Dear Squeers,

Finally a chance to reply.

I fear you may have the wrong tiger by the tail.

On Australia Day my family has a growing tradition of heading out to the in-law's sheep property and after a hearty meal, bringing out Banjo's poems and getting stuck in. His book is passed around and the dozen or so kids are encouraged to do a reading. The show stopper though is my brother-in-law, a fitter and turner by trade who would freely admit to reading no more than one book a year. But to hear his suitably gravelly voice lovingly caress Banjo's words is an annual delight. His reverence for poetry is not limited to Banjo's works but if all it is is 'naïve affection' of 'provincial pieties' then it is held very deeply.

However he is unlikely to ever contemplate reading this forum, even less likely to ever contribute, and would never waste his time trying to decipher your and probably my posts here.

So I think what probably makes this thread so “complacently middle-class” for your good self is the setting rather than the subject.

And in all truth I would to some extent agree with that sentiment. To be a regular participant here requires a number of things that only a section of our society enjoy. Leisure time for a start, plus a degree of computer literacy, a developed sense of English comprehension, some stridently held views and the gumption to expose them to critical review.

Cont...

Cont...

But hell I'm not bothered by assuming your label, it certainly helps keep the ego in check. What we see as a broad spectrum of OLO contributors, bracketed by the likes of runner to davidf, is in reality just a little slither of society's whole. And, I would contend, not an especially remarkable one at that. But once this is recognised it is easy enough to be comfortable with the thought.

What is a little more remarkable is the fair degree of civility in our discourse. I will admit to having grown into it through my participation in the OLO forum, thanks in no small measure to the likes of davidf and foxy.

I personally have found the rewards of that civil discourse far exceeding the momentary delights of one-up-man-ship, however I am the first to recognise the restraint involved can be seen by others as pomposity, or for you 'tea and cucumber' moments, but it is a price I'm happy to pay for the 'anaesthetic'.

Anyhow I've been told I look rather dashing in a smoking jacket.

Finally in the words of our dear Henry;

Bother not about the morrow, for sufficient to the day
Is the evil (rather more so). Put your trust in God and pray!
Study well the ant, thou sluggard. Blessed are the meek and low.
Ponder calmly on the lilies -- how they idle, how they grow.
A man's a man! Obey your masters! Do not blame the proud and fat,
For the poor are always with them, and they cannot alter that.
Lay your treasures up in Heaven -- cling to life and see it through!
For it cannot last for ever -- `I shall die some day,' says you.

Whew, that is some angry brilliance.

Dear csteele,

Thank You for sharing the story of your
family's poetry readings with us.
I can visualize your brother reading
the poems and I wish I could sit quietly
in a corner and listen as well. Sheer magic!

I tend to browse in bookshops and peep
into the pages of paperbacks trying to
pick the best poems for children for
my Storytime sessions. Selecting for
older children I try to avoid the over-
reliance on poetry which has little appeal
to modern children. If I hope to hold the
attention of older readers I find its
necessary to make the poetry I select
relevant to their lives, and of course it's
got to ring true.

"Getting Albert off to bed
Is such an anxious task,
He never seems to want to go
Although you ask
And ask.

"Just five more minutes," Albert says.
Another five, and then
Before you know it, cunning boy,
He stretches it
To ten.

He brushes teeth with lazy strokes
He lingers and he plays.
"Please HURRY, Albert," people shout
But Albert stays
And stays.

Getting Albert into bed
Would seem a losing fight,
I think I'll go to bed
Instead.
So, everyone,
Goodnight!"

(Max Fatchen - his verse reminds me
of Ogden Nash).

Dear foxy,

My best win from a second-hand bookshop was Harold Bloom's 'Stories and Poems for Extremely Intelligent Children of All Ages' however it was not a poem from it that so struck my daughters but a short story by Emile Zola titled Complements.

It can be read here; http://www.101bananas.com/library2/complements.html

Being in their mid teens has obviously made them receptive to the tale but it is striking just how much it became part of our family's language.

Both of them are of course stunningly beautiful yet I suppose teenage insecurities about appearance are pretty universal.

Dear Csteele,
thanks for your thoughts. I will be very busy brushing up on Keats today, but shall respond as soon as I can. I would just say here, however, that I don't single out this thread or OLO for criticism (I admire many of the contributors too), but our whole representative culture.

I'm more a fan, btw, of Henry Lawson's bleak realism than I am of Banjo's romanticising of the outback; their poetic duel makes for a great dialogue!

I love the rhythm and turn of phrase of Banjo's works.

Here's a selection of stanzas from another's work that I've loved since I was a kiddo.

THE DEATH OF BEN HALL

Will. H. Ogilvie (1869 - 1963)


....



But his friend had read of the big reward,

And his soul was stirred with greed;

He fastened his door and window board,

He saddled his horse and crossed the ford,

And spurred to the town at speed.


......


False was the hand that raised the chain

And false was the whispered word:

'The troopers have turned to the south again,

You may dare to camp on the Gunning Plain.'

And the weary outlaw heard.



He walked from the hut but a quarter mile

Where a clump of saplings stood

In a sea of grass like a lonely isle;

And the moon came up in a little while

Like silver steeped in blood.



Ben Hall lay down on the dew-wet ground

By the side of his tiny fire;

And a night breeze woke, and he heard no sound

As the troopers drew their cordon round -

And the traitor earned his hire.



And nothing they saw in the dim grey light,

But the little glow in the trees;

And they crouched in the tall cold grass all night,

Each one ready to shoot at sight,

With his rifle cocked on his knees.



When the shadows broke and the dawn's white sword

Swung over the mountain wall,

And a little wind blew over the ford,

A sargeant sprang to his feet and roared:

'In the name of the Queen, Ben Hall!'



Haggard, the outlaw leapt from his bed

With his lean arms held on high,

'Fire!' And the word was scarcely said

When the mountains rang to rain of lead -

And the dawn went drifting by.



They kept their word and they paid his pay

Where a clean man's hand would shrink;

And that was the traitor's master day

As he stood by the bar on his homeward way

And called on the crowd to drink.



cont'd