A Bushman's Love
You say we bushmen cannot love—
Our lives are too prosaic: hence
We lose or lack that finer sense
That raises some few men above
Their fellows, setting them apart
As vessels of a finer make—
The acme of the potter’s art—
Are placed apart upon the shelf.
So he is more than common delf,
And, more than brute in human guise,
Who, seeking, finds his nobler self
Twin-mirrored in a woman’s eyes!
Yet these things bring their penalty:
For oft the merest touch will break
These vessels of a finer make;
And throats attuned to noblest key
A draught of air will set awry,
And stifle in an ulcerous sore
The voice that floated to the sky
And silence it for evermore . . .
You say we bushmen cannot love—
That, like our foe, the fire-fiend,
We blaze, until a river-bend—
Nay, less, a pebble-graven groove
Where waters thread—doth bid us stay:
Our passions for a month, a week
Flare out and then they die away—
For separation, like the creek
That stays the bush fire, bars the way.
You say we bushmen cannot love.
Well, have it so! but this I swear—
That she possessed a power to move
The dullest boor to do or dare.
But I, as being somewhat shy,
Became the target for her wit
How oft in wantonness she’d pit
The blazing lances of her eye
And keener rapier of her tongue,
That carelessly made lightning play,
Until to action I was stung,
And, like a dumb beast, stood at bay . . .
poem by Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
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The Bushman
When the merchant lies down, he can scarce go to sleep
For thinking of his merchandise upon the fatal deep;
His ships may be cast away or taken in a war,
So him alone we'll envy not, who true bushmen are.
Who true bushmen are,
So him alone we'll envy not, who true bushmen are!
When the soldier lies down, his mind is full of thought
O'er seeking that promotion which so long he has sought;
He fain would gain repose for mortal wound or scar,
So him also we'll envy not, who true bushmen are.
When the sailor lies down, his mind he must prepare
To rouse out in a minute if the wind should prove unfair.
His voyage may be stopped for the want of a spar,
So him also we'll envy not, who true bushmen are.
When the bushman lies down, his mind is free from care,
He knows his stock will furnish him with meat, wear and tear.
Should all commerce be ended in the event of a war,
Then bread and beef won't fail us boys, who true bushmen are.
Then fill, fill your glasses, a toast I'll give you, then,
To you who call yourselves true-hearted men.
Here's a health to the soldier and e'en the jolly tar,
And may they always meet as good friends as we bushmen are.
Who true bushmen are,
And may they always meet as good friends as we bushmen are.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Many a finer thing
Many a finer thing
~
Love is many a finer thing
than a poem could hope to achieve
but a poem is writ nether the less
to pay an ode of tribute to love
to pay it thanks and support
in the hope it lasts a lifetime
to express its beauty unrivalled
by any creation of the hand
what moves a heart in such a way
or plays the mind into such thought
love is many a finer thing
that odes and songs are sung
in the dedication of its name
love name it as it stands
to feel its touch of grace
love is many a finer thing
than a poem could hope to achieve
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Finer Feelings
Written: stock waterman
The finer feelings, the finer feelings
1a:
You cant give to me
Anything
I couldnt get for myself
I have needs as much as any man
And I understand the feelings well
1b:
I can still have a true heart
With a free mind
A good life
With a good time
Chorus:
But what is love
Without the finer feelings
Its just sex
Without the sexual healing
Passion dies
Without some tender meanings
It aint love
Without the finer feelings
2:
I get passionate
Just like you
But I have a little self-control
You just show your selfish attitude
Your emotion leaves me cold
1b:
Chorus:
Bridge:
The finer, the finer
The finer feelings
3:
(I can still have a true heart) it aint love
(with a free mind) it aint love
(a good life)
(with a good time) feelings
Chorus:
(repeat & fade)
song performed by by Kylie Minogue
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tears To Tell
The time has come to watch you go watch you go
We weathered rough storms together
Couldnt conceive of the end
When I heard of your leavin
It came as a shock and surprise
Like the deepest kinds of love
Lost on the inside
Locked right on the inside
What is the greatest expression of love,
To let go and wish well
But all these finer feelings have left me with tears to tell
I couldnt be the one to hold you stop you go
It is like stripping the soul
Letting all the finest pieces go
You know these feelings between us
Could not be expressed
You will never know my old secrets
They are so deeply felt they are so deeply felt
What is the greatest expression of love
To let go and wish well
But all these finer feelings have left me
What is the greatest expression of love,
To let go and wish well
But all these finer feelings have left me with tears to tell
Leaving me with my anecdoted and private jokes
The memory of a friend
You dont seem to know my old secrets
They are so deeply felt they are so deeply felt
What is the greatest expression of love
To let go and wish well
But all these finer feelings have left me
What is the greatest expression of love
To let go and wish well
But all these finer feelings have left me with tears to tell
But all these finer feelings have left me with tears to tell
song performed by by Howard Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Umina Bowling Club
There’s nothing that’s finer when you are in Umina
Than bowling right up to the friendly bowling club
There’s nothing that’s finer when you are in Umina
Than dropping in for just a drink or some good grub.
