Les Murray - Troop Train Returning

There’s as much reflection in the going to war as there is in the coming home.  And this is how I would like to introduce a poet I admire and one of Australia’s greatest contemporary poets, Les Murray.  Les is a prolific writer who has written more than most people could ever wish to achieve.  Though for all of that, he is a controversial figure in Australian literature.  He’s made himself that way by being outspoken, critical of academics in the literary world, critical of the city upper-class throughout Australia’s history, champion of the battling country folk, the marginalised, the oppressed.  I see parallels between Les’s view on the world and that of Charles Bukowski – both appear to come from deprived, difficult child-hoods.  Except in Les Murray’s case, a truly gifted intellect took him on to university and established academic success.  Les Murray writes great descriptive poetry through which the exact use of words and perfect turn of phrase paints an emotional image of the scenes he describes in his writing.  Les grew up in the country, near Taree in New South Wales.  Consequently, many of his poems are set in the bush and rural surroundings.  His poem, Troop Train Returning is fitting for our ANZAC day remembrance.  It describes the mood of Aussie soldiers, the survivors of WWII, on the final leg of returning to homes out west to pick up their lives, wheat belt towns, sheep, cattle farms and properties.  What’s amazing about this poem, is that Les Murray obviously wrote it from imagination, not personal experience.  And he wrote it when he was a young man (maybe influenced by the cinemascope, picture theatre news reels of his day).  Anybody who has driven the miles, followed the rail tracks, the telephone lines, crossed the cattle grids linking outback towns like, Dalby, Walgett, Winton, Mildura, Cloncurry, Quilpie or Hay will know that Les has nailed it in, Troop Train Returning.

 

Troop Train Returning

Les Murray (1938 – )

 

Beyond the Divide

the days become immense,

beyond our war

in the level lands of wheat,

the things that we defended are still here,

the willow-trees pruned neatly cattle-high,

the summer roads where far-back bullock drays

foundered in earth and mouldered into yarns.

From a ringbarked tree, as we go cheering by

a tower and a whirlwind of white birds,

as we speed by

with a whistle for the plains.

On kitbags in the aisle, old terrors doze,

clumsy as rifles in a peacetime train.

 

Stopped at a siding

under miles of sun,

I watched a friend I mightn’t see again

shyly shake hands, becoming a civilian,

and an old Ford truck

receding to the sky.

 

I walk about.  The silo, tall as Time,

casts on bright straws its coldly southward shade.

 

All things are spaced out here

each in its value.

the pepper-trees beside the crossroads pub

are dim with peace,

pumpkins are stones

in fields so loosely green.

 

In a little while, I’ll be afraid to look

out for my house and the people that I love,

they have been buried in the moon so long.

 

Beyond all wars

in the noonday lands of wheat,

the whistle summons shouters from the bar,

refills the train with jokes and window noise.

this perfect plain

casts out the things we’ve done

as we jostle here, relaxed as farmers, smoking,

held at this siding

till the red clicks green.

 

My contribution to this post is also written from imagination – imagination of a young man who went to war from a Queensland country town but did not return.  Jimmy Oliver (QX13185) was my grandmother’s young brother.  He enlisted with the 8^th Division, 2/10 Field Regiment, fall of Singapore, prisoner of war, died in Sandakan, Borneo, a mere five months before the Japanese surrendered.  My poem has no title, but it comes from my mother as a little girl recalling a time when Jimmy visited the farm on leave.  I can only imagine his pride and excitement of having already tasted city life beyond the Pioneer Valley and now off to adventure overseas ………

 

1941, Friday, 3rd January          The Commanding Officer received a telephone communication.  All pre-embarkation leave must be completed by the 21^st January

 

They sent Fred and me home on leave

together,

five days, two days

travel time,

I went to visit mum and dad’s grave

before taking the rail motor to Finch Hatton,

looked so forward to catching up,

me in my dress uniform,

and the world beyond

cane paddocks and scrub,

never realized before,

how warm feeling,

distant

kerosene lamp glow gives,

at night from a farm window,

far off,

seems out of touch now,

comfortable and beckoning,

but regretful,

when you know the true brightness.

After only a day

I was eager to get back,

Jess and Rachael talked into the night,

Steve doesn’t understand

or George

I think May was proud of me,

the night stayed at their place

on the Gargett farm,

poor Les itching to get into it,

said my final good-byes.....

