Category Archives: Poets Corner

Fable in Black (and White)

05 Monday Jul 2010

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Crow Cries for his Lost White Feathers

By  Sean O ‘ Something of the Irish Kiss Tribute Band

Submitted by Ern Malley’s Cat

Back when not everything was as it is now,
there was a band of four black and white birds.
Butcherbird, Magpie, Currawong and Crow.

They each wore designs of beautiful glossy black and glowing white,
and every morning they filled the air with wonderful, colourful music.

Butcherbird was the smallest, with white on his front and neck and shoulders.
He sang with clear, floating, flute-like notes.
Magpie was bigger, with white only on his back and shoulders.
He sang with a cheerful, warm warble like a clarinet.
Currawong was larger still, with just some white on his wings and tail.
He sang with a rollicking riff like a saxophone.
Crow was the largest and he had just four white feathers, two on each wing tip.
His voice was the mellowest, with the rich resonant tones of a French horn.

The black and white band’s dawn chorus was irresistibly rousing.
The sun came up every morning to hear them sing.

But Crow was dissatisfied.
He was the blackest and glossiest of the birds, but he felt he wasn’t black enough.
He began to see his white wing tips as imperfection.
If only they weren’t there he’d be perfect, so he resolved to correct the error of nature.
He took the first of the four white feathers in his beak and plucked it out!
‘Aarrgh!’ Man that hurt! But it must be done!
He plucked the second white feather from his wing.
‘Aarrgh!’ Still, no pain, no gain!
Then the third.
‘Aarrgh!’ Nearly perfect!
The fourth and last.
‘Aarrgh!’
Now he was completely black and he could sing to the world of his perfection.
He threw back his head and opened his lungs and beak to the sky,
but instead of his rich, mellow voice, all that came was
the most mournful cry of the forever dissatisfied.
‘Aarrgh! Aarrgh! Aarrgh! Aarrgh! Aaaaaaaaarrrgh…’

Letter to a Far Away Lover

28 Wednesday Apr 2010

Posted by in Poets Corner

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The Pig’s Arms welcomes Miss Nom de Plume

Am I in your arms – at least in your imagination?

Are your fingers undoing my buttons as your lips caress my neck?

Can you feel my hands under your shirt – caressing your body as they travel downward?

Can you feel me stiffen under your touch as you remove the final barriers?

Can you hear me groan as our bodies become one?

Will the surrounding hills echo S T E P H A N I E?

Well, will they?

Growing Pains

12 Friday Feb 2010

Posted by in Gerard Oosterman, Poets Corner, The Public Bar

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factory workers

The owner of the second factory and wooden leg had a curious way of dealing with others. His mouth did not just contain a fag with brown spittle leaking, but mouth was also set permanently at twenty past eight o’clock and he would spend the day creaking around the factory floor with gammy leg, sneering and leering at the cavorting going on. At times he would get into his strides and gun for me. He would grab my hair and pull my head towards the floor. ‘You forgot this bit here’ he would say. Look at it, you bastard, ‘here’ and he would spit a lifetime of smoking induced load of phlegm onto the floor.  Those unfortunate experiences were tolerated when considering that the pay off, at least, was not having to join in any buggering in front of the capstan lathe machine.

Cadets

Again, at some time later and another job, as an apprentice spectacle maker in Clarence Street, Sydney, the initiation for the young and upcoming workforce was for the adults to get Ultra marine blue or Cobalt blue dye in powder form and after taking the pants down of the uninitiated, rub this powdered dye around the genitals of the hapless victim.  This dye was so strong it would stain legs, genitals and clothes for weeks. Later on when I found out that this was widespread and tolerated and accepted as an almost essential part of ‘growing up’, I knew that there was a serious and serial kind of bullying going on. Of course, at that time I was also astonished to observe young kids going to schools in quasi army uniforms and with mock rifles slung over their tiny shoulders. Was there a war still? Girls, in the middle of hot summers with black skirts, black tops, black hats, black stockings and even black gloves. Was there some connection between all that and bullying?

Cobalt blue

My younger brothers and single sister in the meantime were enrolled at different schools. Some at the primary school locally, and two brothers to a catholic high school, called ‘De La Salle’ College. It was not long before our parents found out that the punishment of whacking her children with a ruler or cane was not all that rare, so off the ‘chief of staff’, (mother) went to confront the Head ‘Brother” of this ‘benevolent’ College wanting to stop the bullying by physical violence of her children. The practise that was commonly used would be the voluntary holding up of the palm of hands, whereby the kindly ‘brother’ would sweep down at full throttle and hit the upturned palm with the ruler. Another much liked version was the hitting of hands with the knuckles up. This was popular because it inflicted so much more pain and was even more effective in installing subservience and non questioning education in pupils.