Behind the bar you’ll find our Suzy, Linda and Michelle
When you come in you’ll get a welcome and a smile as well
And if the mood should ever take you to the pokie room
There’s all the games that might just make your fortune very soon.
There’s nothing that’s finer when you are in Umina
Than bowling right up to the friendly bowling club
There’s nothing that’s finer when you are in Umina
Than dropping in for just a drink or some good grub
On Thursday nights the club is packed when bingo starts at four
And Friday concerts – there’s no extra charges at the door
Our raffles too, they need an extra special mention
Its your happiness that’s our intention.
There’s nothing that’s finer when you are in Umina
Than bowling right up to the friendly bowling club
There’s nothing that’s finer when you are in Umina
Than dropping in for just a drink or some good grub.
Now, when leaving, should you think you’re over the limit
We’ve got a bus that takes you home – no paying for a ticket
So if you’re young or if you’re old or somewhere in between
Just come along, join up with us and find out what we mean.
There’s nothing that’s finer when you are in Umina
Than bowling right up to the friendly bowling club
There’s nothing that’s finer when you are in Umina
Than dropping in for just a drink or some good grub.
poem by David Keig
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By an Evolutionist
By an Evolutionist
The Lord let the house of a brute to the soul of a man,
And the man said, ‘Am I your debtor?’
And the Lord–‘Not yet; but make it as clean as you can,
And then I will let you a better.’
I.
If my body come from brutes, my soul uncertain or a fable,
Why not bask amid the senses while the sun of morning shines,
I, the finer brute rejoicing in my hounds, and in my stable,
Youth and health, and birth and wealth, and choice of women and of wines?
II.
What hast thou done for me, grim Old Age, save breaking my bones on the rack?
Would I had past in the morning that looks so bright from afar!
OLD AGE
Done for thee? starved the wild beast that was linkt with thee eighty years back.
Less weight now for the ladder-of-heaven that hangs on a star.
I.
If my body come from brutes, tho’ somewhat finer than their own,
I am heir, and this my kingdom. Shall the royal voice be mute?
No, but if the rebel subject seek to drag me from the throne,
Hold the sceptre, Human Soul, and rule thy province of the brute.
II.
I have climb’d to the snows of Age, and I gaze at a field in the Past.
Where I sank with the body at times in the sloughs of a low desire,
But I hear no yelp of the beast, and the Man is quiet at last,
As he stands on the heights of his life with a glimpse of a height that is higher.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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The New Chum Jackeroo
Let bushmen think as bushmen will,
And say whate’er they choose,
I hate to hear the stupid sneer
At New Chum Jackaroos.
He may not ride as you can ride,
Or do what you can do;
But sometimes you’d seem small beside
The New Chum Jackaroo.
His share of work he never shirks,
And through the blazing drought,
He lives the old things down, and works
His own salvation out.
