Sanctuary Scorned [1936]
Oh, is there not one place on earth
Where man's goodwill has gone from birth
Thro' adolescence, with its rage,
Into a kindly, mellow age
A tolerant maturity
Mayhap some tropic coral isle
Where even man no more is vile.
If such a place be anywhere,
Ah, take me there! Ah, take me there!
And let me know security.
Is there no haven, heaven-bent,
Where economic argument
Falls flat; where war and talk of
Are with forgotten things of yore
Anachronistic oddities
Where mankind's mental food is peace,
And bliss and brotherhood increase.
If such a place be anywhere,
Ah, take me there! Ah, take me there!
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Winter Rhapsody
Winter has come; and tardily
Now little nipping winds are rife
Where laggard leaves, on many a tree,
Still cling tenaciously to life.
Spent Autumn with a myriad hues
Had laughed at death and mocked the worm.
And now bluff Winter shouts glad news
Of Winter joys, which I refuse,
I simply sit and squirm.
For Winter, too, holds many joys,
Pert flappers, furred to ears and chin,
With painted lips, to lure the boys,
And hose that lets the breezes in
Go laughing by . . . A gladness cleaves
E'en to yon toiler, who with firm,
Swift strokes, sweeps up the fallen leaves
And, working, whistles. . . . No Man grieves
Save I who sit and squirm.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Down-Hill Track
The dawnin' of prosperity
Recalls (said old George Jones)
When I was young, a song we sung,
In none too sober tones,
When easy, breezy days were here,
An' cash was wildly spent.
Small good it done to anyone;
But this is how it went:
'Oh, toil with a will to the summit of the hill.
It's the luggin' an' the tuggin' does the trick,
But be careful of the dropp when you've labored to the top,
An' the fool who makes the pace too quick.
For there's more loads spilled, an' there's more men killed,
Where the road runs to the valley down below;
So, restrain that eager itchin'; sit well back into the britchin'.
Go slow, Sonny-lad, go slow!'
I've lived me life (said old George Jones)
An' learned me lesson well:
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Way Out
'There must be some way out,' they say.
'There must be some way out!
We've fallen on an evil day;
That we no longer doubt.
But surely there's some magic rare
To banish this dull load of care,
And strengthen out defences.
We'll find it, yet, if we but look;
But this is sure: By hook or crook,
We won't cut down expenses!'
How like a harried housewife these
Wild politicians seem.
'Oh, George!' she cries. 'Don't scold so, please!
You must find some shrewd scheme.
There surely must be some way out.
What of those deals you talked about?
Are all your plans pretences?
I want a frock; I want a hat.
My parties? Bridge debts? What of that?
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Mirror
'Alas!' said the devil, said he to me
And his swart face drooped with care
'Life is a liar, a cheat,' said he
'And the end of it all - despair.
Why mourn you here, poor pawn of the Fates?
The way lies ready: the hemlock waits.
And I'll give you a toast ere you seek release:
'To Death, the gentleman, crowned with peace'!'
'Have done, smart devil!' I made reply.
'Have done with your air of gloom.
The world seemed dreary for such as I
Ere you came into the room.
I was ready, I own, for the crowning sin,
But your foolish babbling makes me grin.
Yet the poisoned cup might I e'en now quaff;
But how can I drink when I want to laugh?
'Poor fool!' moaned the devil. 'Vain words you lisp,
Dull dupe of an ancient lie.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Redivivus
To-day I took old rhymes that I had written.
And read them through, each one unto the end:
When with a swift nostalgia was I smitten,
As with sad memories of some old friend
Some happy, wayward man I used to know
Long since. Alas! (And, by the way, heigh-ho!)
All his, it seemed, these sudden, cheerful spasms
Of humor poured from an untroubled mind,
These old ambitions, old enthusiasms,
When all the world seemed true, and men most kind:
When roseate skies were never tinged with grey.
Ah woe! (And, so to speak, alack-a-day!)
All his these views so unsophisticated.
These thoughts so innocent and yet so wise.
Such minds as mine have never contemplated
A world so free of guile, so free of lies,
A world of woe and wickedness so free,
Of misery! (And, as it were, ah me!)
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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My Scenario
Oh, I've got a lovely story that I've thought out all myself.
It will make a gorgeous picture, I am sure.
(Mind, it isn't for the money, for I am not keen on pelf,
nd my attitude to Art is very pure.)
It is full of real heart-int'rest, mother-love and passion rare,
And gun-fights and a bad, bold man (who dies),
And a big, strong he-man hero with divinely marcelled hair;
And I really think it ought to win the prize.
The hero falls on evil days and sinks and sinks quite low
(This is where the villain comes upon the scene),
But the mother writes a letter pointing out the way to go
(We will show the letter, close-up, on the screen):
Then Augustus (that's the hero) meets a lovely girl by chance,
With great, big, soulful, golf-ball, baby eyes,
And undying love comes to them at the very first brief glance.
Oh, I really think it ought to win the prize.
But ways of true love ne'er run smooth, and lots of dreadful things
Occur, and all their plans turn out amiss.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Anticlimax
Now, my gift of crude invective is astonishingly high,
And I've quite a flair for fierce vituperation,
But I have to sit and watch the precious moments drifting by,
Just because my countrymen seek moderation.
But, ah, what verbal lightnings round my foeman's head might play
If I once became a freeman of the candid U.S.A.
Now 'a partly vocal crea puff with a taste for comic song'
Seems forced and weak and unimaginative;
While an 'economic shyster' I consider far from strong
In an artist with a claim to be creative.
I'd surely think of terser terms, original and tense
To fling abroad, while keeping to the strict Pickwickian sense.
For I have walked with bullockies back of the far Barcoo;
I've drunk with shearers, hit the track with stockmen;
And surely there is none upon the earth, I don't care who,
More famed for epithets that truly shock men.
Oh, I could 'trade a line of talk' to sting a heart of wood
Or blister brazen monkeys - well, I mean, I think I could.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Heat-Wave
Day after day, week after burning week,
A ruthless sun has sucked the forest dry.
Morn after anxious morn men's glances seek
The hills, hard-etched against a harder sky.
Gay blossoms droop and die.
Menace is here, as day draws to its peak,
And, 'mid the listless gums along the creek,
Hot little breezes sigh.
To-day the threat took shape; the birds were dumb.
Once more, as sullen, savage morning broke,
The silence told that trembling fear had come,
To bird and beast and all the forest folk.
One little wisp of smoke
Far in the south behind the listless gum
Grew to a purple pall. Like some far drum,
A distant muttering broke.
Red noon beheld red death come shouting o'er
These once green slopes-a leaping, living thing.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Brightness Breaches and the Beak
Bright young thing: Thou on the beaches
Life is gay and pleasure laden
All in vain the law beseeches
Courtesy from man and maiden
When a car, adorned with beauty
Unadorned, swings down the road,
There's a certain civic duty,
There's a cop, and there's a code,
There's Dame Caution - stuffy ogress -
Who deplores your carefree progress.
Bright young thing, who, with one finger
Nonchalantly on the steering,
(Ever indisposed to linger)
Down the beach road goes careering -
Youth's high claims need no endorsement,
Ever at convention scoffing;
But the fiends of law-enforcement
Lurk obscurely in the offing,
Prone to pounce on any stir made
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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