Australian Poetry—Where To?
Posted: Tue Jun 07, 2011 7:46 pm
G'Day all. It's been a while since I looked in on this group. For those who remember me, I'm back. For those who don't know me, I'm Tom Chapman from Tamworth.
I've been looking into modern poetry lately in an effort to expand my horizons, and I must confess that I still can't see the sense in a lot of it. (I'm finding that I'm not alone in that.)
But it has given birth to the following:
Australian Poetry—Where to?
Some poets today do not get to your heart,
At least that's the way that I see it;
For many a line shows a fragmented art;
You might not agree—so be it.
Now where are the bards, the tellers of tales,
The blokes who once told of the bush?
And others, like Dennis, whose verse still exhales
The atmosphere of Melbourne's push?
They told of the shearers, sundowners, and thieves,
Bushrangers, and dark back street thugs.
But some of the stuff that is written now leaves
You thinking they might be on drugs.
For Paterson's anapest takes you along
On a riotous, rollicking ride.
With its rhythm and rhyme it can sound like a song
And there's others like Lawson beside.
Some poets have told me it's hard to make rhyme
So they opt for the quite modern schools;
Where to fit what's been written, for some of the time,
They invent new suitable rules.
Now I've read some textbooks and still find it hard;
Is it poetry or is it prose?
It might just be me—I'm from the old guard
And have to accept it I s'pose.
What the new poets write must mean something to them
Or surely they wouldn't have written
An obviously personal carpe diem
That leaves one confusedly smitten.
I'll admit that not all of the old stuff is good,
And not all of the recent is bad.
But wisely presented, new poetry could
More encourage the folk it once had.
For Banjo still sings to the man in the street,
O'Brien also has his friends.
But when poems appeal to the narrow elite,
The link to the common man ends.
Have poets lost touch with the vast hoi polloi;
The people who'd hear them recite,
And buy up their booklets to later enjoy
By a fire on a cold winter's night?
Well there are some around who can still spin a yarn,
Keep a hundred or so folk enthralled;
Tell of modern day life, not an old farmyard barn;
With humour each detail's recalled.
There's blokes like Gliori, and Major and North
And Johnston, the Rhymer from Ryde,
And others like Heuchan, to show the girls' worth
To prove that the old style's not died.
So where are we headed with verse or not verse?
Any sign of the New Formalism?
One hopes we moving to better, not worse;
And for poets, a new altruism.
© June 2011 Tom Chapman
I've been looking into modern poetry lately in an effort to expand my horizons, and I must confess that I still can't see the sense in a lot of it. (I'm finding that I'm not alone in that.)
But it has given birth to the following:
Australian Poetry—Where to?
Some poets today do not get to your heart,
At least that's the way that I see it;
For many a line shows a fragmented art;
You might not agree—so be it.
Now where are the bards, the tellers of tales,
The blokes who once told of the bush?
And others, like Dennis, whose verse still exhales
The atmosphere of Melbourne's push?
They told of the shearers, sundowners, and thieves,
Bushrangers, and dark back street thugs.
But some of the stuff that is written now leaves
You thinking they might be on drugs.
For Paterson's anapest takes you along
On a riotous, rollicking ride.
With its rhythm and rhyme it can sound like a song
And there's others like Lawson beside.
Some poets have told me it's hard to make rhyme
So they opt for the quite modern schools;
Where to fit what's been written, for some of the time,
They invent new suitable rules.
Now I've read some textbooks and still find it hard;
Is it poetry or is it prose?
It might just be me—I'm from the old guard
And have to accept it I s'pose.
What the new poets write must mean something to them
Or surely they wouldn't have written
An obviously personal carpe diem
That leaves one confusedly smitten.
I'll admit that not all of the old stuff is good,
And not all of the recent is bad.
But wisely presented, new poetry could
More encourage the folk it once had.
For Banjo still sings to the man in the street,
O'Brien also has his friends.
But when poems appeal to the narrow elite,
The link to the common man ends.
Have poets lost touch with the vast hoi polloi;
The people who'd hear them recite,
And buy up their booklets to later enjoy
By a fire on a cold winter's night?
Well there are some around who can still spin a yarn,
Keep a hundred or so folk enthralled;
Tell of modern day life, not an old farmyard barn;
With humour each detail's recalled.
There's blokes like Gliori, and Major and North
And Johnston, the Rhymer from Ryde,
And others like Heuchan, to show the girls' worth
To prove that the old style's not died.
So where are we headed with verse or not verse?
Any sign of the New Formalism?
One hopes we moving to better, not worse;
And for poets, a new altruism.
© June 2011 Tom Chapman