                                                   J. O. White

 

 

Eric Bogle - ANZAC Day

Eric Bogle

In Australia we’ve got our ANZAC day remembrance coming up (25^th April) – that was the day in 1915, WWI, when Australian and New Zealand troops were put ashore at dawn on a narrow, pebbly beach at Gallipoli, Turkey, to get shot to pieces by the Turks and to commence what would turn out to be a tragic and failed attempt planned by British generals to capture the Dardanelles and open up a sea route to Russia.  Of course there were far more British and French troops committed to the campaign than Aussies and Kiwis, but it’s considered a defining moment in our nations’ psyche (the psyche of the white nation, that is) because it was the first time we fought as a Commonwealth nation, and the legend of the ANZAC was born.  ANZAC day today, is a remembrance of all conflicts and the ultimate sacrifice some have made and continue to make for world peace. We have a public holiday, and as it turns out everybody finds a uniform or military connection lurking somewhere in their family history.  And tradition tries to re-enact what that first larrikin band must have done when they went off to war.  So there’s the dawn service where people get out of bed hours before normal and gather at the town local cenotaph to reflect on the preparation of equipment; the conspiracy; the muffled rowing.  Coastal town people may gather on their steep headland or bluff above a rocky beach to see the horizon form; the outline of men-of-war; the heavy, awkward boats coming slowly in from the enemy’s perspective.  Then when the daylight strengthens to expose them, the people retreat to the local Returned Services Club (every town and suburb has one), where canteen ladies serve up warming breakfasts bacon and eggs just like they would if they were on the troop ships today and their boys were going over the side.  And with breakfast there’s a serving of rum.  Rum, because that’s what the ANZACs would have had, a tot of rum from the Navy, to comfort, to warm, to calm nerves, to give courage.  The stories get louder and the yarns begin and carry on to the mid-morning ANZAC day parade and back into the Club and more drinking – because that’s what the ANZACs would have done when they were on leave in Egypt.
I’m being irreverent.  There are many poems written about Gallipoli.  Most of them approach the subject with tragedy and loss.  But my favourite piece is set to a song by Eric Bogle, And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda.  The words are poignant and capture the naivety of a young country’s involvement in a useless campaign.  An anti-war poem?  Some see it that way.  But I see it not as a total protest against war, but as a protest on poor military planning, poorly planned battles, poor leadership, hopeless, useless campaigns, against senseless slaughter (on both sides).  In our time unfortunately, there is the reality of evil and terror in our world and the necessity for good people to stand up and enter into conflict.  The unifying spirit of Gallipoli also embodies sacrifice, mateship, perseverance ………
I include the lyrics to, And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda.  A lot of artists have done their version of the song - one of my favorites is the Irish Tenors. Look up the song on youtube - listen to Eric Bogle himself, and Slim Dusty also.

And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda

Eric Bogle – song 1971

 

When I was a young man I carried my pack

And I lived the free life of a rover

From the Murrays green basin to the dusty outback

I waltzed my Matilda all over

Then in nineteen fifteen my country said Son

It's time to stop rambling 'cause there's work to be done

So they gave me a tin hat and they gave me a gun

And they sent me away to the war

And the band played Waltzing Matilda

As we sailed away from the quay

And amidst all the tears and the shouts and the cheers

We sailed off to Gallipoli

 

How well I remember that terrible day

How the blood stained the sand and the water

And how in that hell that they called Suvla Bay

We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter

Johnny Turk he was ready, he primed himself well

He chased us with bullets, he rained us with shells

And in five minutes flat he'd blown us all to hell

Nearly blew us right back to Australia

But the band played Waltzing Matilda

As we stopped to bury our slain

We buried ours and the Turks buried theirs

Then we started all over again

 

Now those that were left, well we tried to survive

In a mad world of blood, death and fire

And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive

But around me the corpses piled higher

Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over tit

And when I woke up in my hospital bed

And saw what it had done, I wished I was dead

Never knew there were worse things than dying

For no more I'll go waltzing Matilda

All around the green bush far and near

For to hump tent and pegs, a man needs two legs

No more waltzing Matilda for me

 

So they collected the cripples, the wounded, the maimed

And they shipped us back home to Australia

The armless, the legless, the blind, the insane

Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla

And as our ship pulled into Circular Quay

I looked at the place where my legs used to be

And thank Christ there was nobody waiting for me

To grieve and to mourn and to pity

And the band played Waltzing Matilda

As they carried us down the gangway

But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared

Then turned all their faces away

 

And now every April I sit on my porch

And I watch the parade pass before me

And I watch my old comrades, how proudly they march

Reliving old dreams of past glory

And the old men march slowly, all bent, stiff and sore

The forgotten heroes from a forgotten war

And the young people ask, "What are they marching for?"

