The Company Man - northern outback in the 1960s

[BadgerBob]

Wow, what a welcome to ABPA. I never expected anything like this. It really made me feel part of a happy and worthwhile community. Thank you all.

So I have decided to take the plunge and post my first Australian Bush poem, with which I had some problems. Maybe my experiences will ring a bell with others, perhaps some can give me advice on how best to tackle future poems.

Anyway, having decided that I really loved and wanted to write bush poetry, I re-read my illustrated copy of Clancy of the Overflow, then borrowed books, read what I could on the Internet, read more contemporary poetry on the ABPA site, and even read our table place mats, which each have an Australian bush poem on them. Next I read all the tips and advice on the ABPA site.

So what was the problem?

Well, I went on holiday and spent the best part of three weeks writing the following poem. It sounded alright to me but, when I got back I read again, and clarified, all the ABPA guidelines on line-length, syllable counts, stress, false rhymes, word order and a lot of other things I had to look up in the dictionary. I made copious notes and then tried to edit my poem to meet these guidelines. I also tried to shorten it from 28 stanzas to around 18. It was a disaster. After a full week I had achieved nothing except making a mess of my original poem. Fortunately I had kept a copy.

In future, I should probably try and structure my poems by using the guidelines from the start … it is just not feasible to go back and try to do it after the poem is finished.

Anyway, here is the poem I wrote. I think the rhyme, metre and stress are more or less ok but it is far too long, the syllable count is erratic, the word order is questionable (but so was Banjo Paterson’s) and there is one false rhyme, which I needed for effect. It is a reflection on life on a northern outback cattle station nearly half a century ago. I called it:

The Company Man

They were sitting down at smoko when the plane flew overhead
and they listened while it circled as the airstrip cattle fled.
They heard the angry engine’s snarl as down the strip it roared
and the pilot’s bumpy landing with his passenger on board

An unknown was this passenger - sent up - a company man
to oversee development of a most ambitious plan
a million acres to be fenced, new buildings, ramps and yards,
efficient modern farming, with good profits on the cards

Old Bill had sold the block last month, and made himself a pot,
the spear-grass plains and mickey bulls no more to be his lot.
Some city corporation now held fast the station’s reins
with distant views of flooded creeks and endless dusty plains

The smoko crew then ambled out to get the mail and gaze
upon a sight so singular t’would last them all their days.
Immaculate in collar, tie, and very well cut suit
The company man, (a ‘dill’ Mick said, “and a flamin’ Pom to boot”)

With easy smile and well-born grace, he shook hands one-by-one
while ringers, station hands and cook stood wordless in the sun.
“How do you do,” he said, and then “don’t be so jolly formal.
You can call me Peter and, you’ll find that I’m quite normal.”

“I’ve seen it all,” said ringer Mick, as they walked back by the creek
“We’ll soon be wearing top hats, ties, and washin’ twice a week
If that don’t mark the end for us, I’ll eat my bloody hat
and if I get indigestion, blame Pommy Pete for that”

The nickname stuck for Pommy Pete, who instantly became
the butt of hoaxes, jokes and tricks of every laughing game.
His ineptitude was legend, his clumsiness supreme
but worst of all his prestige job soon badly went off beam

The owners had no funds, they said, for budget allocations;
a halt to new development was called on all their stations.
No fencing wire or posts or poles, nor yet a set of pliers
Pete called the corporation men “a dreadful mob of liars”

Pete’s language now had taken on an Aussie-English flavour;
with spirits low, nowhere to go, no prospects could he savour.
Dejected, he surveyed his life, the wreckage of his dreams
and hoped the homily was true, that nothing’s as it seems

Head stockman Pat, when riding by saw Pommy Pete still waiting,
“You’ll waste your life out here, he said, “by just anticipating.
Why don’t you join us in the camp? Help cook, or can you ride?
You might as well try something, now your job’s been tossed aside”

