Song of the Mallee.

Part 3 The Last Empire.

In the hour before the umbra,

In the hour before the gloaming,

In the hour before the sun is setting..

When the crow begins its nesting,

When the galahs settle in the mallee,

When the shadows grow longer in the mallee.

With the hardest work of the day done,

With the bulk of the fortnight work done.

This day marked the winding-up of the harvest,

This day saw the last bringing in of the grain.

End of a year’s work of harrowing,

Ploughing, seeding, praying for rain.

Watching crops grow in spring,

Watching till now, winding down,

Watching a year’s work and worry.

The crop is in, harvested, winnowed, bagged,

The carrier with his sons loaded the last bag,

To cart the bags to the railhead,

Bags to be shipped to the port.

A “paying year” for the cropping,

Not a bumper year as two years ago,

A good year for the end of an era,

A good year as far as the head of the family went.

A good harvest to finish up on.

Mattheus Kreuger tipped the last bucket,

Last bucket of hard-feed into the trough,

Mattheus cast his eye over the mix,

Ran his hand through to feel the texture of the mix,

Looked with the experienced eye of an old horse farmer.

Never one to over or under-feed,

His team of working draught-horses.

Knowing from bitter experience,

Knowing from days of want and scarcity,

Knowing the needs of how much,

And of what balance gave good condition,

The health of a working field horse.

“Mattheus!” the carrier called over the yard,

“Mattheus!…we’re on our way” the carrier called,

“Catch you with the receipt at home..”

“Right you are, John..Tomorrow then..”

And the truck gave a heaving, creaking groan,

And lumbered out of the farm gate,

In a cloud of dry, raised dust.

Home for the Kreuger family not these dry paddocks,

Home was in the hills above these dry paddocks,

Home, the main house and spread in the hills,

The wet hills above these dry lands.

Grazing of fat-lambs was more reliable,

Rainfall higher and the grass richer.

Big, blowsy blue and red gums grow,

Where the clouds go by like galleons,

Where the fog and mist lay thick among buildings.

Where home and family grow and prosper.

But as many Mallee farmers,

The Kreugers came to these drylands,

To lay crops of golden grain,

Rainfall high enough to grow rich crops,

Flatlands ideal for horses to pull the plough,

Turning the soil for the taking of seed,

Harrowing to turn the soil,

Harrowing to turn in the weeds.

Whole families with workers and horses,

All the equipment to stay several weeks,

Stay to work , plough and sow the crops.

Then when the crop is harvested,

Again stay several weeks to bring in the crop,

Winnow, clean and bag the crop.

A spacious stone hut built on the paddock,

A stone hut that housed women and children,

Where meals were cooked and served,

Cooked and served to workers there.

At night women and children sleep there,

Workmen bunked down in outbuildings,

Where the harness and feed-stores were kept.

Outbuildings of rugged post and beam,

Outbuildings of pug and pine infill walls,

Rustic outbuildings, but warm,

Rustic thatched roofs giving heavy rain,

Soft, almost silent drumming sound,

As it fell…

Such the routine for many years,

Such the method of farming many years,

But new technology had risen over the last few years,

A new method that his sons were keen to apply,

Mattheus was troubled about handing over to the sons,

Mattheus knew the day of the horses were done,

Horse-drawn methods were redundant,

The age of mechanics had arrived,

The diesel tractor had arrived.

There was talk of “making life easier,”

Mattheus was suspicious of “easier life”,

Time had worked its abrasive grit,

Into both patience of mind and,

Callous of hand.

But he too convinced his father of the benefits

The mechanical stripper over stooking,

Over the old stooking..threshing method of harvesting,

He was willing to give the sons an elder’s respect.

Today was the end of harvest,

Today the family and workers would sit at table,

Today marked the relief of the end of repetitious

Rounds of up at dawn..crack on till sunset,

The work cycle of harvest time.

Magdalena, Mattheus’s wife of forty years,

Would cook and serve the last family meal,

Would serve the last meal of the harvest.

Along with food, end of harvest prayer,

Along with prayer, thanksgiving, and health,

Magdalena would lead the prayers.

From the foot of the long table,

Followed by a loud and solemn “Amen”.

From Mattheus at the head of the table.

This was ritual that finished the year,

This ritual finished the end of harvest,

That bound every member to home and hearth,

Bound every member to family consciousness.

Repeated by many sturdy pioneers,

Many of those gatherings,

Across length and breath of “Breakheart Country”,

The glue that formed tie to community,

Tie to church and from there to each other.

The familiarity of like habits and procedure,

This was the culture of a community.

