Architects
Understatement vs overstatement Craft
Emotion through the hands Cuisine
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Ugg boots on the catwalk Humour
Mogrels, wogs, and larrikins Inventions
Thinking different Movies
Once were blockbusters... Music
Pushing the boundaries Painting
The value of tradition Poetry
Defying stoicism Wine
Discovering culture Wisdom
Australian quotes
"The basic Australian literary tradition
is a compound of sound learning, rebelliousness, ardent faith in the common man,
and an even more ardent faith in the Australian future. What better tradition
could any nation want?" ~ C. Hartley Grattan, in Introducing
Australia (New York, 1942)
The origins
of Australian poetry lay in the prison systems. As Convict etiquette strictly
prescribed that one "suffer in silence" whatever emotional turmoil
the Convicts were suffering, they were unable to talk about it with their friends.
Poetry acted as cathartic outburst of emotion which allowed the Convicts to address
those feelings that they could not openly discuss. The most notable of these early
poets included the likes of Michael Massey Robinson, George Barrington
and Frank the Poet.
Although the
Convicts turned to poetry to deal with their problems, writing it was difficult
as a man could be flogged for merely possessing a piece of paper. As a result,
many turned their bodies into their parchments in the form of tattoos bearing
poignant messages like "May the rose of England never blow, May the Scotch
thistle never grow, May the harp of Ireland never play, Till I poor convict greets
my liberty, TCA 20 1830." Others scratched messages on the walls as graffiti,
carved scrimshaws or defaced coins with messages like: "from rocks and
sand and dangers free, protect my love and me."
The
lack of paper or written ability also forced the Convicts to turn their poems
into songs. Even though etiquette of the time prescribed stoicism, the Convict's
songs had melancholic themes. This seems to indicate that they had empathy for
the anguish of others as they were feeling anguish themselves. By expressing their
empathy through an artistic medium, the Convicts were able to maintain a degree
of emotional distance from their turmoil as well as that of their friends, while
still expressing their anguish, their bond, and their concern.
From
these Convict foundations, a rich poetic tradition grew amongst the men of the
lonely nomad trades. Some of the poems moved away from mere anguish and instead
became emotional triggers of cultural pride with Banjo Patterson's "Man
from Snowy River" being one of the finest examples. The poem tells the story
of underdog and his rangy horse whose endurance and determination show that first
impressions can be deceiving - a quintessentially Australian feel-good story.
A
sense of nationalism is also found in poems about the Australian land. In "My
Country", Dorothy Mackellar tells why she has turned her back on the
ordered landscape of Europe to embrace the rugged, pitiless country of Australia.
To her, the reasons for her love can't be communicated, they can only be understood
by those who have shared the Australian experience.
Although
many poems glorify the country, some also contain themes of rebellion; not against
authorities but against the culture of stoicism and the land itself. AD Hope's
"Australia" is scathing towards the land; describing it as "drab
green and desolate grey". He is even more scathing towards the Australian
people; describing them as "monotonous tribes" whose boast is
not to "live" but to "survive". Yet somewhat
paradoxically, Hope seems to redeem Australia; telling how he gladly turns towards
it, towards the "Arabian desert of the human mind". For Hope,
it is in the desert where life springs; it is where the "prophets come".
Les Murray's "An Absolutely
Ordinary Rainbow" is another that rebels against the stoic culture of Australians.
It tells the story of a man who walks into Sydney and starts crying; a simple
outburst of emotion that is so abnormal that it attracts a scene of confused onlookers.
Ironically, the man's crying seems to offer far more value to the onlookers than
it does to the man himself.
One of Australia's
most popular poems is Kenneth Slessor's "Five Bells." Slessor
started writing poetry during the War where the same conflict between stoicism
and anguish manifested itself into art. Like the Convicts who expressed their
empathy through music, Slessor tapped into the humanity of his fellow diggers
by writing and reading melancholic poems that captured the emotions that they
all felt. Five Bells was written post-war and was about Slessor's friend who was
found dead in Sydney harbour. In his poem, Slessor imagines the man's dying
images; his entire world flashing before his eyes and between the strokes of a
ship's bell.
From
distant climes, o'er wide-spread seas we come, Though not with much
eclat, or beat of drum, True patriots all, for it be understood,
We left our country for our country's good: No private views disgraced our
generous zeal, What urged our travels was our country's weal: And none
will doubt that our emigration Had prov'd most useful to the British Nation.
