
While this newsletter competition round attracted only two entries, both expressed an excellent understanding of the set topic and should be congratulated on submitting fine examples of bush balladry.
Throughout our Aussie history, bush poets have been noted for their ability to record our ‘folk process’, both personal and political, in rhyme and meter, preserving for posterity, ‘the way it was’.
History will record this current resurgence of interest by our new and capable writers in this important literary genre. If we are to uphold the traditions of bygone bards, let’s take the time to make the extra effort to do it well!!
My congratulations to the winner, and I will look forward with anticipation to the next round of entries.
Suggested topic for next month - Australian Folk Heroes and Heroines.
A. Judi Cater
JUDGE

WINNING POEM

WHO WILL SING THEIR PRAISES? by Merv Webster
This poem’s title aptly asks us all an important question and the author has comprehensively answered, espousing the varied and vital contributions women have made in the development of Australia. His topic flows very well and covers the subject admirably. Punctuation, language and rhyme all stand well
Several glitches in the meter are however, evident, and some could so easily have been easily remedied, especially those directly related to the old problem of establishing the correct pronunciation of given words. Employing the apostrophe fix to eliminate the odd syllable here and there, for example V10, L4. ‘rud-i-ment-ar-y’ = 5, OR rud-i-ment’-ry, (using an apostrophe), = 4, to give one less syllable. Use the fine tooth comb next time. A very solid and worthwhile example of good bush verse. Loved it.

THE WOMEN WALKERS OF HAHNDORF by the Pomberuk poet
A very interesting and historic topic choice which contains some excellent descriptive language and phrases throughout. The author has clearly captured the courage and inner strength required of the women walkers.
The poem is beautifully punctuated. Rhyme is very good but unfortunately the metre is somewhat erratic with variances in most verses and while only minor, are easily detected and detract somewhat from the overall topic flow. With a little extra time and care this can be easily eliminated by a skilled writer, which the author obviously is.
Also in verse 1, I do believe that there is only one midnight hour, not ‘hours’. Obviously it would read better if ,‘as the midnight hour strikes’, was used but the corresponding rhyming word would then need to be changed or the first line rewritten.
It’s this extra effort that makes one champion a writer!!

A. Judi Cater
JUDGE

We have now set up a separate section on the Forum for Bushsong Competition Entries. Please make sure you post your work there as it will make it a lot easier for our judge to access your work.

This issues competion subject:-

Australian Folk Heroes and Heroines.

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