Poetry On A Plate

Wednesday 12 September 2012 Convicts, Conflict & Love

Inspired by “Our Country’s Good”

1. The World Turned Upside Down by Leon Rosselson

2. The Goose and the Commons – Anonymous

3. Van Diemen's Land – Anonymous

4. Jim Jones at – Anonymous

5. – Anonymous

6. Language of the Land by Enda Kenny

7. Tolpuddle Man by Graham Moore

8. Do you think that I do not know? by Henry Lawson

9. No Man’s Land by Eric Bogle

10. If you were coming in the fall by Emily Dickinson

11. Disaster at Sea by Les Barker

12. Letter From An Italian Barber by Elizabeth Berridge

13. Freedom on the Wallaby by Henry Lawson

14. If They Come In The Morning by Jack Warshaw

15. Hawks and Eagles by Ian Walker

16. Procedure for Disposal by Clive James

Note: A number of these selections are poems that have been put to music or songs with poetic lyrics. Those writers listed as anonymous are either not known or kept their identities secret because it was often too dangerous to be identified for fear of reprisal by the authorities. Most have a link with , transportation and colonial exploitation and oppression. There’s also LOVE in different forms! 1 The World Turned Upside Down by Leon Rosselson

In 1649, to St. George's Hill, A ragged band they called the Diggers Came to show the people's will They defied the landlords, They defied the laws They were the dispossessed reclaiming what was theirs.

"We come in peace" they said "to dig & sow. We come to work the lands in common and to make the waste ground grow. This earth divided we will make whole So it will be a common treasury for all.”

The sin of property we do disdain No man has any right to buy and sell the earth for private gain By theft and murder they took the land Now everywhere the walls spring up at their command

They make the laws to chain us well The clergy dazzle us with heaven or they damn us into hell We will not worship the god they serve The god of greed who feeds the rich while poor folk starve

We work, we eat together, we need no swords We will not bow to the masters or pay rent to the lords Still we are free, though we are poor You Diggers all, stand up for glory, stand up now!"

From the men of property, the orders came They sent the hired men and troopers To wipe out the Diggers' claim Tear down their cottages, destroy their corn They were dispersed, but still the vision lingers on

"You poor take courage, you rich take care This earth was made a common treasury for everyone to share All things in common, all people one We come in peace" - the order came to cut them down.

The Diggers were one of many radical movements (including the first Quakers) that sprang up during the time of Oliver Cromwell and the English Civil War. They were one of the first groups to articulate a clearly socialist view of society. They actively resisted efforts of landowners to fence in and take over ownership of what were originally large tracts of land held in common by villages. Originally recorded as a song by its author, it has been widely covered by artists like Billy Bragg, Roy Bailey and Dick Gaughan.

2 The Goose and the Commons – Anonymous

The law locks up the man or woman The poor and wretched don’t escape Who steals the goose from off the If they conspire the law to break; common This must be so but they endure But leaves the greater villain loose Those who conspire to make the law. Who steals the common from off the goose. The law locks up the man or woman Who steals the goose from off the The law demands that we atone common When we take things we do not own And geese will still a common lack But leaves the lords and ladies fine Till they go and steal it back. Who take things that are yours and mine. A 17th century protest against English enclosure

3 Van Diemen's Land – Anonymous

Come all you gallant poachers that We had a female comrade, Sue ramble void of care Summers was her name, That walk out on a moonlight night with And she was given sentence for a- your dog, your gun and snare selling of our game. The harmless hare and pheasant you But the captain fell in love with her and have at your command he married her out of hand Not thinking of your last career out on And she proved true and kind to us Van Diemen's Land going to Van Diemen's Land.

Me and five more went out one night As I lay on the deck last night a- into Squire Duncan's park dreaming of my home To see if we could catch some game, I dreamed I was in Harbouree, the the night it being dark fields and woods among But to our great misfortune we got With my true love beside me and a jug dropped on with speed of ale in hand And they took us off to Warwick gaol But I woke quite broken-hearted out in which made our hearts to bleed Van Diemen's Land.

