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A Selection of Australian Poetry:

The Man From Snowy River by A. B. Banjo Patterson page 2

My Country by Dorothea Mackellar page 5

Moonthanguddi by Dan Davis page 7

Ballad of the Totems by Oodgeroo Noonuccal (Kath Walker) page 8

Merri Creek by Ali Alizadeh page 9

Blacktown: Boyd Street 1 by Maryam Azam page 11

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The final assessment task, a literary response essay, is based on primarily on The Secret River with reference to some poetry used to support a discussion based on the significance of landscape in relation to any of the key themes - identity, belonging, love, hardship, pride and or injustice.

In the final assessment task, you cannot draw on Squeaker’s Mate or a film you have studied as these have been used as the basis of Task 1 (Creative) and Task 2 (Investigative). As with the investigative task, you are not to discuss all themes listed, just one or two as you see being most relevant to your ideas and understanding of the texts studied.

Poetry is as effective as short stories, film and novels in articulating the writer’s sense of

belonging to country as home or community as home. Our identity, who we are, what we

believe and how we see ourselves is indelibly linked to our surroundings, our family, our

home, our town, our experiences – these shape our values, prejudices and shape our

opinions and perspectives about people, politics, religion and culture. Who we are is

undeniably a product of our genetic predisposition, but as importantly, our environment.

These ideas are the core of our unit.

The following poems are a selection of two colonial, two indigenous and two migrant poems.

The colonial poems, like Squeaker’s Mate, see the landscape as tough, unrelenting, a force

to be reckoned with but one that can be reckoned with - with respect, hard work and

determination.

The indigenous poems are inextricably linked to the dreamtime (creation stories) and to the

idea of the totem - linked to the Dreamtime - the time of creation, when the ancestral beings,

the totemic ancestors, roamed the land, giving birth to the people of the various totemic

groups and naming the animals, plants and landscape features.

The migrant poems are from two recent newcomers who describe their foreign environment

but seek to connect with it. To find something of the familiar or of comfort to relate to and

therefore to engender a sense of belonging.

You should read the selection, choose ONE poem from each SECTION (three poems in

total), and complete the reflection/analysis within the module for each poem.

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Bush Poetry (section 1) has always been prominent in Australian writing largely

because the landscape was so different from the landscape of new settlers from

England, Ireland and Scotland.

The Man from Snowy River – A.B 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 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,

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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 stockhorse past them, and he made the ranges ring

With 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 sway,

Were 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 timbers 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 stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,

Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;

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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 in 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 reed beds sweep and sway

To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,

The man from Snowy River is a household word today,

And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

Banjo Paterson

Form: Ballad

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My Country – Dorothea Mackeller

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 mountains,

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 threefold.

Over the thirsty paddocks,

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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.

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When talking about the land many Indigenous poems (section 2) are related to Dreamtime…

Moonthanguddi - Dan Davis

I wanna tell you a story, about a friend of mine and yours. He name Moonthanguddi, He roamed this land with cause. Moonthanguddi, made every creek, He made the rivers and streams. Moonthanguddi, sometime talk to me, at night in my dreams. He tell me how peaceful it was, back when he was creating. How us mob lived of this land, there wasn't any hating. We all knew our boundaries, and respected our own dirt. No reason to be greedy, we had plenty, no reason for any hurt. Moonthanguddi, the Creator, He travelled this place with pride. He resting now, they call Him, the Australian Great Divide. Moonthanguddi is the name my mob, gave to that Rainbow Snake. One day I reckon that old Moonthanguddi, He gonna awake. Moonthanguddi, when he awake, He gonna be real upset. By the way they dig up the earth, and taking what they can get. Taken what was meant to stay, what belongs to this land. Society is full of greed, and wealth, it don't understand. Moonthanguddi, the Creator, the one who started the dream. The Rainbow Snake we know real well, He there for you and me.

Moonthanguddi is the Baradah clan's word for the Rainbow Serpent.

