Tasmanian Europa Poets Gazette No. 197, September 2020
The Insignificant Soldier
He was an
insignificant soldier of no important rank,
He was only a
son and a brother.
He was the
grandson of some character sent to
Australia and
was never allowed
To return to
the mother land.
He only served
some years in the
Rat-infested
trenches
Of France and
Belgium
His lungs were
infused with mustard gas.
He was lucky to have
Spent time in German
prisons,
Working in ‘mental
chains’.
On his journey
homewards
He, the insignificant
soldier,
Was severely punished
for a time-on-the-town,
Night-out without
permission.
He returned to farm on
a soldier-settlement
That had
non-productive soil, doomed to fail. 
During hard times his
children were to sleep in a tent
And there was no
government support nor handouts.
He only ever spoke of
his trip abroad but to a few.
Some folk thought that
he was a weird little
Bloke of few words.
He, like many other
insignificant soldiers,
Went to his grave
early.
His child and wife
were spared the horrors of his trip.
It is only 100 years
later when it is in vogue to honour
These Insignificant
soldiers -
The distant dead have
now their names in concrete.
Tribute to Arthur
(Patty) Smith of the 12 battalion.
Judy Brumby-Lake
Shades
I wear all the shades of the battle game
You know the one with no real name
I laugh with the sun
As I cry with the moon
For we are all going home soon
Weary and worn
Some a little torn
Some still lost
And for those, we mourn
We all wore the shades in every way
The good, the bad, a little each day
Some rose high while others fell
Who was who, so had to tell
All I know is I wore all the shades
And for that I expect no accolades.
Trudi Davidson
Lost in Space, Joe Lake
The
Old Times
At the end of a brilliant day,
A ruby sun sits low in a cloudless sky,
Casting a shimmering beam towards me
across the
water -
Like a golden sword that cuts
the still
turquoise sea in half.
I sit on the beach, mesmerised by this beauty
and think -
Why is everything so transient?
I want this magnificence to last forever!
Youth, beauty, love, joy, excitement, wealth -
life itself
parades swiftly by,
And finally all we have left are memories -
Sharp images at first,
But with the passing years they flicker
and fade in
our minds,
Like old silent films,
Then, we are left with deep yearnings
To return to the past - the good times -
The old times.
June Maureen Hitchcock
The Cross-Country Run
My friend and I weren't into sport
Swimming, running or any other sort.
So when we had to go on a cross-country run,
We knew it wasn’t our idea of fun.
We made a diabolical plan
That we thought of as we ran.
The teacher had gone for afternoon tea
So we made good our opportunity!
We slowed down and let the other runners pass.
Then we hid in the bushes and the long grass.
When we saw the two winning runners returning
We sprinted to the finish line
Receiving our first ribbons felt so divine.
The ‘cheated’ winners were two boys
Who were protesting and making a lot of noise.
We were told we’d be going to a cross-country run
The following week in Ulverstone.
Mysteriously my friend came down with the flu
And I conveniently rolled my ankle too!
So the two boys took their rightful place.
All this connivance over a damn stupid race.
Robbie Taylor
Your Order No.
121
Had to laugh
the other day…
...in a
well-known burger place
I fronted to
the counter there
To order face
to face
No one at the counter,
But a lady drifted by,
She called me over to a
screen
And asked what I would
buy.
‘One large
coffee...yes, full cream!
A breakfast
burger, too.’
‘I guess you
want a burger meal?’
She tapped more
info too.
She started ticking on the
screen,
It whizzed its info fast.
She checked all boxes, up
and down,
I really was aghast!
‘Cash or card?’
she blankly stared,
I just said,
‘Cash today’
And then she
sighed: ‘Just come with me.
We do it a
different way!’
We walked back to the
counter then,
(The place I’d rather be),
We had to wait for those
then there,
Who’d queued up after me.
Their orders
finally taken,
And I was next
in queue.
I paid cash and
sat straight down
To wait for
what was due.
There’s just no justice in
this world
As far as I can see!
You have to do things
twice as long
In name of efficiency.
Kathryn Conlin
Burnie Statues
Light
On righteous ground,
Light, all around,
illuminates the soul
within, the whole,
Unseen, those crying,
Blind in the dying,
Cannot, beyond, believe,
But wail and grieve
in solace and embrace,
Each tear-stained face
reflects loss, denial,
And all the while
the light is there,
Exquisite in its rhythm,
Alive, this wondrous prism.
Some look and never see
soul’s flight, in instant, free!
Michael Garrad July 2020
Remains Of Yesterday
She didn’t get older today,
I did,
And clouds hung heavy
under palest sun,
Shedding their tears,
Beating in anger
on cold stale concrete,
Wailing in street silence,
Raw and unforgiving,
Others had arrived at tomorrow,
Moving with changing weather,
Laughing in desolation,
Sheltering in each other,
Hiding from grey misery,
The rain relentless,
The sun always pale.
