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Author Topic: Eskimo Nell"s Mantra!  (Read 829 times)

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Eskimo Nell"s Mantra!
« on: June 02, 2015, 08:39:03 AM »

Eskimo Nell"s Mantra!

Postby Nell » Mon Apr 07, 2008 10:40 pm
I hurt in the dirt
As I flirt with Lady Luck.
More for the love of the opal
Than the search for a buck!

Re: Eskimo Nell"s Mantra!

Postby mauibuck » Tue Apr 08, 2008 9:03 am
And this is supposed to be fun??? Perhaps it is a lot like the romanticized old west, or sailing the seven seas; ..lots of fun for fantasy but pure hell to actually live. But I plan to give it a shot, if only briefly. My antiquated bones are not used to hard work.


Beautiful Opal Poem

Postby lostwax » Fri Jul 25, 2008 6:16 am
Not sure if this has been posted before but I just love it..

by: Amy Lowell (1874-1925)

You are ice and fire,
The touch of you burns my hands like snow.
You are cold and flame.
You are the crimson of amaryllis,
The silver of moon-touched magnolias.
When I am with you,
My heart is a frozen pond
Gleaming with agitated torches.


Anything not given, is lost.


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Re: Eskimo Nell"s Mantra!
« Reply #1 on: June 02, 2015, 08:41:52 AM »

Out Back by Henry Lawson POEM

Postby mauibuck » Wed Oct 17, 2007 6:21 pm
Henry Lawson (1867-1922) was one of the two greatest Aussie bush poets. Although he was popular in his time, he was pennyless and later in life was often seen begging for handouts. How sad for such a great talent. He was on the first $10 Aussie note from 1966 to 1993 when the new polymer notes were issued. His picture was replaced by that of A.B. Banjo Patterson.

This poem captures a tremendous amount of the struggle to survive outback. Some made it, many didn't.


Out Back by Henry Lawson

The old year went, and the new returned, in the withering weeks of drought;
The cheque was spent that the shearer earned, and the sheds were all cut out;
The publican's words were short and few, and the publican's looks were black-
And the time had come, as the shearer knew, to carry his swag Out Back.
For time means tucker, and tramp you must, where the scrubs and plains are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the dust and heat- when summer is on the track-
With stinted stomachs and blistered feet, they carry their swags Out Back.
He tramped away from the shanty there, when the days were long and hot,
With never a soul to know or care if he died on the track or not.
The poor of the city have friends in woe, no matter how much they lack,
But only God and the swagman know how a poor man fares Out Back.
He begged his way on the parched Paroo and the Warrego tracks once more,
And lived like a dog, as the swagmen do, til the western station shore;
But men were many, and sheds were full, for work in the town was slack-
The traveller never got hands in wool, though he tramped for a year Out Back.
In stifling noons when his back was wrung by its load, and the air seemed dead,
And the water warmed in the bag that hung to his aching arm like lead.
For in times of flood, when plains were seas and the scrubs were cold and black,
He ploughed in mud to his trembling knees, and paid for his sins Out Back.
And dirty and careless and old he wore, as his lamp of hope grew dim;
He tramped for years, til the swag he bore seemed part of himself to him.
As a bullock drags in the sandy ruts, he followed the dreary track,
With never a thought but to reach the huts when the sun went down Out Back.
He chanced one day when the north wind blew in his face like a burnace-breath.
He left the track for a tank he knew- twas a shorter cut to death;
For the bed of the tank was hard and dry, and crossed with many a crack.
And, oh! it's a terrible thing to die of thirst in the scrub Out Back.
A drover came, but the fringe of law was eastward many a mile:
He never reported the thing he saw, for it was not worth his while.
The tanks are full, and the grass is high in the mulga off the track,
Where the bleaching bones of a white man lie by his mouldering swag Out Back.
For time means tucker, and tramp they must, where the plains and scrubs are wide,
With seldom a track that a man can trust, or a mountain peak to guide;
All day long in the flies and heat the men of the outside track,
With stinted stomachs and blistered feet, must carry their swags Out Back.

Old Australian Ways by A. B. "Banjo" Patterson

Postby mauibuck » Wed Oct 17, 2007 4:41 am
Poetry used to be extremely popular in Australia. I think part of the reason was because the poets could distill a great story to fewer words than would be required in a novel. The greatest Australian poet was A.B. ?Banjo? Patterson (1864-1941).

This poem is a classic and condenses an epic tale to just a few lines. Enjoy


Old Australian Ways by A. B. "Banjo" Patterson

The London lights are far abeam
Behind a bank of cloud,
Along the shore the gaslights gleam,
The gale is piping loud;
And down the Channel, groping blind,
We drive her through the haze
Towards the land we left behind
The good old land of "never mind",
And old Australian ways.
The narrow ways of English folk
Are not for such as we;
They bear the long-accustomed yoke
Of staid conservancy:
But all our roads are new and strange,
And through our blood there runs
The vagabonding love of change
That drove us westward of the range
And westward of the suns.
The city folk go to and fro
Behind a prison's bars,
They never feel the breezes blow
And never see the stars;
They never hear in blossomed trees
The music low and sweet
Of wild birds making melodies,
Nor catch the little laughing breeze
That whispers in the wheat.
Our fathers came of roving stock
That could not fixed abide:
And we have followed field and flock
Since e'er we learnt to ride;
By miner's camp and shearing shed,
In land of heat and drought,
We followed where our fortunes led,
With fortune always on ahead
And always further out.
The wind is in the barley-grass,
The wattles are in bloom;
The breezes greet us as they pass
With honey-sweet perfume;
The parakeets go screaming by
With flash of golden wing,
And from the swamp the wild-ducks cry
Their long-drawn note of revelry,
Rejoicing at the Spring.
So throw the weary pen aside
And let the papers rest,
For we must saddle up and ride
Towards the blue hill's breast;
And we must travel far and fast
Across their rugged maze,
To find the Spring of Youth at last,
And call back from the buried past
The old Australian ways.
When Clancy took the drover's track
In years of long ago,
He drifted to the outer back
Beyond the Overflow;
By rolling plain and rocky shelf,
With stockwhip in his hand,
He reached at last (oh lucky elf!)
The Town of Come-and-help-yourself
In Rough-and-ready Land.
And if it be that you would know
The tracks he used to ride,
Then you must saddle up and go
Beyond the Queensland side --
Beyond the reach of rule or law,
To ride the long day through,
In Nature's homestead -- filled with awe
You then might see what Clancy saw
And know what Clancy knew

Anything not given, is lost.
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