A Poet Passed This Way - Will Moody
Posted: Mon Oct 26, 2015 7:04 pm
I just thought this poem by Will deserved to have a spot on its own as well. so that it did not get lost in the wash.
Another huge loss in the ranks of poets able to speak from genuine "bush life" experience. I count myself fortunate to have come to bush poetry in time (just) to see and hear the likes of Ellis, Milton and Frank. The following tribute is dedicated to Ellis but the sentiment applies equally to other stalwarts lost to us recently. Truly, we stand on the shoulders of giants.
Will Moody
A Poet Passed This Way
( for Ellis )
I’ve studied all the poets, native born and foreign bred,
grateful for their light that helped me find the way ahead.
But as I lay my pen aside, with “Finis” drawing near,
I find I have no lamp to light the course I now must steer.
The way ahead’s uncertain, there’s no map to guide my feet.
Unarmed, except by faith, I face the fate all creatures meet.
Truth, honesty and dignity were all I had to give.
I only hope that, when I’m gone, some lines of mine might live.
But...who are these who gather by my bedside in the gloom?
And look!...the gloom turns golden as they crowd into the room.
There are faces here I recognise and some I feel I know.......
surely, these are poets that I learned from, years ago?
A gentle hand upon my breast...a keen, yet kindly, eye...
“It’s time that you were moving on, Old Chap, so we came by
to sort of bring you up to speed on what needs to be done
by coves like you who come to join the likes of us, Old Son.
“Now, you can call me Henry; and this bloke, he’s known as ‘Den’
and Will here, he’s a scotsman...p’raps a kinsman, d’ye ken?
They call this feller ‘Banjo’ …and there’s mates of yours here too...
who’ve earned the title ‘Poet’.......we’ve a place reserved for you.
See, God has weighed our efforts and He’s given us the job
of droving would-be poets...mate, they are a motley mob!
To keep ’em on the right track and make sure that they don’t stray
too far from rhyme and rhythm...or to try to anyway.
We span this wide land over, seeking out the eye that sees;
the heart and mind that yearns to learn its ancient mysteries.
We sit beside the wanderer as he takes a well-earned rest
and contemplates the valley laid below the mountain’s breast.
We ride beside the driver of a semi in the rain;
we stand beside the farmer while he reaps his golden grain;
we delve beside the digger picking out his grain of gold;
we whisper to the dreamer, dreaming dreams we dreamed of old;
We gather up the bitter tears brought on by fire and drought
and mingle them with tears of joy that banish fear and doubt.
We sift the days and months and years of sheer back-breaking toil,
then glean the pride that blooms in hearts that love this stubborn soil.
From every man and woman and from every grain of sand
we distil the very essence of this people and this land,
then blend them all together to create the gift we bring
that serves as ink that shapes the lines that make a poem sing.
Wherever there’s a camp-fire in the vast Australian night
we join the conversation, hovering just beyond the light.
Wherever there’s a poet doing battle with his pen
we stir his heart, but still his mind, and urge him “Try again”.
Just a drop of inspiration, gentle hint or subtle clue
to a struggling would-be poet...that’s all He expects from you.
The works you’ve left behind, my friend, have set you now apart.
New poets are emergeing...come...it’s time to make a start.”
Ellis, Milton, Frank...we're listening...
Another huge loss in the ranks of poets able to speak from genuine "bush life" experience. I count myself fortunate to have come to bush poetry in time (just) to see and hear the likes of Ellis, Milton and Frank. The following tribute is dedicated to Ellis but the sentiment applies equally to other stalwarts lost to us recently. Truly, we stand on the shoulders of giants.
Will Moody
A Poet Passed This Way
( for Ellis )
I’ve studied all the poets, native born and foreign bred,
grateful for their light that helped me find the way ahead.
But as I lay my pen aside, with “Finis” drawing near,
I find I have no lamp to light the course I now must steer.
The way ahead’s uncertain, there’s no map to guide my feet.
Unarmed, except by faith, I face the fate all creatures meet.
Truth, honesty and dignity were all I had to give.
I only hope that, when I’m gone, some lines of mine might live.
But...who are these who gather by my bedside in the gloom?
And look!...the gloom turns golden as they crowd into the room.
There are faces here I recognise and some I feel I know.......
surely, these are poets that I learned from, years ago?
A gentle hand upon my breast...a keen, yet kindly, eye...
“It’s time that you were moving on, Old Chap, so we came by
to sort of bring you up to speed on what needs to be done
by coves like you who come to join the likes of us, Old Son.
“Now, you can call me Henry; and this bloke, he’s known as ‘Den’
and Will here, he’s a scotsman...p’raps a kinsman, d’ye ken?
They call this feller ‘Banjo’ …and there’s mates of yours here too...
who’ve earned the title ‘Poet’.......we’ve a place reserved for you.
See, God has weighed our efforts and He’s given us the job
of droving would-be poets...mate, they are a motley mob!
To keep ’em on the right track and make sure that they don’t stray
too far from rhyme and rhythm...or to try to anyway.
We span this wide land over, seeking out the eye that sees;
the heart and mind that yearns to learn its ancient mysteries.
We sit beside the wanderer as he takes a well-earned rest
and contemplates the valley laid below the mountain’s breast.
We ride beside the driver of a semi in the rain;
we stand beside the farmer while he reaps his golden grain;
we delve beside the digger picking out his grain of gold;
we whisper to the dreamer, dreaming dreams we dreamed of old;
We gather up the bitter tears brought on by fire and drought
and mingle them with tears of joy that banish fear and doubt.
We sift the days and months and years of sheer back-breaking toil,
then glean the pride that blooms in hearts that love this stubborn soil.
From every man and woman and from every grain of sand
we distil the very essence of this people and this land,
then blend them all together to create the gift we bring
that serves as ink that shapes the lines that make a poem sing.
Wherever there’s a camp-fire in the vast Australian night
we join the conversation, hovering just beyond the light.
Wherever there’s a poet doing battle with his pen
we stir his heart, but still his mind, and urge him “Try again”.
Just a drop of inspiration, gentle hint or subtle clue
to a struggling would-be poet...that’s all He expects from you.
The works you’ve left behind, my friend, have set you now apart.
New poets are emergeing...come...it’s time to make a start.”
Ellis, Milton, Frank...we're listening...