I am a big fan of Bruce Dawe's poetry, so here's a couple of poems by him.
You man there keep those women back and God Almighty he laid down on the crossed timber and old Silenus my offsider looked at me as if to say nice work for soldiers, your mind's not your own once you sign that dotted line Ave Caesar and all that malarkey Imperator Rex well this Nazarene didn't make it any easier really - not like the ones who kick up a fuss so you can do your block and take it out on them Silenus held the spike steady and I let fly with the sledge-hammer, not looking on the downswing trying hard not to hear over the women's wailing the bones give way the iron shocking the dumb wood. Orders is orders, I said after it was over nothing personal you understand - we had a drill-sergeant once thought he was God but he wasn't a patch on you then we hauled on the ropes and he rose in the hot air like a diver just leaving the springboard, arms spread so it seemed over the whole damned creation over the big men who must have had it in for him and the curious ones who'll anything if it's free with only the usual women caring anywhere and a blind man in tears.
AND A GOOD FRIDAY WAS HAD BY ALL
When Greek women drop a piece of bread from the table On picking it up they kiss it. But what shall we do with the petty corn flake? It shares the tragedy of all small nameless unsacramentalized things - Absurd as dandruff or scabs Who shall plead for it? Its future Is written in its sweet anonymous present. It is mush in the act of becoming. It cries for its milk like its Mamma. It has no-one to love it outside the commercial. It is so frail and insincere, drifting into gullets As the autumn leaves in a large city Make irresistibly for gratings - who cares what brief Balletic sprightliness it displayed rattling from waxed packets? There are no connoisseurs of the corn flake. Its lyricists (all save one) are in it for the money. There are none to sing its praises, to run appreciative finger-tips of language over its beauties, as with its sister the snow flake. It is the victim of history - kings could have made it famous, Peasants in folk-lore could have endowed it with a humble fame - Instead the corn flake is one with the commuter to whom Even the intelligentsia have forbidden nobility. Ah, but the revenge of the corn flake is memorable! Spooned Joyfully by wild infants on kitchen walls, it soon hardens To the durability of concrete. There, where the high-chair stood, it clings, Resisting the last hurried damp cloth, the sponge, the pot-scourer, Often outlasting, it is said, several successive families . . .
THE CORN FLAKE
If you come back later I'll talk a bit more about what else I like. Like that I am a big fan of TOLKIEN!!