What food there was,

Gathered from farm garden,

Produce that bore skilled hands of growers,

Skilled makers and preparers.

Recipes for cured meats and cheeses,

Handed down generations,

Sauces and spices made from smallest measure,

Small measure of condiments,

Extracting the richest flavours,

Cuts of meat from home-grown stock,

Into the large wood-fired vault oven.

Served in the hut that held them all,

Whole family, children, and workers,

At the one long table,

Groaning every night with sumptuous fare,

Groaning every night with sumptuous, frugal fare.

Not a banquet of a gluttonous merchant,

Necessary food for hard working people.

Such would give each person fair share,

Every person fair share of the products of their labour,

From both field and garden.

All was good.

All was well.

When an air of sighing satisfaction perceived,

Time for the head of the family to make a speech.

Mattheus rapped the wooden serving spoon from the plate of vegetables onto his plate.

     Mattheus’s Speech.

“I make my speech to you this evening,

This end of harvest night,

Not standing at head of table,

As is the usual sight.

With cup of good cheer in hand,

Giving thanks for a job well done.

Tonight..I will remain seated,

Neither in disrespect nor indolence,

There cannot be a person in this room,

Would doubt my nature by now.

Tonight I remain seated to talk as brother,

Tonight I no longer can claim “boss” overseer.

Tonight…I hand the reins to my sons,

To Peter and Christian to take the reins,

With full blessings of myself and Magdalena.

To take the family farm to the next evolution.

That will change the entire work practice.

That will change work from horse to tractor,

That will end horse and harness era,

That begins the new of tractor and steel couplings.

Myself, now at God and nature’s allotted time,

Of three score and ten years,

I am the proverbial old dog and new tricks,

I cannot change, no right to stand in the way.

But tonight, I talk of other things,

And I trust give my sons, wives, and grandchildren,

Both warning of consequence,

And top up the cup of cheer with measure of hope.

Nature has granted her hand to us,

Given us soil, water, and sustenance.

From time immemorial we harnessed her beasts,

These fellow toilers,

These mute companions of our labour,

We have turned the soil,

We have harrowed the earth,

We have seeded our crops.

From the time when my father and mother,

First set foot in this strange country,

Drew our section of land,

Marked out the space for their home on the soil,

To now when their children sup at the table,

Of their dreams and promise,

It has been done with eyes firm set,

On that measure of a man’s worth,

On the measure of a woman’s worth.

On the measure of home and family,

On a measure of hope.

Our forebears built an empire here,

An empire upon a new country,

Not an empire of an imperial kingdom,

Nor an empire of expansive proportions,

Rather, an empire of hopes and dreams.

Their backs bent to the chores of that ambition,

Without doubt…without fail,

With high faith in their mission to succeed.

Indeed..succeed they must or perish trying!”

        Mattheus paused to drink from his stein of beer.

“A parent’s greatest treasure is their children.

It is the children who carry the future,

Carry it to further horizons,

Further than can be dreamed by a parent,

The safety of children most exercises concern,

What measure of gold equals the harvest of seed,

Seed giving new life, every season to a garden?

What reward of contentment equals a full stomach,

Clear mind and love in one’s heart,

Greeting the start of a full day,

A day of productive and rewarding toil?

Why arise from bed if not to fulfill promise,

And bounty of a life of hope?

That measure of hope that is the right,

That is given to every person born,

Under Nature’s sky and God’s heaven?”

           Again Mattheus paused to partake.

“When I gazed upon the healthy meal,

Magdalena, my loving wife set before me,

I saw the fair measure of meat,

Of potatoes, of the pumpkin grown prolifically,

Over old composting stable heaps,

Its tendrils seeking distant promise,

Like an arm reaching for distant fruits,

A wonderful meal.

All in good measure.

It is that measure I now speak to each,

To each and every one of my children,

To their families to heed, be watchful that envy,

Greed and envy do not cast shadow,

Over future ambitions.

         Mattheus paused to breate deep..

A long life, a hard life taught our parents,

The creed of what is fair measure to aspire to.

Just reward for one’s labour,

There is no sense of satisfaction,

Shirking of one’s fair share of labour,

For where one shirks fair share,

It falls to another to pick up and carry that load.

And THAT in anyone’s sense of justice,

Is failure of duty toward brother and sister.

I hear talk of new mechanics of farming,

Having the means of “making life easier”..

And I have to admit after a bad day,

With horses, harness, and machinery,

Such a phrase would make my eyebrows lift,

Lift in inquisitiveness,

Bring a smile of delightful possibility to my lips.

“To make life easier”….