They were older now,
I was older,
She was as it was.
These are yesterday’s remains.
Michael Garrad July 2020
On Hallowed Hill
In this savage place
there is a hallowed hill,
None may step upon it
save lost souls in renewal,
The leavers fresh from mortal remains,
Confused by this new oblivion,
Snatched in a passing breath,
Non-physical, unfamiliar,
Now without careless need,
Seeing through new blindness,
Unaware still the longest
journey has begun,
When the hovering is complete
in withering crescendo.
There is abundant silence in death’s chatter,
A magnificent isolation,
Where the keeper’s words
are softer than whispers,
Hostile pain and burdened thought
is trapped in the maelstrom of before,
No hunger for the senses that ruled in chaos,
No wants in this transience,
Un-being to the being of.
Michael Garrad August 2020
Another Day
|
The sun is brilliantly
coming into my room,
Stillness is very
unusual,
Most times car and
truck noise at lights,
I looked at the
new-design Europa Gazette,
Very nice, bright and
colourful.
On opening The
Advocate,
Ned Kelly’s court
papers found in Devonport,
Surprised he came from
Glenrowan, Victoria,
Strange how his papers
came to Tasmania,
There are collectors
everywhere.
Yvonne Matheson
Henry Hellyer (a
novel)
Previous: Hellyer’s party has landed its whale boat near
the Emu River’s outlet in the NW of Tasmania, 1826, to begin building a road to
open the way to the Hampshire hills thought by him to be suitable for grazing sheep. Some of the convicts were
misbehaving.
‘Harley, come back here but don’t point that rifle at me.
It’s been given to you to protect us and to shoot the occasional kangaroo but
the dogs seem to be better at this than you are.’
‘Ýes,
Mr Hellyer, sir, we’re working hard for you, sir.’
‘Ánd
don’t let me catch you stealing any more whiskey from the government store or -
there goes your Ticket Of Leave.’
‘Yes,
sir, but the others are worried, sir.’
‘What
about?’
‘Four
of us started the road into the hills and now we’ve heard that Lieutenant
Barnard and Mr Curr want the road to go from Table Cape instead and they’re out
there felling trees as big as houses.’
‘Ýou
let me worry about that and furthermore,
what have you got there, Harley?’ Hellyer points to a sack at Harley’s
feet.
‘That,
Mr Hellyer, sir, is a native cat the dogs have killed. I brought it for you to
look at.’ Harley hands over the sack. When he empties it, out falls a
ripped-apart native cat.
Hellyer
nods. ‘That’s good. I will sketch it. I can’t use the pelt, there is too much
damage but good. Well done, Harley and could you organise the whale boat to go
back to Circular Head to get some more provisions? Before that, help the others
with the tents. It looks like rain.’
‘Ýes,
sir, we’ll have to take some provisions up into the hills first and some tents
where the four men are working.’
‘Fine,
Harley, and take your offsiders with you.’
(To be continued next month)
From Winnie The Pooh
By A.A. Milne 1926
The Piglet lived in a very grand house in the
middle of a beech-tree and the beech-tree was in the middle of the forest and
the Piglet lived in the middle of the house. Next to his house was a piece of
broken board which had TRESSPASSERS W on it. When Christopher Robin asked the
Piglet what it meant he said it was his grandfather’s name and had been in the
family a long time. Christopher Robin said you couldn’t be called Trespassers W
and Piglet said you could, because his grandfather was and it was short for
Trespassers Will, which was short for Trespassers William. His grandfather had
had two names in case he lost one - Trespassers after an uncle and William
after Trespassers.
(On seeking the Heffalump):
By and by, Piglet woke up. As soon as he woke, he
said to himself: Oh! Then he said bravely: Yes. And then, still more bravely:
Quite so. But he didn’t feel very brave, for the word which was really
jiggetting about in his brain was Heffalump.
What was a Heffalump like? Was it fierce?
Did it come when you whistled? And how did it
come?
Was it fond of pigs at all?
If it was fond of pigs, did it make any difference
what sort of pig?
Supposing it was fierce with pigs, would it make
any difference if the pig had a grandfather called TRESPASSERS WILLIAM?
Say
Not, The Struggle Naught Availeth
By
Arthur Hugh Clough 1819-61
Say
not: The struggle naught availeth,
The
labour and the wounds are vain,
The
enemy faints not nor faileth,
And
as things have been they remain.
If
hopes were dupes, fears may be liars,
It
may be, in yon smoke concealed
Your
comrades chase e’n now the fliers,
And,
but for you, possess the field.
For
while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem
here no painful inch to gain,
Far
back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes,
silent, flooding in, the main.
And
not, by eastern windows only,
When
daylight comes, comes in the light,
In
front the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But
westward, look, the land is bright.
lakej5263@gmail.com
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