Then at Warwick assizes at the bar we So come all you gallant poachers, give did appear ear unto my song And like Job we stood with patience It is a bit of good advice although it be our sentence for to hear not long But being old offenders it made our Lay by your dog and snare, to you I do case go hard speak plain And for fourteen long and cruel years If you knew the hardships we endure, we were all sent on board you'd never poach again.

This is a ballad about poachers deported to Van Diemen's Land (today Tasmania), which was named after Anthony van Diemen, Governor-General of the Dutch East Indies (1636-1645). 4 – Anonymous

Oh, listen for a moment, lads, and hear me tell me tale, How o'er the sea from 's shore I was obliged to sail. The jury says: “He's guilty, sir,” and says the judge, says he: “For life, Jim Jones, I'm sending you across the stormy sea. And take my tip before you ship to join the iron gang, Don't be too gay at Botany Bay or else you'll surely hang. Or else you'll surely hang“ says he, “and after that, Jim Jones, High upon the gallows tree the crows will pick your bones. You'll have no chance for mischief then, remember what I say: They'll flog the poaching out of you down there at Botany Bay.”

The wind blew high upon the sea and the pirates come along, But the soldiers in our was nigh five hundred strong. They opened fire and somehow drove that pirate ship away. I'd rather have joined the skull-and-bones than go to Botany Bay.

Now night and day the irons clang, and like poor galley-slaves We toil and strive and when we die, we fill dishonoured graves. But by and by I'll break me chains and to the bush I'll go, And join the brave there like Donahue and Co.

And some dark night when everything is silent in the town, I'll kill them tyrants one by one and shoot the floggers down. I'll give the law a little shock, remember what I say, They'll yet regret they sent Jim Jones in chains to Botany Bay.

Jim Jones at Botany Bay is a traditional Australian folk ballad first published in 1907but sometimes attributed to Francis McNamara, known as , who arrived on the convict ship Eliza in 1832.

The narrator, Jim Jones, is found guilty of an unnamed crime (although the song refers to "flog the poaching out of you"; Poaching was a transportable offence) and sentenced to transportation. En route, his ship is attacked by pirates, but the crew holds them off. Just when the narrator remarks that he would rather have joined the pirates (or indeed drowned at sea than have gone to Botany Bay) he is reminded by his captors that any mischief will be met with the whip.

The final verse sees the narrator describing the daily drudgery and degradation of life in the penal colony, and dreaming of joining the bushrangers and taking revenge on his floggers. 5 The Wild Colonial Boy – Anonymous

There was a Wild Colonial Boy, But a Judge who'd robbed a mother Jack Doolan was his name, Of her one and only joy Of poor but honest parents, Sure, he must be a worse outlaw He was born in Castlemaine. Than, The Wild Colonial Boy. He was his father's only hope His mother’s pride and joy, 'Surrender now! Jack Doolan, And dearly did his parents love For you see it’s three to one; The Wild Colonial Boy. Surrender in the Queen's Own Name, You are a highwayman'. At the age of sixteen years Jack drew his pistol from his belt He left his native home, And waved it like a toy, And to Australia's sunny shores 'I'll fight, but not surrender', cried A did roam. The Wild Colonial Boy. They put him in an iron gang In the government employ, He fired at Trooper Kelly But never an iron on earth could hold And brought him to the ground, The Wild Colonial Boy. And in return from Davis, Received a mortal wound, In sixty-one this daring youth All shattered through the jaws he lay Commenced his wild career, Still firing at Fitzroy, With a heart that knew no danger And that's the way they captured him, And no foreman did he fear. The Wild Colonial Boy. He stuck up the Beechworth mail coach So come away me hearties And robbed Judge MacEvoy, We'll roam the mountains high, Who, trembling cold, gave up his gold Together we will plunder To the Wild Colonial Boy. And together we will die. We'll scour along the valleys He bade the Judge good morning And we'll gallop o'er the plains, And he told him to beware, And scorn to live in slavery, That he'd never rob a needy man Bound down by iron chains. Or one who acted square,

"The Wild Colonial Boy" is a traditional Irish–Australian ballad of which there are many different versions. The original version was about , an Irish rebel who became a convict, then a bushranger, who was eventually shot down by police. This version was outlawed as seditious so the name changed.