Another perplexing insight in this new country was given that for children to move up to the next level of education, this did not depend on having passed examinations on subjects, but rather on how much someone had grown up? The younger ones did not have the advantage that Frank and I had of having had a few years of English back in Holland, so it was perhaps much harder those first couple of years for the younger brothers and sister to stay in front. When it was suggested that John should perhaps spend another year at the same level, the answer was that John was so tall he could not possibly spend another year in the same class.

Cognac, even after Death. (there is hope)

20 Wednesday Jan 2010

Posted by in Poets Corner

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A mysterious visitor who each year leaves roses and cognac on Edgar Allen Poe’s tomb in Baltimore, Maryland, has missed his rendezvous for the first time in 61 years, the Poe Society said.

“He did not show up this morning,” Jeffrey Savoye, secretary and treasurer of the 380 member society, said.

Each year since 1949 on the 100th anniversary of Poe’s birth, an often-cloaked individual has left a bottle of cognac and a few roses at the foot of Poe’s tomb, usually at night, in tribute to the legendary poet.

“Occasionally he showed up early, like 11:00 to 11:30 the evening before. But normally it’s from midnight to 5:00 am,” Mr Savoye said.

He said around 50 people waited in vain from Tuesday night to watch the “Poe Toaster”, as the visitor has been dubbed.

Many travelled from across the United States for the 201st anniversary of Poe’s birth.

“As far as we know, they have not missed a year until now,” Mr Savoye said.

The original yearly visitor apparently died in 1998, but left the pilgrimage up to his two sons.

“We were left a note some years ago saying that the original toaster had died … We interpreted the message that the torch will be passed… We are assuming that two sons of this person have been carrying it on,” Mr Savoye said.

“We don’t know who they are.”

–AFP

Westfield Lovesong

24 Tuesday Nov 2009

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Valerie and TS Eliot

Let us leave then, you and I where the suburbs stretch out like pizza pie
and by the mall the women come and go
talking of woolworths and bi-lo

the maclaren prams that through the streets flow like a tedious argument
and lead us to the overwhelming question
of why it is they don’t relent

And as I think of teacups past
I part my hair and piss off fast
go looking for them at the beach – it’s
the singing mermaids, just out of reach.

By the corso, the women come and go
talking of woolworths and bi-lo

The water’s cool, the wind is free.
we’ve left the suburbs far behind
the lux-a-flex venetian blind
But i grow old and I grow old and wear my levis roughly rolled

Sit beneath a shady tree
inhale the breath of open sea and doubt the mermaids sing for me.

usual apols.
Emm

first published as a comment in gerard oosterman’s ABC Unleashed blog –  In isolation we live, November 23 2009

Australia’s Poet Laureate hands over the baggy green (as promised on Unleashed)

30 Thursday Jul 2009

Posted by in Ladies Lounge, Poets Corner

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Viva Voce Laureat

Viva Voce Laureat

We don’t know if she’s going to turn up, but here in the Window Dressers Arms Pig and Whistle (affectionately known as the Pig’s Arms) this evening Australia’s Poet Laureate is handing over the baggy green to VoR of the ABC Unleashed website for a magnificent limerick in the article “Howzzat!” http://www.abc.net.au/unleashed/.

[Applause]

Australia’s Poet Laureate recognised that the competition put forward by VoR in the cricketing limerick field was beyond her own capacity, and seizes This Day to graciously recognize these achievements, bending her knee.

[Applause]

So without further ado, we invite Australia’s Poet Laureate to take the fruit box and charm us one last time.

[Applause]

Thank you. Thank you.

Poems are big

Poems are small

Poems can be any size at all.

Baggy greens can be big

Baggy greens can be small

Baggy greens can be any size at all.

But limericks aren’t big

Limericks aren’t small

Limericks can’t be any size at all.

Limericks have to be just right.

[Applause]

And so for the best just right limerick, give a round of applause to VoR!

[Applause]

Not here yet?  Glenda must be running behind.  Well, in case she doesn’t get here we’re going to keep drawing the raffle tickets upon which you’ve all scribbled down poems until we find an alternate winner.

Has anyone got the hat?

To Guy the Gorilla (In Memoriam)

23 Thursday Jul 2009

Posted by in Poets Corner, The Mens

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Guy the Gorilla, R.I.P.

Guy the Gorilla, R.I.P.

Guy was a good gorilla,

Huge and strong and proud

His chest-pounding was magnificent,

His roar extremely loud…

By day they’d roam the forest,

The wives, the kids and he

And all about was verdant,

Green and pure and free

At night they’d curl up in the tree-top

In beds made of the leafy wands

Of the thinner topmost branches,

By Guy’s strong and clever hands

He’d eat nothing but the best fruit,

Laid by his children at his feet

And occasionally a lemur

When he felt he needed meat…

At the waterhole Guy feared nothing,

Neither ape nor beast nor lion…

Even the mighty crocodile

Wouldn’t even think of trying…

’Twas both dangerous and futile,

However hungry he may be

To stalk Guy or his family members

For breakfast, lunch or tea!

