ABPA - Australian Bush Poets Association

Greetings All! David has suggested that I post this poem, which won open second prize in the recent 2014 Toolangi CJ Dennis competition. It uses the characters and vernacular style of "The Sentimental Bloke", and received very positive commendation from the judge.

I am happy to post it - along with a CHALLENGE to you, dear readers. Read on ...

This is the poem as it was submitted and judged. It contains a poetic error. Despite close scrutiny, I missed it. So did several others who proof-read it for me before the competition. But the judge noticed - and quite rightly, deducted points

Where is the error? I am giving no clues (the judge didn't have any)!!! I'll just say that it doesn't involve spelling, and you'll need an eye for detail
(David and Stephen ... Having been involved in the competition, you will know - so I trust you will stand back and observe with interest!)

So your CHALLENGE is ... Find the error, state where it occurs in the poem and why it is an error that cost me precious points!!

THE POITRY COMPETITION

I’m ’ere wiv pen in ’and, an’ feelin’ pore.
Me thorts ’as done a bunk fair out the door.
I’ve got a sheet o’ writin’ paper … blank.
“Wot for?” I ’ear yeh arstin’ me. “Wot for?”

It’s orl becors o’ Ginger Mick, ’oo sees
an item in the local rag, so ’e’s
come up wiv this fool notion that I write
some poitry fer money – if yeh please!

Sez Mick, “Now Kid, this competition ’ere
is worf its weight in gold – it sez quite clear –
Ten quid fer winnin’ poim – so I think
yeh’d best be gettin’ revved up inter gear.

“Why me?” I sez. “Why don’t you ’ave a shot?”
Sez Ginger, “Kid, don’t tork sich tommy rot!
It ain’t no use me wastin’ all me time –
I tell yeh – wot it takes I jist ain’t got!

Bill! Spare me days! I knoo it from the start –
this tuff-like tork o’ booze an’ stoush an’ tart
don’t sit the same wiv you like uvver broots –
Yer jist a sentimental bloke at ’eart!”

“A sentimental poit? Me? Fair go!
’Ere’s me ’oo thort I ’ad a bit ter show
frum stoushin’ down the back o’ Little Lon …”
But Ginger interrupts, “May I go on …?

Now Rose an’ me”, he sez, “we ’ave a larf –
we keeps the best, an’ blows away the chaff.
But if I started wooin’ ’er in verse –
she’d send me ter the Funny Farm. Not ’arf!

That’s me. But you – yer diff’rent, Kid. I’ve seen
the way yeh moons about wiv yer Doreen
an’ torks about the starlight in ’er eyes.”
“It’s true,” I sez, “that bonzer peach is queen.”

“Yeh see,” sez Mick, “yeh’ll win it if yeh writes
them things yeh spouts at ’er on moonlit nights.
An’ when yeh strikes it rich I ’opes an’ prays
yeh’ll be a bloke ’oo’ll set ’is mates ter rights.”

An’ when I strikes it rich? Ar, strike me pink!
The way ’e spouts it out wivout a blink –
as if ’e thort that poitry appears
like magic, when I picks up pen an’ ink!

I’m up the pole, I’m ponderin’ in vain
the poitry of sun an’ moon an’ rain.
An’ thinkin’ I’d would rather be like Mick
when ’e goes courtin’ Rose of Spadger’s Lane.

The world is black an’ white fer Mick an’ Rose –
jus’ workin’ ’ard ter make a crust. Gawd knows
there ain’t much poitry in ’ungry nights.
There ain’t much time fer fun. An’ so it goes …

I dunno why I think these dilly thorts
uv Romance. Me an’ Doreen ain’t the sorts
ter live the ’igh-falutin’ life – that’s clear.
But when she looks at me, me ’eart cavorts!

Doreen! ’Ow can a bloke as thick as me
’ave landed sich a clarsy tart as she?
I want ter tell the world each bloomin’ day
Uv ’ow she fills me universe wiv glee …

An’ ’ow she bootifies the mooch o’ day,
an’ ’ow we went downtown ter see that play,
an’ ’ow ’er ’and ’eld mine down on the beach …
Let no toff stror ’at coot take ’er away!

Ar, spare me days ! Wot’s rattlin’ in me head
is … wait! Wot if I writes it down instead?
Some poit coves git famous! Wot if I
could make meself a forchin … like Mick said?

I ’opes I win! Wot if they publish me
an’ puts it in The Bulletin fer free
like Banjo an’ like ’Enry ’ad their start?
I’d larf at Mick then! Bli’me – so would ’e!

I see it now. The swell coves dips their lids.
I’m signin’ ortygraphs fer little kids!
The ocshuneer is sellin’ orf me books
An’ millionaires is shoutin’ out their bids!

Ar, strike! I’m orf me beat – no flamin’ joke!
But still – me thorts keep flittin’ ter the foke
an ’undred years frum now. Will they recall
the verses of “A Sentimental Bloke”?

© Shelley Hansen 2014

Congratulations, Shelley! It's a fabulous poem!

Yes, well done Shelley, that can't be easy to write like that. The Sentimental Bloke has been a favourite of mine since I was a small child. I loved it then and still do now.

Heather

Hmmm...doesn't look as though anyone's found it yet, Shelley, and almost 50 "views". A formidable challenge indeed!

Cheers
David

Loved it Shelley. Well deserved placing, but sorry, I can't find any errors. Please tell!
Wazza

Rhyming scheme change in stanza 6 (rhymed aabb). Otherwise the rest of the poem is the same scheme throughout (rhymed aaba). It doesn't detract from what is still a good poem though, Shelley.