Top
THE
MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER by Banjo Paterson There was movement
at the station, for the word had passed around That the colt from old Regret
had got away, And had joined the wild bush horses he was worth a thousand
pound, So all the cracks had gathered to the fray. All the tried and noted
riders from the stations near and far Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are, And the stock-horse
snuffs the battle with delight.
There was
Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup, The old man with his
hair as white as snow; But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly
up He would go wherever horse and man could go. And Clancy of the Overflow
came down to lend a hand, No better horseman ever held the reins; For
never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand, He learnt
to ride while droving on the plains.
And
one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast, He was something like
a racehorse undersized, With a touch of Timor pony three parts thoroughbred
at least And such as are by mountain horsemen prized. He was hard and
tough and wiry just the sort that won't say die There was courage in his
quick impatient tread; And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and
fiery eye, And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But
still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay, And the old
man said, `That horse will never do For a long and tiring gallop lad, you'd
better stop away, Those hills are far too rough for such as you.' So he
waited sad and wistful only Clancy stood his friend `I think we ought to
let him come,' he said; `I warrant he'll be with
us when he's wanted at the end, For both his horse and he are mountain bred.
`He
hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side, Where the hills are twice
as steep and twice as rough, Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the
flint stones every stride, The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home, Where the river
runs those giant hills between; I have seen full many horsemen since I first
commenced to roam, But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.'
So
he went they found the horses by the big mimosa clump They raced away towards
the mountain's brow, And the old man gave his orders, `Boys, go at them from
the jump, No use to try for fancy riding now. And, Clancy, you must wheel
them, try and wheel them to the right. Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the
spills, For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight, If once
they gain the shelter of those hills.'
So
Clancy rode to wheel them he was racing on the wing Where the best and boldest
riders take their place, And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made
the ranges ring With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face. Then
they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash, But they saw their
well-loved mountain full in view, And they charged beneath the stockwhip with
a sharp and sudden dash, And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
Then
fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black Resounded to the
thunder of their tread, And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely
answered back From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead. And upward,
ever upward, the wild horses held their way, Where mountain ash and kurrajong
grew wide; And the old man muttered fiercely, `We may bid the mob good day,
NO man can hold them down the other side.'
When
they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull, It well might
make the boldest hold their breath, The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the
hidden ground was full Of wombat holes, and any slip was death. But the
man from Snowy River let the pony have his head, And he swung his stockwhip
round and gave a cheer, And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent
down its bed, While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He
sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet, He cleared the fallen
timber in his stride, And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride. Through the stringy
barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground, Down the hillside at a
racing pace he went; And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and
sound, At the bottom of that terrible descent.
He
was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill, And the watchers
on the mountain standing mute, Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was
right among them still, As he raced across the clearing in pursuit. Then
they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met In the ranges,
but a final glimpse reveals On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses
racing yet, With the man from Snowy River at their heels.
And
he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam. He followed
like a bloodhound on their track, Till they halted cowed and beaten, then
he turned their heads for home, And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot, He was blood from
hip to shoulder from the spur; But his pluck was still undaunted, and his
courage fiery hot, For never yet was mountain horse a cur.
And
down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise Their torn and rugged
battlements on high, Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars
fairly blaze At midnight in the cold and frosty sky, And where around
the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway To the breezes, and the rolling plains
are wide, The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
And
the stockmen tell the story of his ride
Top
My
Country by Dorothea Mackellar
The
love of field and coppice, Of green and shaded lanes, Of ordered woods
and gardens, Is running in your veins. Strong love of grey-blue distance,
Brown streams and soft, dim skies -- I know but cannot share it, My love
is otherwise.
I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains, Of ragged mountain ranges, Of droughts and
flooding rains. I love her far horizons, I love her jewel-sea, Her
beauty and her terror -- The wide brown land for me!
The
stark white ring-barked forests, All tragic to the moon, The sapphire-misted
mountain, The hot gold hush of noon. Green tangle of the brushes,
Where lithe lianas coil, And orchids deck the tree tops And ferns the
warm dark soil.
Core of my heart, my country!
Her pitiless blue sky, When sick at heart, around us, We see the cattle
die -- But then the grey clouds gather, And we can bless again The
drumming of an army, The steady, soaking rain.
Core
of my heart, my country! Land of the Rainbow Gold, For flood and fire
and famine, She pays us back three-fold. Over the thirsty paddocks,
Watch, after many days, The filmy veil of greenness That thickens as we
gaze . . .
