ABPA - Australian Bush Poets Association

My Office

© Stephen Whiteside 10.09.2011

I rented a plush city office,
With views reaching over the bay;
Climate control and a coffee machine,
A sweet place to languish all day.

I set myself up as a writer -
No job was too large or too small;
A poem for any occasion,
Any occasion at all.

My first was a beaut anniversary,
Fifty years blissfully wed.
"By Tuesday, if poss." "The client's the boss."
I hammered it out in my head.

He turned up expectant and shiny.
I read to him what I had writ.
I could tell by his frown and the droop of his mouth
He just didn't like it a bit.

"You haven't referred to our marriage.
No skerrick. No mention. No word."
I straightened myself and addressed him.
"Good heavens, man! Don't be absurd!

"I've covered the sweep of our nation.
The natives, then Cook. It's all there.
The First Fleet. The convicts. Macquarie."
He sat with a cold stony stare.

"Flinders and Bass are both in it.
There's gold. There are cattle and sheep.
It talks of much more than a couple.
It's moving. It's epic. It's deep.

"There's bushrangers there, like Ned Kelly.
Mulga Bill's there on his bike.
Archibald. Banjo and Henry.
I've even included the strike

"Of the shearers that brought the formation
Of Labour, and all of that stuff.
Don't tell me I'm wide of the target.
I never have heard so much guff.

"I've got both the Wars, the Depression;
The Fifties, and colour TV.
Johnny O'Keefe's there. The Joy Boys.
It's all interweaved expertly."

I saw his expression then soften.
'Twas subtle, and ever so slight.
I'd keep up my sound exposition,
And ev'rything might turn out right.

"Jim Cairns and Juni Morosi.
Vietnam. Korea and MASH.
Wave Hill. Tent embassy. "Sorry".
The Troubadour tent at the Nash."

He sighed a deep sigh and he shifted.
I knew I had won his heart then.
I beamed the broad smile of the victor.
He reached for his cheque book and pen.

He baulked at the size of the tariff.
"I charge by the word. That's a clue.
I spelled it all out in the brochure.
I might not have shown it to you."

"No, you've done a good job. I'll pay double."
My eyes nearly popped from my head.
"At this rate, I'll own the whole building."
'Round in a whirl my thoughts sped.

Well, needless to say, the cheque bounced.
(Turns out he was Chief of Police.)
Commissions were feeble and scanty.
It seemed I'd default on the lease,

But then my dear grandmother died.
(Well, that's what I said to the judge.
He prodded and poked for a hole,
But I held firm, and just didn't budge.)

So now I kick back in my office.
It seems I am destined to stay.
I sip on my steaming hot coffee,
And take in the view of the bay.

That is exactly what I had in mind doing when I retired but I hadn't thought of charging by the word Stephen

I think your poem is extremely worthy as well as wordy.

Funny Stephen. Enjoy the view!

Thanks, Heather. Thanks, Maureen.

My adult son's response to this poem was 'That's a strange poem. It's not about ANYTHING."

I think he's right. While the poem does have some merit, it is plot driven rather than character driven. It is also a victim of an excess of forethought. I spent too much time thinking about what was going to happen before writing the poem, and then held too rigidly to this while writing it. I wanted to pack as many plot twists in as possible, yet the result is a rather uninteresting mish-mash.

Perhaps it can be viewed as a good example of bad writing. Still, in spite of all of this, I quite like the poem and its superficial, shallow silliness. I guess that says a bit about me, eh?

G'day Stephen,

I really laughed at this one. (Specially the bit about the Troubadour tent at the National) Also, as I have not long ago, written a poem for a 50th wedding anniversary, it made it even funnier.

I spent some time interviewing the old couple, who I have known for some 20 years, and went away and started the poem. After a while (they had given me many months notice) I went to see them to check some finer points etc, and as we talked they said they didn't want too much detail, or a long poem, and that something like a rather ordinary 50th anniversary poem to suit the general population, would do. I went home and cut quite a lot out but was still able to knock up something that I didn't mind putting my name on. I presented it to them in two versions, one on that nice vellum paper (like parchment) and one on a paper printed with flowers and butterflies around the edge.

I like it Stephen. I think it has a touch of Luna Park mirror maze that suits the piece, and strangely perhaps, I think makes it more interesting than if you spelled it out rationally as a
" comic " narrative.

I think it is the contemporary poet John Whitworth that reminds us that poems are made from words not ideas.

Did you see that Andrew won't be there next year, Zondrae?

Stephen if you like it that's all that really matters.

The product of a overly creative mind Doctor Who !!!!

A good read non the less Stephen.


Bob

True enough, Heather. Thanks, Bob.