When older, wiser chums despond
He battles brave of heart—
’Twas he who sailed of old beyond
The margin of the chart.
’Twas he who proved the world was round—
In crazy square canoes;
The lands you’re living in were found
By New Chum Jackaroos.
He crossed the deserts hot and bare,
From barren, hungry shores—
The plains that you would scarcely dare
With all your tanks and bores.
He fought a way through stubborn hills
Towards the setting sun—
Your fathers all and Burke and Wills
Were New Chums, every one.
When England fought with all the world
In those brave days gone by,
And all its strength against her hurled,
He held her honour high.
By Southern palms and Northern pines—
Where’er was life to lose—
She held her own with thin red lines
Of New Chum Jackaroos.
Through shot and shell and solitudes,
Wherever feet have gone,
The New Chums fought while eye-glass dudes
And Johnnies led them on.
And though he wear a foppish coat,
And these old things forget,
In stormy times I’d give a vote
For Cuffs and Collars yet.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Woman In You
The woman in you brings out
the man in me
It's the woman in you
And the finer parts of your anatomy
But baby sharper than a knife
help me to know you
Show me the night to satisfy
A sinner with the flash of an eye
There'll never be another me
I never knew love could wind me up
I don't do my stuff
"till you go walkin' by
And maybe old enough to try
I never knew anyone in between
The devil and the angel
All in one and maybe old
Enough that I can ride
Your love let me burn
Let me slide down to your soul
You can pull me in
You can push me out
But your baby needs love
Somebody to hold
show me what to do
The woman in you brings out
the man in me
It's the woman in you
And the finer parts of your anatomy
But baby
song performed by by Bee Gees from Staying Alive (soundtrack)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Above & Beyond
Woman in a million to me
I never loved so much
Is it any wonder Im alive
No one ever knows what makes a
Virtue or a vice
Let it be the spell Im under
(these naked eyes)
Let it be the rain and thunder comes
I go above and beyond the sun
Some love never dies
Story of our lives, ohh,
Swear by the stars above
And late at night I pray to myself
That you and I got everything we need
Id give it all for you and me
Love is the earth and the wind
And the fire and the soul
Love is above and beyond any eye to behold
Love is the key and the cause
And its makin us whole
Made me a little crazy, but i
Soon realize my fate
Every little touch Im paralyzed
No one ever know what makes
An angel in disguise
Let me be the one to taste you
Those naked eyes
No pity if the city ever crumbles down
I go above and beyond the sun
Some love never dies
Story of our lives, ohh,
Swear by the stars above
And late at night I pray to myself
That you and I got everything we need
Id give it all for you and me
Love is the earth and the wind
And the fire and we share
Love is the force and the edge
And its ready for those who dare
Love is above and beyond
And Im taking you there
(and baby, Ill take you there)
I go above and beyond the sun
Some love never dies
Story of our lives, ohh,
Swear by the stars above
And late at night I pray to myself
That you and I got everything we need
Id give it all for you and me
Love is the earth and the wind
And the fire and the soul
Love is the key and the cause
And its makin us whole
Love is the force and the edge
And its yours if you dare
Love is above and beyond
And Im taking you there
(baby, Ill take you there)
I go above and beyond the sun
Some love never dies
Story of our lives, ohh,
Swear by the stars above
And late at night I pray to myself
That you and I got everything we need
Id give it all for you and me
song performed by by Bee Gees
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The White Heat
Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat?
Then crouch within the door --
Red -- is the Fire's common tint --
But when the vivid Ore
Has vanquished Flame's conditions,
It quivers from the Forge
Without a color, but the light
Of unanointed Blaze.