Pete thought it through, it wasn’t much, but he hadn’t much to lose;
still, helping cook the stringy beef, was not a job he’d choose.
“I used to ride a bit” he said, “I was a polo man.
Your horses look as rough as guts but I’ll ride one if I can

He got a swag, quart pot and boots, and a lot of ribbing too,
and when he snagged his rowelled spurs, he fell and sparked the crew.
The stockmen roared and hooted then, and laughing fit to bust
cried “Pommy Pete, the polo man” as he got up from the dust

He sat a stockman’s saddle like a jockey at the gate;
knees bent, toes up, heels down and yes, his back was ramrod straight.
No double bit and bridle now, no pony schooled and slicked
but snaffle bit, and hard-mouthed brute, his ringer mates had picked

So Pommy Pete reflected, as they rode out in the dawn,
how fast it was that things had changed, all future hopes withdrawn.
His days began at sunrise now, no bacon, toast and eggs
but a heap of steak and liver, and black coffee thick with dregs

The outside cleanskins they were wild but stockmen rode them hard
and brought them in, mob after mob, to lock them in the yard.
“You need to give your horse its head, in timber” cried a voice
and Pete rode low, just hanging on, he really had no choice

Day after day the work went on, Pete prized a small possession,
they’d dropped the ‘Pom’ and called him ‘Pete’, a notable concession
and as he lay upon his swag (which once he’d called a bed)
he felt that he was half-way there, all corporate thoughts had fled

The season nearly over now, both men and horses lean,
Mick thought some stock might still be hid, where none had ever been.
“You game to come?” he asked of Pete, “I’ll teach you something new.
There’s things you’ll learn you’ll not believe, will change your point of view

So off they rode, up canyons deep, and bush so tall and dense
that it held a mob of cleanskins which had never seen a fence.
They pushed them this way, that way now, and turned them back again.
The day dragged on, the horses flagged, at last they reached the plain

A mob of sixty, massed as one, they pushed them through the trees
and cooled themselves off gratefully in the welcome evening breeze.
So now Mick sought to show his skills, and dumfound Pommy Pete;
“Just watch me get that bull,” he said, “I’ll drag him off his feet”

So Mick explained that stockmen all, at least all those who count,
can chase a bull and, as it tires, instantly dismount,
to seize its tail and when it falls, secure its legs with cord
and leave it hogtied on the ground most well and truly floored

“Just follow me, I’ll demonstrate”, said Mick “no hesitation”
“I’ll show you now a stockman’s skill – a proper illustration”.
He singled out a feral bull, wild-eyed and singly mean;
in fact the nastiest bloody bull that Pete had ever seen

In heavy bush Mick galloped hard, the bull refused to yield
but in the end he rode it down, as through the scrub they wheeled
and leaping from his horse, he yelled, the wild bull’s tail he caught;
he gave a mighty pull but then, his efforts came to nought

The bull stood firm and did not fall, Mick gave another tug;
the bull looked round and summed things up, and merely seemed to shrug.
Mick pulled again with failing hope; the bull hooked hard and low;
so Mick gave up and, running off, abandoned one last throw

Enraged, the wild bull followed him, a lumbering gait at first
but, gaining strength and speeding up, caused Mick to fear the worst.
Then just as Mick abandoned hope and swerved in desperation
came Pommy Pete now riding fast, with promise of salvation

Between the bull and ringer Mick, Pete hammered home his horse
with such a shock the angry bull was staggered by the force.
While pushing hard, Pete took it out and Mick then understood
that Pete was riding off the bull, like a polo player should

Mick silently retrieved his horse, as bull and cleanskins fled;
he looked at Pete and thought awhile, “Good onya, mate” he said.
They followed up and caught the mob, to bring them in real late
and sighed with satisfaction as they pushed them through the gate

That night when sitting round the fire, all drinking rum and coke;
no word from Pete for after all, he’s not that sort of bloke.
But Mick it was who told the yarn of how the bull was mastered;
they looked at Pete a different way “Good onya - Pommy bastard”

As Pete reflected how he’d come, from the days of Pommy Pete
to insults of a mateship kind, straight up - with no deceit;
for Aussie bloke or Pommy dill, no matter where you search
you’re one of us, when you stand by, a mate left in the lurch

Badger

[Bob Pacey]

Sounds all right to me Bob.