Isn’t that a hope and dream to aspire to?

To make life easier…but then I ask..;

“Easier from what?”

If one was held in slavery,

Driven to extreme by brutal master and lord,

One would indeed wish for easier life,

Such conditions are un-natural to nature and humanity,

I would trust to all of us here ;

Let no man proclaim ownership,

Over another’s life,

Lest he too be given like punishment.

But no..here, now, on these paddocks,

On this farm, in this part of the world,

What measure of life can be claimed the better,

For the making of it easier?

Will children grow less frolicsome, faster?

Will they learn their lessons more swiftly?

Will the food be more hearty?

Vegetables grow faster, sheep more wool?

Will the ache of work be more assuaged,

With a full stein of beer at day’s end?

And if injured in body…or love,

Will the hurt be less?

And what of this day…this end of harvest celebration,

Will such a thing exist once the mechanics,

Takes away the shared camaraderie,

Of shared, shoulder to shoulder labour?

And what of the table of food,

As we see here in front of us..

Where waste from stables goes to heaps of compost,

Thence to the garden whence comes,

Vegetables to our table..

Where will the waste from the tractor go?

Does diesel and oil give nourishment to soil,

Or will it make waste of the soil,

Thence make life less easier,

For those who must clean the waste?

Will there be need for gathering of family,

Giving thanks for the blood, sweat and tears,

For a year of toil,

When less folk are needed for the harvest?

Will the making of life easier mean,

A lessening of rewarded pleasure, for job’s end?

Is there anyone among us not to breathe,

Sigh of relief at hard work’s end.

But also be content, soul fulfilled, satisfied,

At a job well done?

Does that not also feel good?

And I wonder on the lessening need,

For hired labour to attend the many chores,

For the maintenance of the draught horses.

The Harness repairer, farrier, smithy,

And if they go..what of the town band,

The church choir, baker, grocer?

And what of our neighbours,

Who cannot afford to tool-up to the new mechanics,

Are they to become sacrifice..

To a new world order of “an easier life”?

      Mattheus again took draught and breath.

No..I cannot stand in the way of progress,

But I do give notice to you, my children,

Use caution with this new method of farming,

Let it not take control of YOU.

I know you will have to go to the bank,

To up-grade to the tractors and machinery,

Be warned about the banks…

They have no friend save compound interest,

No mercy save the court of bankruptcy,

And no soul save that traded with the devil.

No..I cannot stand in the way of progress,

So I will leave the farm in the steady hands,

Of our children and wish them well,

While myself and Magdalena seek retirement in Tanunda.

I shall perfect my arm at bowls,

And my ear at listening to the idle chatter of the town.

So let us fill our cups to give thanks,

For the measure of hope,

Promised and now fulfilled…..”

The next morning, while the sunrise was yet low,

And the morning breezes mild in the mallee trees,

The trappings of hut and camp were packed.

The women and children driven back,

To their farmhouse in the hills,

While Mattheus and his sons led the horses,

Down the whitened limestone track toward home.

 

 (Nb. This is a “work in progress” and could be subject to change and/or alteration any time).

 

Song of the Mallee.

Cliffs of the Murray River.

Part 2..A New Generation.

Driven even to further places,

To the Adelaide Hills they went,

To Lobethal, valley of praise.

To Hahndorf to join other pioneers,

Further East to Hamilton, Victoria,

Verdant fields and fruitful crops.

Set up their Lutheran Faith and churches,

On more rich and promising soils.

Still they the tenacious pioneers

Stepped off ship with families,

Stern determination of a surviving peoples.

Nothing could deter their ambitions,

Then came the wars,

Then came again the oppression,

Then came again the name changes,

Town names of German flavour,

Family names of German ancestry,

Department of nomenclature opened,

A ludicrous absurdity of an absurd people.

Facilitate German names to French.

Rhine River becomes The Marne,

Rhine Villa becomes Cambrai.

Hahndorf becomes Ambleside.

Steinfeld is twisted into Stonefield.

Sedan remains Sedan..

French name chosen by German folk,

Mockery of French defeat there.

So Sedan remains,

Mockery of the department of nomenclature,

Mockery of the government historical knowledge.

But the family names change,

Umlauts are dropped,

Letters in names are erased,

Anglo first names used to ameliorate hate

Of anything German.

Then came the second war,

Then came suspicions worse.

Then came reportings,

Then came arrests,

Then came the internment camps.

What dignity the Great Depression,

Had not destroyed, Anglo Government did.

Unity and community not only victims,

The mechanics of war machines,

Perfected the tractor.

