New South Wales Open Bush Poetry Championships Results - 2010

FORGOTTEN CHILDREN – CHILDHOOD LOST
No sadness filled our childhood days; my parents did their best to raise
their offspring in an atmosphere of care.
We knew they both were English born, transported from a life forlorn,
dislodged into an orphanage austere -
a phase they’d wanted to disown, so till this day we had not known
what they and other migrants had to bear.
A quest by some for recompense meant steps to closure could commence,
with governments and people more aware.

For tribulations of the past, ‘Apologies’ have come at last
to victims whom society deprived.
Forgotten once they’d left their moor - this progeny of nation’s poor -
no follow up to see how they’d survived;
no int’rest in these youngsters’ plight – put out of mind when out of sight –
the salve of greener pastures well connived.
Two problems solved by their deport.  To help expand, the British wrought
a plan approved and cleverly contrived.

For fam’lies struggling to survive – no alms to keep their young alive –
this offer seemed the answer to their prayer.
They signed their children to the scheme, surrendering to lure of dream –
“They’ll ‘ave a better chance at life down there.”
One hundred thousand crossed the sea, away from home and family –
entrapped into the destiny they’d share:
for once they’d gone, then they were lost – just cast aside like refuse tossed -
and those who tried to reach them faced despair.

Survival became way of life; these children forced to suffer strife
developed codes of comradeship to bond.
The sense of mateship lent reprieve - just meagre comfort to relieve
the burden of façade that each had donned:
for banishment to south of Earth convinced them that they had no worth -
brought doubts and fears too raw to rise beyond.
Their stoic actions aimed to hide emotions buried deep inside -
the need for love, with no-one to respond.

The traumas of the nights alone - away from all that they had known –
afraid and isolated, set apart;
while through the days of constant toil at dairy chores and tilling soil,
exhausted children battled from the start.
What sins had brought abandonment? No news from kin or letters sent -
as mail was screened for wrongs it might impart.
Unpaid-for labour, profit based, saw basic schooling soon erased -
forgotten, like the pain within the heart.

The stories that were never heard – abuse by punishment and word –
the rod of iron used to keep control
by guardians but poorly taught, reacting to their fear, distraught -
misplaced, and quite unsuited to their role.
Sadistic deprivation reigned, through brutal measures unexplained
to kids bereft of dignity. Some stole
the remnants of their self-respect with acts more harmful than neglect -
perverted sex that wracked the very soul.

Too long kept covered, hidden ills, with dread and guilt such crime instils –
denials – victims scared, remaining dumb.
Now finally the silence breaks; acknowledgement of past mistakes,
revealing scandals unbelieved by some.
Alas, my Dad’s no longer here. Those years of hardship and of fear
had caused his mind and body to succumb.
But Mum is standing by my side; she’s spoken out, restored some pride -
she’s shown the courage that can overcome.

To say we’re sorry’s just a start to soothe disturbance of the heart –
no word, or deed, or fund can compensate
for lack of home and fam’ly rights, for work-filled days and fear-filled nights -
this token is too little come too late.
And yet my mother feels at last, through recognition of the past
- compunction for the shame that was their fate -
that wounds now purged and opened wide, not left to fester deep inside,
may mean her tortured nightmares can abate.

Forgotten children - childhood lost, still scarred and hurt - traumatic cost -
forsaken, exiled, and by all reviled.
To move ahead’s their only course, on past regret and deep remorse -
the horrors of their youth must now be filed.
Injustice has been brought to light.  My mother’s prayer is that this might
prevent the suff’ring of some future child.
Perhaps contrition, harshly earned, may mean that lessons have been learned -
and with this hope in heart, my mother smiled.

THE END

*     Apology to the ‘forgotten Australians’ made by the Prime Minister,
      Kevin Rudd in Canberra on 16th November, 2009, followed by an
      apology to the "child migrants" by the British Prime Minister,
      Gordon Brown on 24th February, 2010.

That blasted colt from old Regret has broken out again,
it’s got to be the seventh time this year.
I reckon it’s that fancy filly from the wild bush mob,
that they should catch, to keep the blighter here.

But all the blokes are cracks they say, and this excuse’ll do
for them to get together for the fray.
There’s twenty of the sods requiring feeding and a bed,
and only me to do it in one day.

I’m Ma from Snowy River, and I’m getting sick and tired
of cooking for these blokes at every bid,
like Harrison the gambling man, who made his pile alright
on Pardon, but he still owes me a quid.

And then that flamin’ Clancy fairly overflows with joy
from scoring decent tucker for a change.
His missus, she won’t feed him ‘cause he’s hardly ever home;
he lives on beans while droving ‘cross the range.