Now I'm not big on metre but i know a good yarn when i read it .

Good onya mate. I will have another read later to see.

Cheers Bob

[Heather]

Hi Badger, I have read a couple of stanzas but it's a bit long for me at this time of the night. I will read it again tomorrow. However, what I did read sounded fine. If you have a non rhyme - what the heck, it's not for a competition and it's your poem and your story.

I know exactly the problem you are talking about. My first ever poem - which I thought i was SO clever writing at the time (before I knew the existence of metre) is all over the shop. I've tried to fix it but I only lose the story and the feeling in the original - so, it stays, such as it is.... there are other poems to write.

Glad you've joined the clan and joined right in..

Heather

[william williams]

Badger Bob good on yah I cannot talk as often mine have some or none of poetry requirements for ABPA but what you wrote is enjoyable and easy to read it gives mind pictures what the hec good luck mate keep them comming

Bill the old Battler

[Maureen K Clifford]

Can only see a couple of slightly dodgy bits in in Badge and it is a ripper of a yarn. Love it. Baptism of fire and you stuck it to us. Well done Mate it is a great poem - much enjoyed and IMO not at all too long

Cheers

Maureen

[David J Delaney]

Great yarn Bob, thought it rolled along quite nicely, welcome to the mob.

[r.magnay]

G'day Bob, good yarn mate and as for being long that's ok too, the only thing about long poems is that they might have to wait awhile to be read completely. I read it for the content and nothing jumped out at me in the way of glaring faults, if it is just a poem to be enjoyed that's fine, you only need to adjust to the rules if you are going to enter it in a comp. as long as it is something that will hold a reader right to the end I reckon it is OK....and it did that with me..

[Neville Briggs]

G'day Bob, Good to see you posting something. I think you made the right decision to leave your poem in the original form, trying to make it conform to some supposed rules would have changed it into something that isn't you, I suspect.

How long is too long, I dunno, as they say "how long is a piece of string". One of those things the writer just has to decide from some mysterious process of creativity, I think.

If you spent three weeks writing it, then that's a good sign that you understand all the work that goes into writing poetry. best wishes for your next one

[Glenny Palmer]

G'daay Bob & 'Welcome...& Goodonya!' This is 'Mother' here. The old wielder of the classroom cane. If you have read the tips on here you musta read mine? First up....you are approaching this passion of yours/ours in exactly the correct way...IMO. You are willing to learn & to take constructive criticsm....which, after all, is the only way to learn...in any field. And you have the self reliance to risk sharing your work. Well done!

Your poem is very impressive for a 'first go.' I judge a fair bit, & I don't think it is too long. Your command of metric structure is good but needing tweaking here & there....remember, there is always another word, with the correct syllable count....you just have to find it. (or make it up, as some of my little darlings do, at times.)

I think this poem is well worth working on, & if you wish I am happy to assist you in that regard. In order to do this you will need to contact me via email, as it is far more effective in editing 'Word'. I'm at glennypoet at bigpond dot com. Bear in mind that most written competitions want the work to be totally written by you....however....the way I try to 'teach' involves guiding you rather than 're-writing' it for you. Regardless, if we can use this poem as a sort of 'template' for your future works, that should do the trick.

If you continue as you have so far, with your attitude & skill, I think we will be seeing your name on the awards list in due course. (I have a little darling who I've been 'guiding' blitzing the awards at present. In fact, he recently beat me in a popular written comp. I see that as the highest compliment a 'teacher' can be granted.)

Anyway....if you haven't nodded off by now...(after all I am a 'wordsmith'...so I take full advantage of the gift...ie I'm a chatterbox) then just let me know what you think, but please don't feel obliged.

Good luck!
Cheeers
Glenny Palmer

[Heather]

A nice yarn Bob. Looking forward to reading more of your poetry.

Heather