The Irish version is about a young emigrant, named Jack Duggan, who left the town of Castlemaine, County Kerry, Ireland, for Australia in the 19th century. According to the song, he spent his time there 'robbing from the rich to feed the poor'. The protagonist is fatally wounded in an ambush when his heart is pierced by the bullet of Fitzroy. 6 Language of the Land by Enda Kenny

They called you the new world Yet the settlers tried to tame you Who were they to understand? Ignoring providence for greed Unwillingly they settled here All in vain they tried to claim you Upon your ancient land And we're still trying to succeed They never tried to learn your language They had weapons of progress To them you must have looked so But all their weapons were no strange good You offered them nothing they For what's the use in fighting knew Where drought follows flood And all they offered you was If they'd only learned the change language The simple language of the land You talked with your people They could have walked beside In silent ways that they all knew you While others gathered nouns and You could have grown up hand in verbs hand The meaning never quite got through For you were never the new Your lungs were the forests world Mighty rivers were your blood. You'd been here since time They stole the shade from over began them And those who'd been here with Salted soil where once they stood you Knew the ways in which you ran You led son and daughter There's still time to learn the Asking kindness in return language They kept poison from your To seek the wisdom of their ways waters A knowledge born of centuries They knew when you should While ours is one of days burn

A consequence of British settlement was appropriation of land and water resources, which continued throughout the 19th and early 20th centuries as rural lands were converted for sheep and cattle grazing. In the era of colonial and post- colonial government, access to basic human rights depended upon your race. If you were a "full blooded Aboriginal native ... [or] any person apparently having an admixture of Aboriginal blood", you were forced to live on Reserves or Missions, work for rations, given minimal education, and needed governmental approval to marry, visit relatives or use electrical appliances.

(Enda Kenny is an Irishman who migrated to Australia - no relation to the Irish politician of the same name)

7 Tolpuddle Man by Graham Moore

Farewell to my family, it's now I must leave you That far fatal shore in chains we shall see Although we are taken, do not be mistaken As brothers in union we shall be free

They can bring down our wages Starve all our children In chains they can bind us, steal all our land They can mock our religion From our family divide us But they can't break the oath of a Tolpuddle man

To those who rule us we are the Dissenters Do your duty be thankful, don't complain we are taught For God in his wisdom divided his Kingdom For few to have much while so many have nought

As brothers together with an oath we will bind us The labouring man in all England shall rise Though Frampton has framed us they never will tame us Arise men of Britain we'll yet win the prize.

In 1824/5 the Combination Acts, which made "combining" or organising in order to gain better working conditions illegal, had been repealed, so trade unions were no longer illegal. In 1832 six men from Tolpuddle in Dorset founded the Friendly Society of Agricultural Labourers to protest against the gradual lowering of agricultural wages in the 1830s. In 1834 James Frampton, a local landowner, wrote to the Prime Minister, Lord Melbourne, to complain about the union, invoking an obscure law from 1797 prohibiting people from swearing oaths to each other, which the members of the Friendly Society had done. James Brine, James Hammett, George Loveless, George's brother James Loveless, George's brother in-law Thomas Standfield, and Thomas's son John Standfield were arrested, found guilty, and to Australia.

When sentenced to seven years' transportation, George Loveless wrote on a scrap of paper the following lines:

God is our guide! from field, from wave, From plough, from anvil, and from loom; We come, our country's rights to save, And speak a tyrant faction's doom: We raise the watch-word liberty; We will, we will, we will be free!

8 Do you think that I do not know? by Henry Lawson

They say that I never have written of love, as a writer of songs should do They say that I never could touch the strings with a touch that is firm and true They say I know nothing of women and men in the fields where Love's roses grow I must write, they say, with a halting pen do you think that I do not know?

