This is the kind of 'stuff' I love on these pages.
Getting into the real history of the real lives of the poets that inspire.
Many thanks.
The Poets Of The Tomb by Henry Lawson
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Wendy Seddon
- Posts: 446
- Joined: Sun Oct 31, 2010 5:20 pm
- Location: Medowie NSW
Re: The Poets Of The Tomb by Henry Lawson
Wen de Rhymewriter There is nothing mundane about the ordinary.
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Heather
Re: The Poets Of The Tomb by Henry Lawson
I have been reading a bit of Lawson poetry this morning. I think it would surprise everyone to know that Lawson's school education amounted to three years (according to the biography I posted earlier) - yep, three years! When he was a bit older he did try some night school. Then, add to his limited education, his profound deafness and shyness - in a time when people with disabilities such as his were considered inferior and imbeciles. Can you imagine his frustration? What might he have done if he'd had a better education and wasn't restricted by deafness.
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Stephen Whiteside
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- Joined: Sat Nov 27, 2010 1:07 pm
- Contact:
Re: The Poets Of The Tomb by Henry Lawson
Heather, do you think Lawson's writing was influenced by his deafness? Silly question, I suppose, but they say deaf people learn to 'listen with their eyes'.
Stephen Whiteside, Australian Poet and Writer
http://www.stephenwhiteside.com.au
http://www.stephenwhiteside.com.au
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Wendy Seddon
- Posts: 446
- Joined: Sun Oct 31, 2010 5:20 pm
- Location: Medowie NSW
Re: The Poets Of The Tomb by Henry Lawson
That's really cool Heather because I have been researching Mary Gilmore. She and Lawson as you probably know were VERY close.
My Grandfather and she were friends and I have recently been given a cameo brooch which was hers and her book 'Old Days, Old Ways'.
I can hardly put it down.
My Grandfather and she were friends and I have recently been given a cameo brooch which was hers and her book 'Old Days, Old Ways'.
I can hardly put it down.
Wen de Rhymewriter There is nothing mundane about the ordinary.
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Mal McLean
- Posts: 521
- Joined: Wed Nov 03, 2010 7:40 pm
- Location: North Lakes
Re: The Poets Of The Tomb by Henry Lawson
Yes Heather. He was also an alcoholic and suffered depression. I wonder if he wasn't an Aspy, as well?
Lawson’s Lament
A sliver of moon on a starlit night
and a whisper of breeze on the gum,
as the trav’ler turning in his dreams
induced by the curse of rot gut rum,
cries out in his mind for the western streams
and weeps for the man that he has become.
He remembers when he was young and strong
and he took to the sundowners life,
but the trampers calling ever hard
cutting him deep as the sharpest knife
slipped far beneath where he never kept guard
and drowned him in grog and nourished his strife.
Then he fell back to the call of the pen
and the rattle of the wordsmiths sword
made the drovers living on the track,
trailing the mob for little reward,
leap out from the page and the far outback
was a vision in which his faith restored.
The poisonous bait in the trap was set
and the blackest of dogs was his own
and it feasted on his tortured mind,
ripping the man where madness was sown
and casting him down to the drunkards grind
where company’s plenty, but man’s alone.
Yet somewhere along on the trav’lers road
by the light of the thin slivered moon,
he penned the tales of folk on the track,
though his well inked nib ran dry too soon
he painted the words of the great outback
and the nation danced to the weavers tune.
© Malcolm McLean Beveridge
………………………………………………
Lawson’s Lament
A sliver of moon on a starlit night
and a whisper of breeze on the gum,
as the trav’ler turning in his dreams
induced by the curse of rot gut rum,
cries out in his mind for the western streams
and weeps for the man that he has become.
He remembers when he was young and strong
and he took to the sundowners life,
but the trampers calling ever hard
cutting him deep as the sharpest knife
slipped far beneath where he never kept guard
and drowned him in grog and nourished his strife.