And I ask myself the same question

And the band plays Waltzing Matilda

And the old men answer to the call

But year after year their numbers get fewer

Some day no one will march there at all

 

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda

Who'll come a waltzing Matilda with me

And their ghosts may be heard as you pass the Billabong

Who'll come-a-waltzing Matilda with me?

 

Bruce Dawe - dog behaviour.

I’m back walking my dog of a night – let her off the lead to run and piss over everything like as if she owns the neighbourhood – she’s only little.  I’ve never gone and got a dog, but I’ve always had a dog.  People leave them with me and then they become mine.  This one belonged to my daughter.  I had a big, black Labrador before that belonged to my friend Kathy.  With the two dogs together it was easy to see the Lab was a ‘big little dog’, while this one acted like it was the ‘little big dog’.  Dogs don’t see things the way we do, but they try to fit in with your mob and do whatever it is they are compelled to do.  Following behind my dog with her legs criss-crossing like Charlie Chaplin walking and a T-bone patch on her arse I’m reminded of a Bruce Dawe poem, dogs in the morning light.  I’ve posted Bruce Dawe before.  He’s one of my favourite Australian poets – there’s a certain touch of quirky, smirking humour in his work that appeals to me.  Or maybe it’s because he writes like a down-to-earth bloke.  Whatever, I reckon Dawe has studied the behaviour of a bunch of dogs just let out, maybe from being locked up all night, running loose, ‘innocence’ because they don’t know the rules or social status, noses to the ground, re-establishing, so bloody excited that their tails have got their bodies wagging.  These dogs aren’t on leads, and that makes sense because this poem would have been written in the 1960’s at a time when it was acceptable for dogs to be running free in the streets – the good old days for ‘doggy derring-do’, and a boy and his dog could strike out from home together for after school adventures.

dogs in the morning light

(Bruce Dawe)

 

Responsive to the tune of lawns and trees

Dogs sally forth

In whiskery mongrel innocence; all over town

The irresistible rumour of the day

Prickles their hides and sets their bladders singing

Of doggy derring-do beyond their dreams.

No street but has its canine tributary

- Confluent in lanes,

They swirl about in bright-eyed vortices,

Whirl-pools of snap and sniff and pink-tongued grin.

 

Quizzical howdies done, the world’s a labyrinth

Of tortuous delight through which his nose

Leads on each quivering Theseus.

Dazed, dazed they go

Into the maze of history where the sharpest

Barkers fall silent …

             O humble retrospection, whose sole means

Lies in the bleached unanswerable

Excreta of the past, the spicy airs

Rising from every spot where dogs have paused,

And, pausing, thrown a bridge across Time’s stream!

 

Let the bells swing low, their clappers muffled be,

All over town, in many a public place,

Dogs are having their first one for the day,

Rapt vacuity on each raffish face.

 

Then we’ve got the second verse that’s OK (I’m good with ‘howdies done’), but then I keep reading and think there’s some meaning that I’ve got to unravel. I don’t like it when I’m lost for hidden meaning in a poem. I think the key to the second verse is to know something about the Greek mythology story of Theseus (son of Greek king who offers himself as sacrifice to a monster Minotaur on Crete who lives in a labyrinth maze; boy befriends girl, Ariadne; gives him a sword and a ball of string to find his way back through the maze; Theseus finds the Minotaur in the maze, slays him and returns to the entrance; escapes back to Athens taking Ariadne; leaves her sleeping on the island of Naxos). That’s a cut down version (read it for yourself), but honest, I can see parallels between how dogs down through history have followed scent trails and how Theseus must have rolled that ball of string back up to find his way out of the maze. Tell me if I’m wrong!
It’s those last couple of lines that I like in dogs in the morning light – “dogs are having their first one for the day, rapt vacuity on each raffish face.”  Sometimes, when it all gets too much, gets too serious – it’s good to have a dog around.  There are many poets who have written animal poems and poems about dogs.  I take their lead and write about my dog:

 

2010.  Referred to as ‘my dog’, Heidi is not my dog. She is Nicole’s dog. I just get to feed her and walk her.  Sometimes it’s a chore (never for her), but she displays tons of little dog attitude and that’s OK.  I don’t understand why she does what she does and she doesn’t understand what I’m doing at the computer.
 