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Ballad Of The Totems – OODGEROO NOONUCCAL

My father was Noonuccal man and kept old tribal way, His totem was the Carpet Snake, whom none must ever slay; But mother was of Peewee clan, and loudly she expressed The daring view that carpet snakes were nothing but a pest. Now one lived inside with us in full immunity, For no one dared to interfere with father’s stern decree: A mighty fellow ten feet long, and as we lay in bed We kids could watch him round a beam not far above our head. Only the dog was scared of him, we’d hear its whines and growls, But mother fiercely hated him because he took her fowls. You should have heard her diatribes that flowed in angry torrents, With words you’d never see in print, except in D.H. Lawrence. “I kill that robber,” she would scream, fierce as a spotted cat; “You see that bulge inside of him? My speckly hen make that!” But father’s loud and strict command made even mother quake; I think he’d sooner kill a man than kill a carpet snake. That reptile was a greedy guts, and as each bulge digested He’d come down on the hunt at night, as appetite suggested. We heard his stealthy slithering sound across the earthen floor, While the dog gave a startled yelp and bolted out the door. Then over in the chicken-yard hysterical fowls gave tongue, Loud frantic squawks accompanied by the barking of the mung, Until at last the racket passed, and then to solve the riddle, Next morning he was back up there with a new bulge in his middle. When father died we wailed and cried, our grief was deep and sore, And strange to say from that sad day the snake was seen no more. The wise old men explained to us: “It was his tribal brother, And that is why it done a guy” – but some looked hard at mother. She seemed to have a secret smile, her eyes were smug and wary, She looked about as innocent as the cat that ate the pet canary. We never knew, but anyhow (to end this tragic rhyme) I think we all had snake for tea one day about that time.

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There is a great deal of migrant poetry (section three) that talks about the

strangeness of the land. However, these two poems are about being at home here in

Australia, comfortable with the foreign landscape.

Merri Creek-Ali Alizadeh

Rivers are all the same. Dirty water

if you’re lucky, smelly mud and silt

increasingly the case. And dreary

water sports, flotillas of filthy plastic

bottles and bags; I’d like to emphasise

the stench. Caesar’s Rubicon

on the other hand, soaks my head

in a tale of courage, confrontation

I read when I was seven. On Twain’s

Mississippi, in my room, I floated

away from the indisputably evil

place I was born in. And the Seine

luminous, a Third World dream

for life in a Western city. I swam

in the weird, inexplicable words

of your Hawkesbury, a migrant

with little English, holding my breath

under the phonetics of birds’ names

and scales of fishing metaphors. Then

I was drawn to Melbourne, and lonely

in the struggle with life and poetry

I kept my head above the dark surface,

the swamp of desire and alcoholism,

by drifting alone on the rundown trail

along Merri Creek. I’d scowl at geese

and unwittingly infuriate the drakes

on macabre winter days, menacing

summer evenings. Banks, hardly scenic

after routine floods, beaten willows

cobwebbed with human waste: cable

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wires, shoes, tyres, etc. I repeat

the river reeked, a feral fusion

of organic and manmade decay. But

what can I say; leafy corridors,

sunlight accentuating algae

on stream’s translucent face,

even rusted didactic plaques; picture

of these usually soothes, protects me

when I’m hurt or restless, marooned

in China, Turkey, Dubai, Sydney; it’s

just a river, like I said, and just

about the only place I’d call home

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Blacktown: Boyd Street I -Maryam Azam For the first days of our marriage

we lived on Boyd street, near

the aquatic centre and a patch

of grass cut diagonally across

by a mildewed concrete footpath

and with a single park bench, smack

bang in the middle, next to a sign that

read “International Peace Park”.

My dad called it the dumpy

side of Blacktown and there

was hard rubbish dumped

in front of our townhouse complex -

a dirty mattress, mouldy pieces

of wood, a broken pram

they remained there

for the duration of our tenancy

one of the many ugly tattoos

on the skin of the street

A grey Lancer with a shattered window

Was sitting at the front of the complex

when I went to get our council

bins the morning after collection.

I tugged on the handle but

the recycling bin was so heavy it

wouldn’t budge. The other fifteen

or so bins were empty, some

blocking the driveway, red

and yellow lids hanging limply.

I lifted the lid and stuffed in

at the top of our bin were jars

filled with orange oil, the Durra

brand jars you get from the Afghani

supermarket on Main street,

old brown pants, stinking

banana peels and orange scraps.

Not our rubbish.

I lugged the bin back,

the wheels clattering like a

suitcase over the driveway

after dumping the excess

into somebody else’s bin

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