Then he fell back to the call of the pen
and the rattle of the wordsmiths sword
made the drovers living on the track,
trailing the mob for little reward,
leap out from the page and the far outback
was a vision in which his faith restored.
The poisonous bait in the trap was set
and the blackest of dogs was his own
and it feasted on his tortured mind,
ripping the man where madness was sown
and casting him down to the drunkards grind
where company’s plenty, but man’s alone.
Yet somewhere along on the trav’lers road
by the light of the thin slivered moon,
he penned the tales of folk on the track,
though his well inked nib ran dry too soon
he painted the words of the great outback
and the nation danced to the weavers tune.
© Malcolm McLean Beveridge
………………………………………………
Preserve the Culture!
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Heather
Re: The Poets Of The Tomb by Henry Lawson
Wow, Wendy, how cool is they ey? 
What a precious possession to have.
Mal, Colin Roderick, Lawson's biographer, seems to think that Lawson was probably bi-polar. His mother also ended up in a mental institution and died there. Louisa Lawson was a powerful influence in his life, but then so was his father but in a more gentle way.
Did his deafness influence his writing? Interesting question Stephen.
I would say that Lawson's upbringing, his grandfather, his parents and their separation, the poverty, his lack of education, the death of his baby sister, his deafness, the alcohol, the loves in his life all influenced his life -and therefore his writing. We are the sum total of all our life experiences.
Did he "see" more because he was deaf? I hadn't thought about it before but it would make sense wouldn't it? He was 9 when he started to go deaf and about 14 (from the biographical site posted earlier) when he had total hearing loss. He was already a shy, sickly and introverted child. I guess that would make him live more in his own world. Who knows what went on in his head..
What a precious possession to have. Mal, Colin Roderick, Lawson's biographer, seems to think that Lawson was probably bi-polar. His mother also ended up in a mental institution and died there. Louisa Lawson was a powerful influence in his life, but then so was his father but in a more gentle way.
Did his deafness influence his writing? Interesting question Stephen.
I would say that Lawson's upbringing, his grandfather, his parents and their separation, the poverty, his lack of education, the death of his baby sister, his deafness, the alcohol, the loves in his life all influenced his life -and therefore his writing. We are the sum total of all our life experiences.
Did he "see" more because he was deaf? I hadn't thought about it before but it would make sense wouldn't it? He was 9 when he started to go deaf and about 14 (from the biographical site posted earlier) when he had total hearing loss. He was already a shy, sickly and introverted child. I guess that would make him live more in his own world. Who knows what went on in his head..
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Mal McLean
- Posts: 521
- Joined: Wed Nov 03, 2010 7:40 pm
- Location: North Lakes
Re: The Poets Of The Tomb by Henry Lawson
Heather,
Maybe all the great poets are a bit crazy and live inside their own heads anyway. Poor old Lawson. I always feel truly sorry for his personal circumstances and I'm always in awe of his genius. I have two leather bound editions on the lives and works of Lawson and Patterson.....I don't know which is more worn. Back when I was still a drinker I would poor myself an extremely large glass of expensive red wine and settle into my downstairs armchair in the peace and quiet with one of those volumes....sigh... the wife would come and wake me up eventually. I am deeply indebted to the bards for allowing me into their lives and for my enjoyment of very fine wine. Could be a poem in that somewhere.
Kind Regards
Mal
Maybe all the great poets are a bit crazy and live inside their own heads anyway. Poor old Lawson. I always feel truly sorry for his personal circumstances and I'm always in awe of his genius. I have two leather bound editions on the lives and works of Lawson and Patterson.....I don't know which is more worn. Back when I was still a drinker I would poor myself an extremely large glass of expensive red wine and settle into my downstairs armchair in the peace and quiet with one of those volumes....sigh... the wife would come and wake me up eventually. I am deeply indebted to the bards for allowing me into their lives and for my enjoyment of very fine wine. Could be a poem in that somewhere.