Least Village has its Blacksmith
Whose Anvil's even ring
Stands symbol for the finer Forge
That soundless tugs -- within --
Re[f]ining these impatient Ores
With Hammer, and with Blaze
Untile the Designated Light
Repudiate the Forge
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Love Ever Real
Love in its own oven doth bake
Loving not for own's possessive sake
Ever stumble, slip, bend, but will never break
In its deepest slumber will keep awake
Breaking not what its loving hands doth make
Giving all and seeking none to take
Upon i love, stands even when all at stake
Such is love, ever real and never fake
But when stumbling, bend and later will break
Then it's love given for one's own selfish sake
Whose love its own oven doth not bake
Which in a wink will fold and never wake
But me, O! me be the one who must take
That love, God in his grandeur doth make!
poem by Okonkwo Osamedua. Allen
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The Siamese Cat Song
we are siamese if u please
we are siamese if u dont please
we are former residents of siam
there is no finer cat than i am
do u see that thing swiming round and round
maby we can reach in and make it drownd
if we sneek up on it carefully there will be a
head for u and a tail for me
we are siamese if u pleause
we are siamese if u dont pleause
now we're lookin over on a domisile
if we like we stay for maby quite a while
do u here what i here a baby cry
where we find a baby there is milk near by
and if we look in baby buggy there could be
pleanty of milk for u and also some for me
we are siamese if u pleause
we are siamese if u dont pleause
now we're lookin over on a domisile
if we like we stay for maby quite a while
we are siamese if u please
we are siamese if u dont please
we are former residents of siam
there is no finer cat than i am
no i am
there is no finer cat than i am
no i am
there are no finer cats than we am
song performed by by Hilary Duff
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Brass Well
'Tis a legend of the bushmen from the days of Cunningham,
When he opened up the country and the early squatters came.
Tis the old tale of a fortune missed by men who did seek,
And, perhaps, you haven’t heard it—The Brass Well on Myall Creek.
They were north of running rivers, they were south of Queensland rains,
And a blazing drought was scorching every grass-blade from the plains;
So the stockmen drove the cattle to the range where there was grass,
And a couple sunk a well and found what they believed was brass.
‘Here’s some bloomin’ brass!’ they muttered when they found it in the clay,
And they thought no more about it and in time they went away;
But they heard of gold, and saw it, somewhere down by Inverell,
And they felt and weighed it, crying: ‘Why! we found it in the well!’
And they worked about the station and at times they took the track,
Always meaning to save money, always meaning to go back—
‘Always meanin’,’ like the bushmen, who go drifting round like wrecks,
And they’d get half way to Myall, strike a pub and blew their cheques.
Then they told two more about it and those other two grew old,
And they never found the brass well and they never found the gold.
For the scrub grows dense and quickly and, though many went to seek,
No one ever struck the lost track to the Well on Myall Creek.
And the story is forgotten and I’m sitting here, alas!
With a woeful load of trouble and a woeful lack of brass;
But I dream at times that I might find what many went to seek,
And my luck might lead my footsteps to the Well at Myall Creek.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Fari
Straighten your crooked life and be real oh Fari!
For Yamson your friend is still in the bush of love;
And of your stories ever told to us every now and then,
But the Bushmen are still waiting for you.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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A Tendency to Start Fires
Strange zoo
strange blaze
douse my head in flames
coming through got to get some
happiness is a bad son
forceps
kitchen tools
deconstruct your every move
feels better when you're here
guillotine just got here
back bend
back break
please yourself to make it rate
live it all at your own cost
so many just got lost
leaning for fire
leaning to fire
leaning to fire
here's tomorrow man
best of my ability
chasing what i can
here's tomorrow man
instinct
bare boned
light it up
take it home
you will be all things
you'll get what you bring
leaning to fire
leaning to fire
leaning to fire
here's tomorrow man
best of my ability
chasing watercans
here's tomorrow man
best of my civility
with our own tongue
here's tomorrow man
song performed by by Bush from Razorblade Suitcase
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Bush Fire
Ah, better the thud of the deadly gun, and the crash of the bursting shell,
Than the terrible silence where drought is fought out there in the western hell;
And better the rattle of rifles near, or the thunder on deck at sea,
Than the sound—most hellish of all to hear—of a fire where it should not be.
