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Magazine
Voices of Australian poetry
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Australian poetry has wonderful voices to present. S. MOHAN writes on varied themes of the poets.
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A POET is one who, inspiring himself, inspires others. The inspirational function of the poet as a means of harvest of good deeds was eloquently depicted by Sarojini Naidu, known as the Nightingale of India.
"Oh, What is that comes to a poet is, it comes to the heart of you all? It is the vision of light difference. Memory does not belong to spring time but to the autumnal days. Spring time brings back to the heart the vision of a new awakening of hope and new vision of tomorrow because the blossoms of Spring hold the pledges of harvest and so the message of the Spring that comes to the heart of a nation hold properly a harvest of great deeds which are the only logical outcome of the Spring times of great deeds."
In the same vein the great Australian poet James McAuley says, in An Art of Poetry:
"Let your literal figures shine
With pure transparency:
Not in opaque, but limpid, wells
Lie truth and mystery."
Of the many voices of Australian poets one could come across varied themes and strains.
To start with the Nature of Australia:
There is a poem on every form of tree or flower, but the poetry which lives in the trees and flowers of Australia differs from that of other countries ... Some see no beauty in our trees without shade, our flowers without perfume, and birds that cannot fly, and our beasts that have not yet learned to walk on all fours. But the dweller in the wilderness acknowledges the subtle charm of the fantastic land of monstrosities. He becomes familiar with the beauty of loneliness.
A. D. Hope, eminent poet of Australia, says:
``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 lime
worn away.
Such savage and scarlet has no green
hills dare,
Springs in that west, some spirit which
escapes,
The learned doubt, the chatter of
cultured apes,
Which is called civilisation over there.''
Even when it rains, no other poet could give such a description as Henry Kendall. The following lines from ``The Rain Comes Sobbing to the Door'' are indeed moving:
"The night across dark and weird, and cold
and thick drops patter on the pane,
There comes a wailing from the sea,
the wind,
the weary of the rain,
The red coals click beneath the frame and
see with slow and silent feet,
The hooked shadows crossed the woods to
where the twilight waters beat,
Now, fanwise from the ruddy fire, a
brilliance sweeps thwait the floor,
As streaming down the lattices, the rain
comes sobbing to the door."
Charles Harpur and Wordsworth's diction and imagery influenced Henry Kendall. It is significant that English approval was still considered to be the best of Australian poetry. From nature's enchanting face, one could pass on to the earliest inhabitant of whom Charles Harpur, an outstanding Australian poet in the early days, wrote in ``An Aboriginal Mother's Lament":
"Still further, world I fly, my child,
to make thee safer yet,
From the unsparing white man,
With his dread hand murder-wet!
I will bear thee on as I have borne
With stealthy steps wind fleet,
But the dark night shrouds the force,
And thorns are in my feet,
O moan not! I would give the — braid
Thy father's gift to me and
for but a single palmful —
of water now for thee.'
From here one can pass on to the new voice of modern poetry depicted by Robert D Fitzgerald. His beautiful Poem ``Glad World'' talks of strange but stark reality.
"The fakir upon his bed of nails is happier than is that
Toughness of hide could blunt more ills,
Than can be dodged or fought,
The lesson is well taught.
And happiness, pivoted elate
On peace of mind, health, sleep,
Food kindered, good support like that
Knows to where wounds can creep
Or suddenly sink deep."
By reading these poems one can experience the changing blue mist of the hills where it meets the gold of the sky, the hum of the Cicadas, the morning song of the Magpie, the surf as the moon catches its crest, the aromatic smell of the eucalyptus on a streamy day, the feel of the sun as I sprawl on the ground and watch the billy boil, the golden flash on a Christmas beetle, the pattern of the sun's rays striking at all angles through the leaves, an old homestead in the peaceful valley.
S. MOHAN
The writer is the President elect — World Congress of Poets. This speech was delivered by him at the World Congress of Poets, Sydney, last month. He is also a former Judge of the Supreme Court.
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