Kind Regards
Mal
Preserve the Culture!
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Robyn
- Posts: 542
- Joined: Sat Nov 19, 2011 11:21 pm
- Location: Binalong NSW
Re: The Poets Of The Tomb by Henry Lawson
Love the insights into the poets and their lives... it is all fascinating. I agree with Heather we are all the sum of our experiences, so all the factors (previously mentioned) in his life would have played a part in the poetry he wrote... and what poetry it is!
Robyn
Robyn
Robyn Sykes, the Binalong Bard.
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Heather
Re: The Poets Of The Tomb by Henry Lawson
Have a read of this very touching poem. Henry is supposed to have reported to have fallen in love with Hannah. Hannah died in June 1902 just prior to Henry arriving back in Australia from England. His suicide attempt was Dec 1902. He is very telling in this poem.
Hannah's surname was Thornburn but apparently there was a printer's error. My book has "Thornburn"
Hannah Thomburn
Henry Lawson, 1905
They lifted her out of a story
Too sordid and selfish by far,
They left me the innocent glory
Of love that was pure as a star;
They left me all guiltless of "evil"
That would have brought years of distress
When the chance to be man, god or devil,
Was mine, on return from Success.
With a name and a courage uncommon
She had come in the soul striving days,
She had come as a child, girl and woman —
Come only to comfort and praise.
There was never a church that could marry,
For never a court could divorce,
In the season of Hannah and Harry
When the love of my life ran its course.
Her hair was red gold on head Grecian,
But fluffed from the parting away,
And her eyes were the warm grey Venetian
That comes with the dawn of the day.
No Fashion nor Fad could entrap her,
And a simple print work dress wore she,
But her long limbs were formed for the "wrapper"
And her fair arms were meant to be free.
(Oh, I knew by the thrill of pure passion
At the touch of her elbow, or hand —
By the wife's loveless eyes that would flash on
The feeling I could not command.
Oh, I knew when revulsion came rushing —
Oh, I knew by the brush strokes that hurt
At the sight of a sculptor friend brushing
The clay from the hem of her skirt.)
She was mine on return from succeeding
In a struggle that no one shall know;
She only knew my heart was bleeding,
She only knew what dealt the blow.
I had fought back the friends that were clutching,
I had forced back the heart-scalding tears
Just to lay my hot head to her touching
And to weep for Two Terrible Years.
Oh! the hand on my hair that was greying!
Oh! the kiss on my brow that was lined!
Oh! the peace when my reason was straying
And the rest and relief for my mind.
Till, no longer world shackled or frightened,
The voice of the past would be stilled,
Hearts quickened, cheeks flushed and eyes brightened,
And the love of our lives be fulfilled!
It was Antwerp, and Plymouth — th' Atlantic
And, so well had Love's network been laid,
That I heard of her illness, grown frantic,
At Genoa, Naples — Port Said.
I was mad just to reach her and "tell her",
But a sandbank at Suez tripped me,
And we limped, with a crippled propeller,
Through all Hades adown the Red Sea.
Through the monsoon we rolled like a Jumbo
With a second blade shaken away,
There was never a dock in Colombo
So the captain drank hard to Bombay.
Then a "point" in the south like an anthill
Or seawastes — then hove into sight —
I called for no news at Fremantle
For I wanted to hope through the Bight.
There's a gentleman, reading, shall know it,
There's an earl who will now understand
Why I "slighted" the son of their poet
(And a vice regal load of the land) —
Semaphore — and a burst through the wicket
On platform left guards in distress —
A run without luggage or ticket,
A cab, and the Melbourne Express.
'Twas a brother-in-grief of mine told me
With harsh eyes unwontedly dim,
With a hand on my shoulder to hold me
And a grip on my own — to hold him.
A dry choke, and words cracked and hurried,
A stare, as of something afraid,
And he told me that Hannah was buried
On the day I reached Port Adelaide.