On the runs to the west of the Dingo Scrubs there was drought, and ruin, and death,
And the sandstorm came from the dread north-east with the blast of a furnace-breath;
Till at last one day, at the fierce sunrise, a boundary-rider woke,
And saw, in the place of the distant haze, a curtain of light blue smoke.
There is saddling-up by the cockey’s hut, and out in the station yard,
And away to the north, north-east, north-west, the bushmen are riding hard.
The pickets are out and many a scout, and many a mulga wire,
While Bill and Jim, with their faces grim, are riding to meet the fire.
It roars for days in the hopeless scrubs, and across, where the ground seems bare,
With a cackle and hiss, like the hissing of snakes, the fire is travelling there;
Till at last, exhausted by sleeplessness, and the terrible toil and heat,
The squatter is crying, ‘My God! the wool!’ and the farmer, ‘My God! the wheat!’
But there comes a drunkard (who reels as he rides), with the news from the roadside pub:—
‘Pat Murphy—the cockey—cut off by the fire!—way back in the Dingo Scrub!’
‘Let the wheat and the woolshed go to——’ Well, they do as each great heart bids;
They are riding a race for the Dingo Scrub—for Pat and his wife and kids.
And who is leading the race with death? An ill-matched three, you’ll allow;
Flash Jim the breaker and Boozing Bill (who is riding steadily now),
And Constable Dunn, of the Mounted Police, is riding between the two
(He wants Flash Jim, but the job can wait till they get the Murphys through).
As they strike the track through the blazing scrub, the trooper is heard to shout:
‘We’ll take them on to the Two-mile Tank, if we cannot bring them out!’
A half-mile more, and the rest rein back, retreating, half-choked, halfblind;
And the three are gone from the sight of men, and the bush fire roars behind.
The Bushman wiped the tears of smoke, and like Bushmen wept and swore;
‘Poor Bill will be wanting his drink to-night as never he did before.
‘And Dunn was the best in the whole damned force!’ says a client of Dunn’s, with pride;
I reckon he’ll serve his summons on Jim—when they get to the other side.
It is daylight again, and the fire is past, and the black scrub silent and grim,
Except for the blaze of an old dead tree, or the crash of a falling limb;
And the Bushmen are riding again on the run, with hearts and with eyes that fill,
To look for the bodies of Constable Dunn, Flash Jim, and Boozing Bill.
They are found in the mud of the Two-mile Tank, where a fiend might scarce survive,
But the Bushmen gather from words they hear that the bodies are much alive.
There is Swearing Pat, with his grey beard singed, and his language of lurid hue,
And his tough old wife, and his half-baked kids, and the three who dragged them through.
Old Pat is deploring his burnt-out home, and his wife the climate warm;
And Jim the loss of his favourite horse, and Dunn his uniform;
And Boozing Bill, with a raging thirst, is cursing the Dingo Scrub—
He’ll only ask for the loan of a flask and a lift to the nearest pub.
Flash Jim the Breaker is lying low—blue-paper is after him,
And Dunn, the trooper, is riding his rounds with a blind eye out for Jim,
And Boozing Bill is fighting D.Ts. in the township of Sudden Jerk—
When they’re wanted again in the Dingo Scrubs, they’ll be there to do the work.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Sweet Vessels
Are you thirsty of love?
Then do come to the sweet vessels of my home and drink;
Are you hungry for love?
Then do attach yourself to the sweet vessels in my room;
Are you lonely without love?
Then do bring yourself to the sweet bed of roses of my love;
Because i do have enough to make glad always.
Like to drink the tea from Kenya,
Come to me before the hand of the clock changes;
And do not accept fake offers from others.
Come to me like Mount Everest,
Which is 8850 metres high;
And share my love like cocoa from Ghana.
I am the one to satisfy you,
I am the one who really understands who you are;
Because i do have enough to make you glad always.
Come to my love,
Come and see where true love lies.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat?