An opal-hearted country,
A wilful, lavish land -- All you who have not loved her, You will not
understand -- Though earth holds many splendours, Wherever I may die,
I know to what brown country My homing thoughts will fly.
Top
AUSTRALIA A. D. Hope
A Nation of trees, drab
green and desolate grey In the field uniform of modern wars, Darkens
her hills, those endless, outstretched paws Of Sphinx demolished or stone
lion worn away.
They call her a young
country, but they lie: She is the last of lands, the emptiest, A woman
beyond her change of life, a breast Still tender but within the womb is dry.
Without songs, architecture, history:
The emotions and superstitions of younger lands, Her rivers of water
drown among inland sands, The river of her immense stupidity
Floods
her monotonous tribes from Cairns to Perth. In them at last the ultimate
men arrive Whose boast is not: "we live" but "we survive",
A type who will inhabit the dying earth.
And
her five cities, like five teeming sores, Each drains her: a vast parasite
robber-state Where second hand Europeans pullulate Timidly on the edge
of alien shores.
Yet there are some like
me turn gladly home From the lush jungle of modern thought, to find
The Arabian desert of the human mind, Hoping, if still from the deserts the
prophets come,
Such savage and scarlet
as no green hills dare Springs in that waste, some spirit which escapes
The learned doubt, the chatter of cultured apes Which is called civilization
over there.
Top
An
Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow Les Murray
The
word goes round Repins, the murmur goes round Lorenzinis, at Tattersalls,
men look up from sheets of numbers, the Stock Exchange scribblers forget the
chalk in their hands and men with bread in their pockets leave the Greek Club:
There's a fellow crying in Martin Place. They can't stop him.
The
traffic in George Street is banked up for half a mile and drained of motion.
The crowds are edgy with talk and more crowds come hurrying. Many run in the
back streets which minutes ago were busy main streets, pointing: There's
a fellow weeping down there. No one can stop him.
The
man we surround, the man no one approaches simply weeps, and does not cover
it, weeps not like a child, not like the wind, like a man and does not
declaim it, nor beat his breast, nor even sob very loudly - yet the dignity
of his weeping
holds us back from his space,
the hollow he makes about him in the midday light, in his pentagram of sorrow,
and uniforms back in the crowd who tried to seize him stare out at him, and
feel, with amazement, their minds longing for tears as children for a rainbow.
Some
will say, in the years to come, a halo or force stood around him. There is
no such thing. Some will say they were shocked and would have stopped him
but they will not have been there. The fiercest manhood, the toughest reserve,
the slickest wit amongst us
trembles with
silence, and burns with unexpected judgements of peace. Some in the concourse
scream who thought themselves happy. Only the smallest children and such
as look out of Paradise come near him and sit at his feet, with dogs and dusty
pigeons.
Ridiculous, says a man near me,
and stops his mouth with his hands, as if it uttered vomit - and I see
a woman, shining, stretch her hand and shake as she receives the gift of weeping;
as many as follow her also receive it
and
many weep for sheer acceptance, and more refuse to weep for fear of all acceptance,
but the weeping man, like the earth, requires nothing, the man who weeps ignores
us, and cries out of his writhen face and ordinary body
not
words, but grief, not messages, but sorrow, hard as the earth, sheer, present
as the sea - and when he stops, he simply walks between us mopping his
face with the dignity of one man who has wept, and now has finished weeping.
Evading
believers, he hurries off down Pitt Street.
Top
Five
Bells Ken Slessor
Time
that is moved by little fidget wheels Is not my Time, the flood that does
not flow. Between the double and the single bell Of a ship's hour, between
a round of bells From the dark warship riding there below, I have lived
many lives, and this one life Of Joe, long dead, who lives between five bells.
Deep
and dissolving verticals of light Ferry the falls of moonshine down. Five
bells Coldly rung out in a machine's voice. Night and water Pour to one
rip of darkness, the Harbour floats In air, the Cross hangs upside-down in
water.
Why do I think of you, dead man,
why thieve These profitless lodgings from the flukes of thought Anchored
in Time? You have gone from earth, Gone even from the meaning of a name.
Yet something's there, yet something forms its lips And hits and cries against
the ports of space, Beating their sides to make its fury heard.
Are
you shouting at me, dead man, squeezing your face In agonies of speech on
speechless panes? Cry louder, beat the windows, bawl, your name!