Good on you, Peely! You definitely deserve the "Poetry Geek" award And thank you all for your positive responses to the poem.

Yes, the 6th stanza is the one! Funny, it seems so obvious to me now - yet when I proofed it again (and again) I completely missed it. I chose the unusual AABA rhyme scheme because it was one that Dennis used with great effect. Of course, the danger is that your brain automatically reverts to AABB (as mine obviously did!!) A really good "lesson learnt" for me - and hopefully for others too.

So I've now fixed it for future reading, performance and publication. Here it is again it its entirety with a corrected 6th stanza. (David and Stephen - what do you think??)

THE POITRY COMPETITION

I’m ’ere wiv pen in ’and, an’ feelin’ pore.
Me thorts ’as done a bunk fair out the door.
I’ve got a sheet o’ writin’ paper … blank.
“Wot for?” I ’ear yeh arstin’ me. “Wot for?”

It’s orl becors o’ Ginger Mick, ’oo sees
an item in the local rag, so ’e’s
come up wiv this fool notion that I write
some poitry fer money – if yeh please!

Sez Mick, “Now Kid, this competition ’ere
is worf its weight in gold – it sez quite clear –
Ten quid fer winnin’ poim – so I think
yeh’d best be gettin’ revved up inter gear.

“Why me?” I sez. “Why don’t you ’ave a shot?”
Sez Ginger, “Kid, don’t tork sich tommy rot!
It ain’t no use me wastin’ all me time –
I tell yeh – wot it takes I jist ain’t got!

Bill! Spare me days! I knoo it from the start –
this tuff-like tork o’ booze an’ stoush an’ tart
don’t sit the same wiv you like uvver broots –
Yer jist a sentimental bloke at ’eart!”

“A sentimental bloke? Me? That ain’t so!
’Ere’s me ’oo thort I ’ad a bit ter show
frum stoushin’ down the back o’ Little Lon …”
But Ginger interrupts, “Gimme a go ...!”

Now Rose an’ me”, he sez, “we ’ave a larf –
we keeps the best, an’ blows away the chaff.
But if I started wooin’ ’er in verse –
she’d send me ter the Funny Farm. Not ’arf!

That’s me. But you – yer diff’rent, Kid. I’ve seen
the way yeh moons about wiv yer Doreen
an’ torks about the starlight in ’er eyes.”
“It’s true,” I sez, “that bonzer peach is queen.”

“Yeh see,” sez Mick, “yeh’ll win it if yeh writes
them things yeh spouts at ’er on moonlit nights.
An’ when yeh strikes it rich I ’opes an’ prays
yeh’ll be a bloke ’oo’ll set ’is mates ter rights.”

An’ when I strikes it rich? Ar, strike me pink!
The way ’e spouts it out wivout a blink –
as if ’e thort that poitry appears
like magic, when I picks up pen an’ ink!

I’m up the pole, I’m ponderin’ in vain
the poitry of sun an’ moon an’ rain.
An’ thinkin’ I’d would rather be like Mick
when ’e goes courtin’ Rose of Spadger’s Lane.

The world is black an’ white fer Mick an’ Rose –
jus’ workin’ ’ard ter make a crust. Gawd knows
there ain’t much poitry in ’ungry nights.
There ain’t much time fer fun. An’ so it goes …

I dunno why I think these dilly thorts
uv Romance. Me an’ Doreen ain’t the sorts
ter live the ’igh-falutin’ life – that’s clear.
But when she looks at me, me ’eart cavorts!

Doreen! ’Ow can a bloke as thick as me
’ave landed sich a clarsy tart as she?
I want ter tell the world each bloomin’ day
Uv ’ow she fills me universe wiv glee …

An’ ’ow she bootifies the mooch o’ day,
an’ ’ow we went downtown ter see that play,
an’ ’ow ’er ’and ’eld mine down on the beach …
Let no toff stror ’at coot take ’er away!

Ar, spare me days ! Wot’s rattlin’ in me head
is … wait! Wot if I writes it down instead?
Some poit coves git famous! Wot if I
could make meself a forchin … like Mick said?

I ’opes I win! Wot if they publish me
an’ puts it in The Bulletin fer free
like Banjo an’ like ’Enry ’ad their start?
I’d larf at Mick then! Bli’me – so would ’e!

I see it now. The swell coves dips their lids.
I’m signin’ ortygraphs fer little kids!
The ocshuneer is sellin’ orf me books
An’ millionaires is shoutin’ out their bids!

Ar, strike! I’m orf me beat – no flamin’ joke!
But still – me thorts keep flittin’ ter the foke
an ’undred years frum now. Will they recall
the verses of “A Sentimental Bloke”?

© Shelley Hansen 18/12/2014

Shelley, it fixes the rhyme, but it only works in terms of metre if the strong stress is on the second syllable of "Gimme"...there's a risk it could be pronounced GIMMe (my first reaction). As in "GIMMe a GO...!" Maybe something like "'Ere, 'ARF a MO...!" might be safer? Only a tiny thing in a wonderful poem, but worth thinking about.

Cheers
David

Yes, David, you are right. Looks like further revision is in store! Thanks for the suggestion, but "'Ere, 'ARF a MO...!" doesn't sit quite as well with me (sorry!)

I do have a couple of ideas, but in the meantime, how about another CHALLENGE?? I'm throwing it open to the forum - what suggestions do you have for me to fix the 6th stanza as originally posted on 17/12/14?

Come on ... I have to get the rhyme and "silly bells" correct

Cheers, Shelley

Well done Shelly,

It's so easy to miss something that later looks so damn obvious isn't it.
I've done it plenty of times myself as well.

Cheers Terry