They could greet me — let Heaven or Hell come,
They could weep — for the grave by the sea
Oh! the mother and father could welcome
And the kinsfolk without fear of me.
For they watched her safe out of a story
Where she slaved and suffered alone —
They could weep to the tune of the hoary
Old lie "If we only had known".
But I have the letter that followed
That she wrote to England and me —
That crossed us perchance as we wallowed
That birthday of mine on the sea,
That she wrote on the eve of her going,
Hopeful and loving and brave,
To keep me there, prosperous, knowing,
No care save the far away grave.
They have lifted her out of a story
Too sordid and selfish by far,
And left me the innocent glory
Of love that was pure as a star:
That was human and strong though she hid it
To write before death in last lines —
And I kneel to the angels who did it
And I bow to the fate that refines.
Hannah's surname was Thornburn but apparently there was a printer's error. My book has "Thornburn"
Hannah Thomburn
Henry Lawson, 1905
They lifted her out of a story
Too sordid and selfish by far,
They left me the innocent glory
Of love that was pure as a star;
They left me all guiltless of "evil"
That would have brought years of distress
When the chance to be man, god or devil,
Was mine, on return from Success.
With a name and a courage uncommon
She had come in the soul striving days,
She had come as a child, girl and woman —
Come only to comfort and praise.
There was never a church that could marry,
For never a court could divorce,
In the season of Hannah and Harry
When the love of my life ran its course.
Her hair was red gold on head Grecian,
But fluffed from the parting away,
And her eyes were the warm grey Venetian
That comes with the dawn of the day.
No Fashion nor Fad could entrap her,
And a simple print work dress wore she,
But her long limbs were formed for the "wrapper"
And her fair arms were meant to be free.
(Oh, I knew by the thrill of pure passion
At the touch of her elbow, or hand —
By the wife's loveless eyes that would flash on
The feeling I could not command.
Oh, I knew when revulsion came rushing —
Oh, I knew by the brush strokes that hurt
At the sight of a sculptor friend brushing
The clay from the hem of her skirt.)
She was mine on return from succeeding
In a struggle that no one shall know;
She only knew my heart was bleeding,
She only knew what dealt the blow.
I had fought back the friends that were clutching,
I had forced back the heart-scalding tears
Just to lay my hot head to her touching
And to weep for Two Terrible Years.
Oh! the hand on my hair that was greying!
Oh! the kiss on my brow that was lined!
Oh! the peace when my reason was straying
And the rest and relief for my mind.
Till, no longer world shackled or frightened,
The voice of the past would be stilled,
Hearts quickened, cheeks flushed and eyes brightened,
And the love of our lives be fulfilled!
It was Antwerp, and Plymouth — th' Atlantic
And, so well had Love's network been laid,
That I heard of her illness, grown frantic,
At Genoa, Naples — Port Said.
I was mad just to reach her and "tell her",
But a sandbank at Suez tripped me,
And we limped, with a crippled propeller,
Through all Hades adown the Red Sea.
Through the monsoon we rolled like a Jumbo
With a second blade shaken away,
There was never a dock in Colombo
So the captain drank hard to Bombay.
Then a "point" in the south like an anthill
Or seawastes — then hove into sight —
I called for no news at Fremantle
For I wanted to hope through the Bight.
There's a gentleman, reading, shall know it,
There's an earl who will now understand
Why I "slighted" the son of their poet
(And a vice regal load of the land) —
Semaphore — and a burst through the wicket
On platform left guards in distress —
A run without luggage or ticket,
A cab, and the Melbourne Express.
'Twas a brother-in-grief of mine told me
With harsh eyes unwontedly dim,
With a hand on my shoulder to hold me
And a grip on my own — to hold him.
A dry choke, and words cracked and hurried,
A stare, as of something afraid,
And he told me that Hannah was buried
On the day I reached Port Adelaide.