But
I hear nothing, nothing ... only bells, Five bells, the bumpkin calculus of
Time. Your echoes die, your voice is dowsed by Life, There's not a mouth
can fly the pygmy strait - Nothing except the memory of some bones Long
shoved away, and sucked away, in mud; And unimportant things you might have
done, Or once I thought you did; but you forgot, And all have now forgotten
- looks and words And slops of beer; your coat with buttons off, Your
gaunt chin and pricked eye, and raging tales Of Irish kings and English perfidy,
And dirtier perfidy of publicans Groaning to God from Darlinghurst. Five
bells
Then I saw the road, I heard the
thunder Tumble, and felt the talons of the rain The night we came to Moorebank
in dark, So dark you bore no body, had no face, But a sheer voice that
rattled out of air (As now you'd cry if I could break the glass), A voice
that spoke beside me in the bush, Loud for a breath or bitten off by wind,
Of Milton, melons, and the Rights of Man, And blowing flutes, and how Tahitian
girls Are brown and angry-tongued, and Sydney girls Are white and angry-tongued,
or so you'd found. But all I heard was words that didn't join So Milton
became melons, melons girls, And fifty mouths, it seemed, were out that night,
And in each. tree an Ear was bending down, Or something had just run, gone
behind grass, When, blank and bone-white, like a maniac's thought, The
naphtha-flash of lightning slit the sky, Knifing the dark with deathly photographs.
There's not so many with so poor a purse, Or fierce a need, must fare by night
like that, Five miles in darkness on a country track, But when you do,
that's what you think. Five bells
In
Melbourne, your appetite had gone, Your angers too; they had been leeched
away By the soft archery of summer rains And the sponge-paws of wetness.
the slow damp That stuck the leaves of living, snailed the mind, And showed
your bones, that had been sharp with The sodden ecstasies of rectitude.
I thought of what you'd written in faint ink, Your journal with the sawn-off
lock, that stayed behind With other things you left, all without use,
All without meaning now, except a sign That someone had been living who now
was dead: 'At Labassa. Room 6 x 8 On top of the tower; because of this,
very dark And cold in winter. Everything has been stowed Into this room
- 500 books all shapes And colours, dealt across the floor And over sills
and on the laps of chairs; Guns, photoes of many different thmgs And different
curioes that I obtained....'
In Sydney,
by the spent aquarium-flare Of penny gaslight on pink wallpaper, We argued
about blowing up the world, But you were living backward, so each night
You crept a moment closer to the breast, And they were living, all,of them,
those frames And shapes of flesh that had perplexed your youth, And most
your father, the old man gone blind, With fingers always round a fiddle's
neck, That graveyard mason whose fair monuments And tablets cut with dreams
of piety Rest on the bosoms of a thousand men Staked bone by bone, in
quiet astonishment At cargoes they had never thought to bear, These funeral-cakes
of sweet and sculptured stone.
Where have
you gone? The tide is over you, The turn of midnight water's over you,
As Time is over you, and mystery, And memory, the flood that does not flow.
You have no suburb, like those easier dead In private berths of dissolution
laid - The tide goes over, the waves ride over you And let their shadows
down like shinimg hair, But they are Water; and the sea-pinks bend Like
lilies in your teeth, but they are Weed; And you are only part of an Idea.
I felt the wet push its black thumb-balls in, The night you died, I felt your
eardrums crack, And the short agony, the longer dream, The Nothing that
was neither long nor short; But I was bound, and could not go that way,
But I was blind, and could not feel your hand. If I could find an answer,
could only find Your meaning, or could say why you were here Who now are
gone, what purpose gave you breath Or seized it back, might I not hear your
voice?
I looked out of my window in the
dark At waves with diamond quills and combs of light That arched their
mackerel-backs and smacked the sand In the moon's drench, that straight enormous
glaze, And ships far off asleep, and Harbour-buoys Tossing their fireballs
wearily each to each, And tried to hear your voice, but all I heard Was
a boat's whistle, and the scraping squeal Of seabirds' voices far away, and
bells, Five bells. Five bells coldly ringing out. Five bells
Top
VB
How
does it happen? Your reading the news Or lighting a fuse Or straining
till you thought you would burst You sure got a thirst
A
hard earned thirst needs an ice cold beer And the best cold beer is Vic
Victoria Bitter
You can get it jumpin'
You can get it pumpin' You can get it chasing a cow. Matter o' fact,
I got it now
A hard earned thirst needs
an ice cold beer And the best cold beer is Vic Victoria Bitter