365
Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat?
Then crouch within the door—
Red—is the Fire's common tint—
But when the vivid Ore
Has vanquished Flame's conditions,
It quivers from the Forge
Without a color, but the light
Of unanointed Blaze.
Least Village has its Blacksmith
Whose Anvil's even ring
Stands symbol for the finer Forge
That soundless tugs—within—
Refining these impatient Ores
With Hammer, and with Blaze
Until the Designated Light
Repudiate the Forge—
poem by Emily Dickinson
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German Joe
SKIRTING the swamp and the tangled scrub,
Tramping and turning amidst the trees,
Carrying nothing but blankets and grub,
Careless of pleasure and health and ease,
Hither and thither with never a goal,
Heavy, and solemn, and stiff, and slow,
Seeking a track and a long-lost line,
‘Blazed avay to dot lead of mine,’—
Restless and rickety German Joe.
Down in the gully and up the range,
Stung by the gale and the hate-hot sun,
Never a greeting to give in change,
Never a tip from the nearest run,—
Seeking a guide to a golden hole,
Lost in the lone land long ago,
Left in the keep of the hills and trees;
Jealous to have and to hold are these,
Hope you may get it, though, German Joe.
‘Likely old yarn for a horse marine!
Struck it, you say, at the river head—
Back where the bellowing bunyip’s seen,
Out beyond everywhere—rich and red;
Left it for tucker, and lost the track,
Blazed till your arm couldn’t strike a blow;
Gravel that gleams with the golden stuff,
Nuggets ‘shust like as der plums in duff,’—
What are you giving us, German Joe?’
‘Blaze? Yes; you strike for the Granite Stair,
Make to the left when you cross the creek,
South till you meet with a monkey bear,
Tramp in his tracks for about a week;
Then you can travel the sky-line back.
So long, old chap, if you’re bound to go.
Don’t you forget when you’re rich and great
Who laid you on to the lost lead, mate—
Mad as a hatter is German Joe.’
Laugh as they may, they will stand his friends.
Right as rain when the old man takes
Down to his bunk in the hut, and spends
Seven weeks fighting the fever and shakes,
Muttering still of his lucky lead:
‘Vhisper—I leds you all in der know,
Den you pe richer nor as der pank.’
Boys, he’s a man if he is a crank—
Whisky and physic for German Joe.
Now he’s abroad in a wild dream-land,
Baring his breast to the river breeze—
Out where the rock-ribbed ridges stand,
Telling his tale to the secret trees,
Swift as the shadows his visions glide
Over the plains where the mad winds blow.
Cover his face now, and carve a stone,
Henceforth his spirit must seek alone—
Dead as a door-nail is German Joe.
Bushmen have yarned of a ghost that went
Blazing a track from the Granite Stair
Down to a shaft and a tattered tent,
Many days’ journey from anywhere.
Others have said that the bushmen lied.
Liars or not, it is true, we know,
Men have discovered a golden mine
Out in the track of an old blazed line,
Led by the spirit of German Joe.
poem by Edward George Dyson
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The Great Fires
Love is apart from all things.
Desire and excitement are nothing beside it.
It is not the body that finds love.
What leads us there is the body.
What is not love provokes it.
What is not love quenches it.
Love lays hold of everything we know.
The passions which are called love
also change everything to a newness
at first. Passion is clearly the path
but does not bring us to love.
It opens the castle of our spirit
so that we might find the love which is
a mystery hidden there.
Love is one of many great fires.
Passion is a fire made of many woods,
each of which gives off its special odor
so we can know the many kinds
that are not love. Passion is the paper
and twigs that kindle the flames
but cannot sustain them. Desire perishes
because it tries to be love.
Love is eaten away by appetite.
Love does not last, but it is different
from the passions that do not last.
Love lasts by not lasting.
Isaiah said each man walks in his own fire
for his sins. Love allows us to walk
in the sweet music of our particular heart.
poem by Jack Gilbert
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