Sunday Poem and Preamble

I wrote this poem after reading 'The True History of The Kelly Gang' by Peter Carey and it is dedicated to him.  I threw out the traditional ballad structure and just let it tumble out as if Ned and the boy's were galloping like fury through a burning forest.  The final words are actually ascribed to Ned and the picture is from Wikipedia taken the day before he was hung at the age of 26 years by dogs and cowards.

Oh, one more thing, it needs to be read aloud in an Aussie accent.  Nah warries mate!

The Ballad of Ned Kelly

for peter carey

All I can say is

she gave me a grievous wound,

but of such wounds

it seems to me

the wounded take a goodly part.

To be so begrudged

of such injury

seems to stop up

with clay and wattle,

the breathing hole of the soul

I know this:

A man’s true measure is

 to stand foursquare and true

to his brief and vital calling.

Let the wild dogs run

upon the sun-bleached hill.

Let them run the pump

of their own rich hearts

down all the long days.

This rusty webley resting

in my bloodstained hand

gives me small comfort

in these dust blown days

when my heart creaks

like new boots.

That black-eyed devil

stallion kicking against

his hobbles runs me to the

range, the outer ring

of all my days.

I have lived

with a true heart

in this world of

false men.

My mother

I have honoured

down the long seam

of years binding her

to shameful death.

Your shame you

strutting English hens and cocks!

I  curse you for

the weasel scum you filth

upon the dusty plains,

 you whipping boys

of powerful men.

Come not near

on your wandering English horse

you who patrol the water’s edge.

This Irish boy will

fill your mouth with dirt

that you may

trot the faster

to your doom.

...and when these times have blown

into some gentler history

and I,  a legend,  populate the valleys

 with the wind of my becoming.

Thus speaks the widow’s son:

I’ve done time in the dusty lowlands

sweating out a living.

Been through high mountain passes

searching for some meaning.

Heard the banshee wail

in the dark hour

before the dawning.

Fell for a sweet irish girl,

took her for my wife;

lost her too

when I stood up for something

more than living.

Stood upon a scaffold

straight and true,

noose-necked as wild men are

by outlawry and the

wiles of crooked politicians:

Noses snuffling in their

little trough of power.

Some might say:

 A tale of bloody banditry!

Others: A flame raging

through the wild bush

or a son seeking love

from the stony places of

his father’s heart.

A dish of bloody revenge

and strife perhaps?

Let this be my last word

upon this adjectival world.

'Such is life.'