My love-burst came, like an English Spring, in days when our hair was brown And the hem of her skirt was a sacred thing and her hair was an angel's crown The shock when another man touched her arm, where the dancers sat in a row The hope, the despair, and the false alarm do you think that I do not know

By the arbour lights on the western farms, you remember the question put While you held her warm in your quivering arms and you trembled from head to foot The electric shock from her finger-tips, and the murmuring answer low The soft, shy yielding of warm red lips do you think that I do not know

She was buried at Brighton, where Gordon sleeps, when I was a world away And the sad old garden its secret keeps, for nobody knows to-day She left a message for me to read, where the wild wide oceans flow Do you know how the heart of a man can bleed do you think that I do not know

I stood by the grave where the dead girl lies, when the sunlit scenes were fair Neath white clouds high in the autumn skies, and I answered the message there But the haunting words of the dead to me shall go wherever I go She lives in the Marriage that Might Have Been do you think that I do not know

They sneer or scoff, and they pray or groan, and the false friend plays his part. Do you think that the blackguard who drinks alone knows aught of a pure girl's heart? Knows aught of the first pure love of a boy with his warm young blood aglow, Knows aught of the thrill of the world-old joy do you think that I do not know?

They say that I never have written of love, they say that my heart is such That finer feelings are far above; but a writer may know too much. There are darkest depths in the brightest nights, when the clustering stars hang low; There are things it would break his strong heart to write do you think that I do not know?

The poem, written in 1910 by Australian, Henry Lawson, has been adapted as a song by English folk singer and political activist Roy Bailey on his 1997 album “New Directions in the Old”. Roy has a close association with Australia and a number of its artists.

9 No Man’s Land by Eric Bogle

Well, how do you do, Private William McBride, Do you mind if I sit down here by your graveside? And rest for a while in the warm summer sun. I've been walking all day, and I'm nearly done. And I see by your gravestone you were only 19 When you joined the glorious fallen in 1916, Well, I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean Or, Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene?

Did they Beat the drum slowly, did the play the pipes lowly? Did the rifles fire o'er you as they lowered you down? Did the bugles sound The Last Post in chorus? Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest?

And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind In some loyal heart is your memory enshrined? And, though you died back in 1916, To that loyal heart are you always 19? Or are you a stranger without even a name, Forever enshrined behind some glass pane, In an old photograph, torn and tattered and stained, And fading to yellow in a brown leather frame?

The sun's shining down on these green fields of France; The warm wind blows gently, and the red poppies dance. The trenches have vanished long under the plow; No gas and no barbed wire, no guns firing now. But here in this graveyard that's still No Man's Land The countless white crosses in mute witness stand To man's blind indifference to his fellow man, And a whole generation who were butchered and damned.

And I can't help but wonder now, Willie McBride, Do all those who lie here know why they died? Did you really believe them when they told you 'The Cause?' Did you really believe that this war would end wars? Well the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame The killing, the dying, it was all done in vain. For Willie McBride, it all happened again, And again, and again, and again, and again.

Also known as "The Green Fields of France" or "Willie McBride", this song was written in 1976 by the Scottish-Australian singer- Eric Bogle. It’s about a man reflecting by the graveside of a young man who died in World War I.

10 If you were coming in the fall by Emily Dickinson If you were coming in the fall, I'd brush the summer by With half a smile and half a spurn, As housewives do a fly.

If I could see you in a year, I'd wind the months in balls, And put them each in separate drawers, Until their time befalls.

If only centuries delayed, I'd count them on my hand, Subtracting till my fingers dropped Into Van Diemen's Land.

If certain, when this life was out, That yours and mine should be, I'd toss it yonder like a rind, And taste eternity.

But now, all ignorant of the length Of time's uncertain wing, It goads me, like the goblin bee, That will not state its sting.

A bit of a tenuous link to Australia – the mention of Van Diemen’s Land – but it’s such a beautiful poem it was hard not to include!

11 Disaster at Sea by Les Barker It was calm, still day in Yarmouth, The channel clear and wide, As the last of the timber sailing ships Sailed out on the evening tide.

