Dandenong
Hard by the gate-way of the East
She dips within her market square
With provender for man and beast,
And goods and chattels round her there.
A cheery, buxom market dame,
A well-filled basket on her arm,
She calls her wares and makes due claim
Alike on factory and farm.
The neutral ground of her domain
Is loud with talk of crops and herds,
Where hucksters bargain for their gain
With judgment keen and weighted words;
Where sunburnt farmers, slow of speech,
Match wits with dapper city men
While she impartially from each
Takes toll and bids them come again.
With talk of rise and fall in stock,
With keen eyes for a horse's points,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Forbidden Fruit
Eight days to beer! A sigh sweeps thro' the nation
Sweeps like a gale from 'Frisco to New York.
('Say! But it's tough, this long anticipation.
Oh boy! I'm rarin' to get at that cork!')
Six days to beer! Was ever waiting bleaker?
And how the dull days drag their slow length by!
('Aw, say! Just let me at a foamin' beaker!
But, nothin' doin'. I'm a legal guy.')
Four days to beer! How slowly Time is creeping,
Turning the pages with a laggard hand.
('Say, honey, dope me so that I stay sleeping
Until the glorious Sixth dawns o'er the land.')
Two days to beer! ('Shucks, I can't wait much longer!')
One day to beer! To luscious, legal beer!
('Ah, hold me, honey! help me to be stronger....
Now, attaboy! The glorious Sixth is here!!..')
'Here's how! ... Say! What's the stunt? This stuff is phoney!
It aint got no kick! It palls! It disappoints!
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Barber's Story
'Mornin',' I sez to 'im,
Gloomy, 'e seemed to be.
Glum an' unsociable. Comes in the shop
'Mornin',' I sez to 'im.
'E don't say anythin'.
'You're next,' I sez; an' 'e sits with a flop.
'Great Cup?' I sez to 'im.
Shakin' the wrappin's out.
'E don't say nuthin'; but jist give a grunt.
'Great win?' I sez to 'im,
Smilin' incouragin'.
'Wonderful way that 'e come to the front.'
'E don't reply to me.
Sits sorta glarin' like.
'Phar Lap,' I sez to 'im. 'Wonder 'orse. Wot?
'Ave a win yestidy?'
Still 'e don't answer me.
'Phar Lap,' I sez, ''e made 'acks of the lot.'
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Ned
When Ned was a neophyte nobody heeded him.
No man could prophesy, none could foretell
How, when the day came that the populace needed him,
Quite a new Ned would emerge from his shell
For he blithered and blathered and talked without end
In a manner provoking to foe and to friend.
In days of prosperity, peevish asperity
Ever informed his debate in the House
Some hint or suspicion of fault or omission,
And Ned would arise, without thinking, and rouse.
But 'tis strange what a change has come over the fellow
Who, faced with stern duty, grown thoughtful and mellow.
When clowns are stampeded and strong men are needed
'Tis well that the man has arrived with the hour
Who, wielding a sabre, as ever, for Labor.
Sees prejudice wane as he waxes in pow'r.
And 'mid froth and faction can still keep his head.
While we gasp at the grit of the latter-day Ned.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Aunt Evangeline Approves
My Aunt Evangeline has come
To visit Melbourne town,
Garbed for its Glad Centenary
In frill and festal gown.
And Aunties says in mincing tones
As she surveys the scene,
Quaite pretty work. But just one touch
Of Ort, Ai think would help so much.'
Says Aunt Evangeline.
'Now, take those sweet Venetian masts,
Which clowns call 'lolly sticks,'
Some naice ort-muslin maight be used
In colahs that will mix.
Then what they need is pampas grass
Dyed pink and puce and green
To stick in those - ah - funnel things
Such deah, sweet memories it brings,'
Says Aunt Evangeline.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Things to Come
When you have gone and I have gone
Beyond the ken of earthly things,
Yet watch the old race carry on
As to precarious life it clings,
Gazing together from afar,
Perched on some fixed or unfixed star,
We may find cause to meditate
Full thankfully upon our fate.
And you shall say - or I shall say:
Those were man's great days, yours and mine,
Before his glories passed away,
His kingship fell into decline,
When he walked proudly o'er the earth
Questing his joy at its broad girth
Ere fear and folly claimed his soul
And bade him emulate the mole.
And you shall gaze and I shall gaze
In pity from our distant star
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Perpetual Motion
What (said the poet) should we care
For all this mad world's phantasies,
For rumours rife upon the air
Of terrors looming overseas?
If so, the soul were plagued alway
With far-fetched grieving, what of mirth?
For somewhere sorror broods all day;
Yet laughter, too, inhabits earth.
For the sun shines and the grass grows,
And the ferns nod above the stream
That down this placid valley flows;
Then let us rest a while, and dream.
For the grass grows as the sun shines,
And the stream flows and sings a song
To chide the sad heart that repines
Ah, summer, summer, linger long!
What (I gave answer) badgers me
Are not the tragedies of earth.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Boobook Owl
Not for any airs and graces
When, to lonely, silent places
Men return in memory,
Come these kindly thoughts of me.
But they hear again my calling
Where the dappled moonlight, falling
Mid the shadows of the gums,
Weaves strange patterns; and there comes,
Blending with the hobble's jingle,
As the faint bush odors mingle
With the smell of wood-fire smoke,
Suddenly my call - 'Mo-poke!'
Now a weary swagman camping
After miles of mountain tramping;
Now, mid spinifex and sand,
A drover of the overland;
Now a timber-getter sitting
In his hut, the firelight flitting
O'er his old face, lost in dreams;
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Fall of Fitzmickle
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Rules with an iron rod
His house and home; 'neath its red-tiled dome
He struts like a little tin god.
When Popper says stay, the family stay;
When Popper says go, they go;
And early and late, like the trumpet of Fate,
Sounds the fierce Fitzmicklean 'No!'
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
Came on his small son when
There, listening in to the cricketing din,
He sat as the clock struck ten.
'What? Sporting rubbish? At this hour, too!'
Said he: and his brow grew black.
'Things that I wouldn't do my son musn't do.
Bed, sir! And don't answer me back!'
Mr Fitzmickle, the martinet,
His hand on the wireless switch,
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Morning Glory
Singing morning has begun.
Where the wooded ranges run
To far summits, there the snow
Lingers yet. But down below
In the quiet, green-girt places,
Where full many a swift creek races
From the snow-lands to the sea,
Now breaks sudden harmony.
Where this tree-waned clearing dreams,
First a rosy promise be
As young dawn steels up the sky
Where the frozen ramparts lie.
Now, from dew-wet leaves a-glitter,
Comes a little drowsy twitter,
And the first swift spear of light
Wounds at last the stubborn Night.
Flashing now, bright javelins
Pierce the murk; and now begins
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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