Heidi

 

I love to go

By moon quarter glow

When the cricket call is baritone low

Rabbits quiver and hide in the shadow

Among dry grass thrashed on the meadow

Whispering winds through the she-oak blow

Down where the fern and the fickle-back grow

There’s a worn bush track we always follow

Heidi up front, me in tow.

playing at some game,

called ‘clip joint bouncer’,

compelled by silent commands,

                                               ..... to freeze,

face out over the bluff,

or towards tangled bush,

bulldog chest and square jaw it,

up in the face of an imagined adversary,

out looking for trouble,

or ready to nip trouble in the bud,

should trouble,

at any time wish to start,

then, as quickly,

                   ........ drop it,

to become some penal hound of the everglades,

hungrily vacuuming along a sweat trail,

                                                          ...... jerking,

doubling back and tracking,

getting closer to an escaped man, or

maybe reeling in an innocent child

dribbling a summer ice cream,

where at any time

a cover can be blown,

if the quarry turns too quick,

                                           ..... prop,

and let’s pretend

at phantom fleas on our tails,

twisting to find,

like a woman told

she’s just sat in something.

and always on duty

with the local neighbor-hood watch,

                                                      ...... nosy parker,

sniffing out snippets for the next news letter,

checking security,

surveying vestibule entries,

and being satisfied

with Buster at No 23’s reaction time,

                                                   ..... run away,

like a pesky child rung a door bell,

when a murderous charge

slams his head into color-bond fencing,

                                                         ..... skipping,

to pick up the step,

calmly pleased for the full length of attention span,

inwardly snickering like precious,

and sharing a sideways glance.

                                                     J. O. White

 

 

W. H. Auden - expressing grief.



W. H. Auden

Hi poetry bloggers – whoever’s out there; I’m back, and it’s been a hell of a time away, and I feel I’ve been away for longer than intended.  First I took a two week holiday break to Cambodia – got some good notes for material I can work up while it’s still fresh in my memory.  I also relaxed away enough time lazing beside hotel pools to almost finish reading a biography novel on one of our contemporary Australian poets, Les Murray, so I’m up on how he got to where he is, and it gives me a new perspective on poems of his that I love.  I will post them later. 

Second, I’m flying back into Sydney on an orange dawn, back into what I think is normalcy, Monday morning, unravelling myself from head-phone cords, breakfast tray plastic, pillow, magazine paper litter stuffed into the seat pocket – and not knowing that Ernie (my step-father) had died in hospital just hours before we were due to land – probably at that time, I keep thinking, when cabin lights were dimmest, crew having disappeared for the night; and I’m surprised to find ‘The Life of Pi’ a very satisfying movie.

Suddenly, my mind is clamouring for all the poetries of grief – the Psalms, oh if I could remember the Psalms, ‘yeah though I walk through the valley of death …..’;  Dylan Thomas, ‘do not go gentle into that good night …….’.  But for rest and reflection in a fair dinkum, down to earth expression I had to turn to Wystan Hugh Auden’s, ‘Funeral Blues’.  This is one of my favourite poems.  To me it speaks in a language of earthiness and simplicity, not flowery prose that can sometimes come out contrived in celebrant funeral homes.

You will have to do your own research on who Auden was referring to when he wrote this poem (written around 1936, 1938).  Auden was a great English poet who left England at the start of WWII to live in America (controversy about him being a traitor, deserter, communist).  He was one of a number of poets of his time who established homosexual expression through their poetry.  Some say ‘Funeral Blues’ is addressed to a lover.

‘Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone’ (Funeral Blues)

(W. H. Auden, 1907 - 1973)

 

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,

Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,

Silence the pianos and with muffled drum

Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

 

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead

Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,

Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,

Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

 

He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

 

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;

For nothing now can ever come to any good.

 

Death comes upon everybody quickly – the dead, and those left to mourn.  It’s times like these that you stand as a writer, you can support as a writer, you try to express as a writer.  Sure, you can’t create on cue a brilliant poem like, ‘stop all the clocks’, but you’re more capable to summarise memory and grief for yourself and others.  My influence from poets like Auden is in, ‘Eulogy to Ernie’.

2013.  Sunday, 17^th March, 2013; cramped and uncomfortable on Vietnam Airways.  And while we’re being thrust through the stratosphere by jet pod turbine blades, fuselage insert plastic flexing, cabin quiet; while all the organisation and research of the world keeps a plane in the air, Ernie is dying.

Eulogy to Ernie

You gave to me the better times,

When the beach was wide,

When the ocean blue horizon curved,

When the soldier crabs massed,

And drilled in their battalions,

When we walked beyond the tide,

On that hard packed washboard sand,

In search of the soft-shelled yabby,

Together, together, a pair,

To cast the river running out, and

We fished like mountain bears,

Until the daylight fading dies,

And the curlew’s mournful cry.

 

..... You gave to me the better times.

                                                                             J. O. White