They never saw that ship again; They searched when it was light, But that fine old timber vessel sank That clear and peaceful night.

No one knows what happened On that night in 1910; But the crew and her cargo of woodpeckers Were never seen again.

Les Barker is a born poet who has settled in and now speaks and writes in the language. His books and performances typically feature a mixture of monologues and comic songs, with a few serious songs. Many of his poems have been recorded by renowned musicians and broadcasters for a major Guide Dogs charity. He has an elliptical view of the world! 12 Letter From An Italian Barber by Elizabeth Berridge

I am a barber. You, Violetta, know this. You know too that my paunch Is not meant for farm-work. You, Violetta, olive wife, soft one Will you laugh at your husband - Your Luisi, Luisippi? They have taught me to plough And, without boasting, I can drive the two horses Straight as a parting. The mayor - remember The slap of his wet hair, His beam while I combed him? But, Violetta, being alone here A city man, small man; a barber. I have to remember my craft. The other day, in the morning I caught a sheep, shaved him - Sheep love the ploughed land - When I had finished he looked like a poodle. I have learned very slowly Many things I must tell you. Animals are better than men, Violetta. I would need Jaco's tongue - To say why. (Is he dead, Violetta?) On market days I weep for, my friends Herded, together on vans - just like, men. Through this cold mountain valley The spring shudders - so slowly. I long for processions, the white Girls of Easter, and too I remember Staring at you at our first communion. I come to love the priests. It is better to be robbed with a little ceremony. At evening the soft bellies of calves Is your softness, oh yielding dark wife. I think, are you faithful? I fear, are you living? O Violetta, the warmth of your loving Eases my cold days - your eyes hold Such darkness of giving. The pain of this poem Has held me all winter. I could not enter my countryman's singing Nothing can defeat this cold, cheerful country. This poem written, I look with more hope to the sun, and even Like a little the flat pink faces of the English.

Elizabeth Berridge was an English novelist and poet. This poem was published in 1947and relates the story of an Italian prisoner of war. 13 Freedom on the Wallaby by Henry Lawson

"Australia's a big country The chains have come ter bind her – An' Freedom's humping bluey, She little thought to see again An' Freedom's on the wallaby The wrongs she left behind her. Oh! don't you hear 'er cooey? She's just begun to boomerang, "Our parents toil'd to make a home She'll knock the tyrants silly, Hard grubbin 'twas an' clearin' She's goin' to light another fire They wasn't crowded much with lords And boil another billy. When they was pioneering.

"Our fathers toiled for bitter bread But now that we have made the land While loafers thrived beside 'em, A garden full of promise, But food to eat and clothes to wear, Old Greed must crook 'is dirty hand Their native land denied 'em. And come ter take it from us. An' so they left their native land In spite of their devotion, So we must fly a rebel flag, An' so they came, or if they stole, As others did before us, Were sent across the ocean. And we must sing a rebel song And join in rebel chorus. "Then Freedom couldn't stand the glare We'll make the tyrants feel the sting O' Royalty's regalia, O' those that they would throttle; She left the loafers where they were, They needn't say the fault is ours An' came out to Australia. If blood should stain the wattle!" But now across the mighty main

Henry Lawson was an Australian writer and poet. Along with his contemporary Banjo Paterson, Lawson is among the best-known Australian poets and fiction writers of the colonial period and is often called Australia's "greatest writer". He was the son of the poet, publisher and feminist Louisa Lawson.

"Freedom on the Wallaby" was written as a comment on the 1891 Australian shearers' strike and published by William Lane in ‘The Worker’ in Brisbane, 16 May 1891.The last two stanzas of the poem were read out by Frederick Brentnall MP on 15 July 1891 in the Queensland Legislative Council during a 'Vote of Thanks' to the armed police who broke up the Barcaldine strike camp. There were calls in the chamber for Lawson's arrest for sedition. Lawson wrote a bitter rejoinder to Brentnall, The Vote of Thanks Debate.