Then one day some men came

And with the great white hunter’s art

Put a limit to Guy’s freedom

With a hypodermic dart

Steel cages now surrounded him

So there was nothing he could do

When they trucked him to the coast

And shipped him off to London Zoo

Strange though ’tis to relate,

‘Twas there in London Zoo

Guy gained a greater reputation;

His fame just grew and grew

For in his red-brick-walled enclosure,

With its cold, hard, concrete floor

He’d cause women serious discomposure

When he’d ‘take himself in paw’

They came from far and near to see it,

Old ladies Guy would mesmerise

Yet they came in droves to see him

And could not believe their eyes

For with nothing else to do

In his small and lonely concrete tank

He’d watch the old ladies watching him,

And as he watched, he’d wank

For those who’d planned his captivity

Had not the wit to see

Gorillas need some kind of activity

And some female company:

But with nothing else to occupy him

And no way to protest, too

Guy did the only thing he could,

While living there in London Zoo…

By  ….       Theseustoo

I feel I must add that the living conditions and treatment of animals in London Zoo has come a long way since those days!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wy52yueBX_s

Eulogy for Costello

17 Wednesday Jun 2009

Posted by in Poets Corner

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Apologies to Gilbert and Sullivan….

costello

From a seat on the backbench a little tom-tit
Sang “Costello, Costello, Costello”
And I said to him, “Petey-bird, why do you sit
Singing “Costello, Costello, Costello”
“Is it weakness of intellect, birdie?” I cried
“Or a rather vast emptiness in your inside”
With a shake of his poor little head, he replied
“Oh, “Costello, Costello, Costello”!”

He slapped at his chest, as he sat on that seat
Singing “Costello, Costello, Costello”
And a cold perspiration dripped all round his feet
Oh, “Costello, Costello, Costello”
He sobbed and he sighed, and with a limp little wave
He plunged himself into the shallowest grave
And an echo arose from the suicide knave
“Oh, Costello, Costello, Costello”

Now I feel sure as I’m sure that my name
Isn’t “Costello, Costello, Costello”
That ’twas blighted affection that made him exclaim
“Oh, Costello, Costello, Costello”
And if you remain callous and obdurate, Tony
You’ll perish as he did, and you will know why
Though you probably shall not exclaim as you die
“Costello, Costello, Costello”.

First published a few minutes ago on ABC’s Unleashed

Thanks to the SMH for a loan of the pic.

Ah, Sol, Amigo

16 Tuesday Jun 2009

Posted by in Poets Corner

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Ah, Sol Amigo

Ah, Sol Amigo

Ah, Sol, amigo.
Stain front of a Telco
Pork, whey, more bento

Stain front of a Telco

Telstra immobile
Sadly you’ve gone away
Not coming back, they say
Grabbed the cash
Shot through today

Ah, Sol, amigo
Far cough, bandido
Take your bandolero
Pear soft Pajero.

Apologies to Capurro and di Capua….
Miraculously first published by ABC’s Unleashed Tuesday 16 June

The Diploma

15 Monday Jun 2009

Posted by in Poets Corner

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The Diploma.

On the flinty lips of my birth-river,
A spring-water river that runs passionately
Beneath Artemis’ lavish cliffs,
You loosened the swaddles of my unfledged
Soul.

You picked the soft cloth slowly
With the tips of your grin
And unwound it
And,
Turn after turn
Like the swift, graceful cadence
Of a swallow’s tail
The bandage ascended above me;

And beneath us the pebbles,
Some full-white, some flecked with red
As if sprayed with the blood
Of crushed cherries,
Smooth, round and made alive by the
Wild paws of Artemis’ hounds,
Crooned at each turn
After turn
Of our disordered twine
Tightened fast in the rushing turns
Of love-in-the-making.

Two elks, then two tigers,
Two butterflies crazily searching
For their buds
Through the fine tapestry of the
River
Spray and the
Sun
Rays;

And when my soul fledged
And the soft swaddles dispersed
Into the beating rush of the passionate river,
Your grin intensified
A little,
Like a signature on a graduate’s diploma,
You unwrapped your flesh from mine
And walked away
Following the banks,
Looking for another.

I gripped anxiously at the diploma.

“Ah, a diploma!”
They now say and look at me proudly.
Tempus may fugit
But my diploma stays!
Posterity’s evidence that my soul is
Fully fledged;

Yet my body,
My body,
Is still naked
And still unfledged.

atomou