They could greet me — let Heaven or Hell come,
They could weep — for the grave by the sea
Oh! the mother and father could welcome
And the kinsfolk without fear of me.
For they watched her safe out of a story
Where she slaved and suffered alone —
They could weep to the tune of the hoary
Old lie "If we only had known".
But I have the letter that followed
That she wrote to England and me —
That crossed us perchance as we wallowed
That birthday of mine on the sea,
That she wrote on the eve of her going,
Hopeful and loving and brave,
To keep me there, prosperous, knowing,
No care save the far away grave.
They have lifted her out of a story
Too sordid and selfish by far,
And left me the innocent glory
Of love that was pure as a star:
That was human and strong though she hid it
To write before death in last lines —
And I kneel to the angels who did it
And I bow to the fate that refines.
-
Heather
Re: The Poets Of The Tomb by Henry Lawson
I just stumbled across this and thought it was worth sharing.
Henry Lawson
Dear Bulletin
I'm awfully surprised to find myself sober. And, being sober, I take up my pen to write a few lines, hoping they will find you as I am at present. I want to know a few things. In the first place: Why does a man get drunk? There seems to be no excuse for it. I get drunk because I am in trouble, and I get drunk because I've got out of it. I get drunk because I'm sick, or have corns, or the toothache: and I get drunk because I'm feeling well and grand. I get drunk because I was rejected; and I got awfully drunk the night I was accepted. And, mind you, I don't like to get drunk at all, because I don't enjoy it much, and suffer hell afterwards. I'm always far better and happier when I'm sober, and tea tastes better than beer. But I get drunk. I get drunk when I feel that I want a drink, and I get drunk when I don't. I get drunk because I had a row last night and made a fool of myself and it worries me, and when things are fixed up I get drunk to celebrate it. And, mind you, I've got no craving for a drink. I get drunk because I'm frightened about things, and because I don't care a damn. Because I'm hard up and because I'm flush. And, somehow, I seem to have better luck when I'm drunk. I don't think the mystery of drunkenness will ever be explained - until all things are explained, and that will be never. A friend says that we don't drink to feel happier, but to feel less miserable. But I don't feel miserable when I'm straight. Perhaps I'm not perfectly sober right now, after all. I'll go and get a drink, and write again later.
Henry Lawson,
Letter to the Bulletin (1903)
Source: http://www.australianbeers.com/culture/lawson.htm
Henry Lawson
Dear Bulletin
I'm awfully surprised to find myself sober. And, being sober, I take up my pen to write a few lines, hoping they will find you as I am at present. I want to know a few things. In the first place: Why does a man get drunk? There seems to be no excuse for it. I get drunk because I am in trouble, and I get drunk because I've got out of it. I get drunk because I'm sick, or have corns, or the toothache: and I get drunk because I'm feeling well and grand. I get drunk because I was rejected; and I got awfully drunk the night I was accepted. And, mind you, I don't like to get drunk at all, because I don't enjoy it much, and suffer hell afterwards. I'm always far better and happier when I'm sober, and tea tastes better than beer. But I get drunk. I get drunk when I feel that I want a drink, and I get drunk when I don't. I get drunk because I had a row last night and made a fool of myself and it worries me, and when things are fixed up I get drunk to celebrate it. And, mind you, I've got no craving for a drink. I get drunk because I'm frightened about things, and because I don't care a damn. Because I'm hard up and because I'm flush. And, somehow, I seem to have better luck when I'm drunk. I don't think the mystery of drunkenness will ever be explained - until all things are explained, and that will be never. A friend says that we don't drink to feel happier, but to feel less miserable. But I don't feel miserable when I'm straight. Perhaps I'm not perfectly sober right now, after all. I'll go and get a drink, and write again later.
Henry Lawson,
Letter to the Bulletin (1903)
Source: http://www.australianbeers.com/culture/lawson.htm