And blow me down, this skinny bloke with bum fluff on his chin,
turns up and says he wants to have a go.
I try to pack him off back to his Mum, where he belongs,
but that know-all Clancy makes a flamin’ show.

“We ought to let him come,” he says; (he’ll need a damn good feed,
his horse and him between them weigh two stone),
I water down the stew some more to make it go around,
and just for fun in goes the old dog’s bone.

And twenty horses need a feed and watering as well;
the only sober lackie left? ---- that’s me.
I’m fairly tuckered out while Mrs Harrison, I’ll bet,
is sitting with her feet up, happily.

I do the washing up and get to bed at 3 a.m.,
at 4 the camp’s alive as they all sing;
by 5 I’m feeling quite de-ranged, I’m desperate for sleep…
impossible, when twenty stock whips ring.

Then eighty hooves strike firelight from the flint stones as they leave,
I’m glad they’re gone, but strike me flamin’ pink,
that’s started up a bushfire and there’s only me left here,
poor Ma from Snowy River, on the brink.

SoI saddle up the plough horse, scream “Enough’s e-bloody-nough!”
and spur the poor old Clydesdale to a trot.
I’ve never owned a whip, so take my rolling pin along,
to settle up this flamin’ tommy rot.

The gorges deep and black all echo with my banshee wail,
“Let’s get ‘em boy.” I yodel through the pines.
Down that terrible descent, and on his bum the Clydesdale slides,
with his front legs digging tracks like railway lines.

A wombat sticks his head out, just to see what’s going on;
we step on him, I’m airborne, up away…
I land back in the saddle which has shifted to the right,
but the Clydesdale’s leaning left, so that’s okay.

Like drunken co-joined twins we weave and wobble through the gorge;
the horse regains his geriatric pace.
Down the next slope he slides backwards on his bum, to close his wounds,
there we meet them, but I can’t say “face to face”.

Withfeet stuck in the bridle and my apron on his eyes,
we skid into a heap of crumpled pride,
the old horse struggles to his feet, and beetles overhead,
as I lay there cursing, on his underside.

“It’s Ma from Snowy River!”screams out Harrison in fear,
the rolling pin lays waste to ten or more,
the weedy one has bolted, but then Clancy takes a pull,
when I grab his ear and bellow it red raw.

“You get and put that bushfire out, and cook me up some tea!”
The watchers on the mountain yell “Hooray”;
a dozen cranky wives who want these silly blighters home,
and back to work, not chasing up some stray.

The poor old Clydesdale’s sitting with his backside in a stream,
and clearly he’s the best horse in the pack.
The cracks are cowed and beaten; with my rolling pin held high,
my horse, with some assistance, takes us back.

So now The Country Women’s call me their new President,
and ‘round the scones and pikelets cooked with pride,
old Ma from Snowy River is their household name today,
but thestockmen never tell about that ride.

A Meet and Greet at the Caravan Park on Thursday evening started the four day activities with more people than ever before thirsting in anticipation, and they were not disappointed.

After the Bus Tour on Friday, the Yarns competition kicked off at 7pm at the Golf Club and there was standing room only. Once again, more people than ever, heard the eleven Yarns Spinners capture the Australian way of life and I was pleased I was not a judge. However, Milton Taylor, Carol Heuchan and local Tony Yeo, all agreed that Lois Sanders’ ‘Battle of the Bulge’ was the winning yarn.

The performance competition started 8am Saturday 6th March, at the Central School Hall and did not conclude till 5-30pm with 78 poems and thirty one poets. Judges, ABPA president Noel Stallard, Milton Taylor and Carol Heuchan worked tirelessly all this time, with rank order being used by the Invidulators to determine the winners. The evening session performed to over 400 visitors, poets and locals with rave reports of the outstanding quality.

Staunch poet and supporter, Olive Shooter won one of the seven raffle prizes.

Paddy and Glori O’Brien entertained the residents of the local Aged Hostel on Friday for which they were very grateful and we thank Paddy and Glori for this. Dunedoo committee member, Clive Bristow made the five magnificent wooden book trophies which the champions received.

On Sunday morning, the Poets Brawl was moved to the Golf Club. Twenty Brawl contestants entertained another large audience as the beautiful rain cascaded down, and another hour of poetry as heard as no-one could leave. We thank the generosity of these poets for their time and talent given so generously.

The weekend was huge success and the ability of all poets never fails to amaze the organisers and visitors, some who could not find the appropriate words to convey this message.

Dunedoo, (837 Population) is a small rural community in the Central West of NSW on the Golden and Castlereagh highways. This festival is now a signature event for the town and is seen as one of the main events in the Warrumbungle Shire.   

Sue Stoddart - Festival Organiser.