The "Rebel flag" referred to in the poem is the Eureka Flag that was first raised at the Eureka Stockade in 1854, above the Shearers' strike camp in 1891 and carried on the first Australian May Day march in Barcaldine on 1 May 1891.

14 If They Come In The Morning by Jack Warshaw

You call it the law: we call it apartheid, internment, conscription, partition and silence. It’s the law that they make to keep you and me where they think we belong. They hide behind steel and bullet-proof glass, machine guns and spies, And tell us who suffer the tear gas and the torture that we’re in the wrong.

The trade union leaders, the writers, the rebels, the fighters and all And the strikers who fought with police at the factory gate The sons and the daughters of unnumbered heroes who paid with their lives And the poor folk whose class or creed or belief was their only mistake

They took away Sacco, Vanzetti, Connolly and Pearse in their time They came for Newton and Seale and the Panthers and some of their friends In London, Chicago, Saigon, Santiago, Cape Town and Belfast And the places that never made headlines, the list never ends

The boys in blue are only a few of the everyday cops on their beat The CID, Branch men and spies and informers do their job well Behind them the men who tap phones, take pictures and programme computers and file And the ones who give the orders which tell them when to come and take you to a cell

So come all you people, give to your sisters and brothers the will to fight on They say you get used to a war but that doesn't mean the war isn't on The fish needs the sea to survive just like your comrades do And the death squad can only get to them if first they can get through to you

No time for love if they come in the morning No time to show fear or for tears in the morning No time for goodbyes no time to ask why And the wail of the siren is the cry of the morning

Jack's musical journey began in New York’s Greenwich Village and developed in southern Ohio. Early influences include the Seegers, Guthrie, Doc Watson, Tom Paley and traditional musicians, like Mississippi John Hurt, the Carter Family and Dock Boggs.

Jack worked with Ed McCurdy before moving to England in the sixties folk boom. He performed at the London Singers Club, working with Ewan MacColl and Peggy Seeger until 1973.. "I try to pass on what I have learned over 50 years with passion that keeps faith and touches the soul," he says. "I find that precision and pacing pays off, musically and emotionally. Everyone who's met me knows that folk songs are one of the three great passions of my life."

15 Hawks and Eagles by Ian Walker

As I was walking down the road, I met my brother with a heavy load I said to him what have you seen, He said to me I have a dream. In 1960, I thought I'd died in Sharpeville's bloody town, But I got up I walked on tall; nobody's going to put me down.

As I walked out along the way I saw my sister bend and pray, I said to her why do you kneel, She says you don't know how I feel. I had a little boy and a little girl, I loved to watch them grow. But they were butchered on the streets in the blood of Soweto.

It's '85 and I'm walking still, Across Uitenhaage Hill, Saw a crowd set off at the dawn of day, The soldiers said don't come this way. Then somebody threw a stone as they walked up the track A boy on a bike was the first to fall with a bullet in his back.

It's been a long, long hard road, Three hundred years since the settlers strode Into that Southern land, Now they rule with an iron hand. Low pay, no vote and passbook laws, Don't talk back they say. But the hawks and the eagles will fly like doves, When the people rise one day.

"When the Missionaries arrived, the Africans had the Land and the Missionaries had the Bible. They taught us how to pray with our eyes closed. When we opened them, they had the land and we had the Bible." Jomo Kenyatta

The recent murders of the 34 striking Platinum miners in South Africa make these words particularly resonant. 16 Procedure for Disposal by Clive James

It may not come to this, but if I should Fail to survive this year of feebleness Which irks me so and may have killed for good Whatever gift I had for quick success - For I could talk an hour alone on stage And mostly make it up along the way, But now when I compose a single page Of double-spaced, it takes me half the day - If I, that is, should finally succumb To these infirmities I'm slow to learn The names of, lest my brain be rendered numb With boredom even as I toss and turn, Then send my ashes home, where they can fall In their own sweet time from the harbour wall.

Australian born writer and broadcaster, Clive James, wrote this particularly poignant poem about his on-going illness; it was published in the New Statesman magazine in 2011.