Horse farming was broken,

Horse trades were dismantled,

Gone the harness makers,

Gone the saddlers,

Gone the blacksmiths and farriers.

Gone with their families from the towns.

Gone in almost the blink of an eye.

Come the diesel tractors,

Come the motor mechanics,

Come the motor garages centre,

Of the town’s gathering activity

Alongside church and hotel.

Gone also the town bands,

Gone the choirs,

With them the cultural songs.

The small bakeries, butchers,

Haberdashery….gone,

But the smell of petrol and diesel remain.

And the lending banks came to town.

Like the parasites they are.

And compound interest came into their lives.

Tooling-up is expensive,

Family farms were mortgaged,

Bad years for cropping came and went,

Families mortgage payments came due and went,

Family farms became hostage,

Families became hopelessly indebted,

Families went bankrupt.

Whole era drew to a shuddering close.

Enter this community the wily Cornish,

Enter the carefree Irish,

Enter those Italians interned as enemies.

From the new war.

Step into the picture a Cornish Tinker,

Step into the picture an Irish Mother,

Step into the picture an Italian mason.

Step into the picture the maiden he woos.

“Fair maiden” Riccardo calls “wither goest thou?”

Riccardo’s hand flat, inquisitory,

Like Italians do.

Tess instinctively understands.

“I go walking in the evening air, sir”,

She replies……He nods his head..smiles.

For this maiden was as beautiful as a rose.

As serene as a purpled sunset,

As welcome to the Italian’s eyes as a song to his heart.

“And a beautiful evening it is also, my lady”

“Yes…good sir…I mark how the evening light,

The pale pink of the evening throws gentle shadow,

On the soft, flowing waters of the Murray River.”

Tess wanted to become a poet,

Riccardo wanted to become employed.

“And you wander here every evening?”

“Yes, kind sir…for now is the time of my rest”

“From the big house?” Riccardo asks

“From the station house” Tess replies.

“From the Charcoal Burning camp, I come”

“From the deep mallee of the Italians, I come”

“You are then of the people of Italy?”

“Yes, fair maiden…I am of the Dolomites”

“You are from the interned Italians?”

“I am of those same ones” Riccardo answered.

“I come to this place twice a week”,

“I come to this place for water for the camp”.

“I come to this place for the pleasant scene” Tess said.

“Then when I next come here..” Riccardo said..

“Pray tell me you too may join me,

“In admiring the pale colours over tranquil waters”..

Riccardo smiled the smile of an admirer.

Tess blushed the blush of the admired.

“If good fortune allows, kind sir……I may.” she replied.

For Tess admired the form of this man,

Admired his calm confidence,

His strength of body,

Happy disposition.

“Addio till then fair maiden…addio!”

A passing moment a lifetime make?

A moment’s passion a lifetime’s mistake?

An Italian from the Dolomites,

A maiden from “breakheart country”.

A Maiden from the Murray Mallee.

What can be their union?

What can be their fate?

Can a moment’s passion become a lifetime mistake?

Riccardo to speak barely a word of English,

Tess not knowing one word of Italian,

But they met and exchanged pleasantries,

As only such attracted, diverse strangers could.

For what speaks the language of love

Better than those who are loving..

So will we listen in to their idle talk

With the knowing ears of a universal language.

As even their great difference in age vanished,

As even Madam Time is paused,

Her dead hand held fast as woman slips past,

With but a glance, a wistful smile

To those who adore.

Touch not vain man lest the moment spoil,

To but gaze upon and weep with desire.

And so they met, this diverse couple,

And Tess taught Riccardo the song of echos

Off the cliff-face over the river,

And there they sang songs of love to each other.

At first their songs were for their own laughter

And then their songs were for their own tempting,

And then for their teasing,

And then came the songs of loving….

Tender songs whispering to the swirling waters,

Humming the touch of breeze to leaves of the gum trees.

He sang the songs of his people,

Tess sang the song of her liking..”Thora”

Riccardo sang into the echos..

“What a lovely girl as she does pass,

Oh how beautiful she steals my heart!”

Oh how well you dance, my bonny lass,

How you dance so well your part.

See the Wren in the tree,

How beautiful it sings, it steals my heart!

Come, bonny girl..come dance with me.”

The words reformed and reverberated to Tess’s ears,

As a deep swirl of manly delight.

And then Tess sang into the echos..

“Thy voice in mine ear still mingles

With the voices of whisp’ring trees;

Thy kiss on my cheek still tingles

At each kiss of the summer breeze;

While dreams of the past are thronging

For substance of shades in vain,

I am waiting, watching, and longing —”

And her lyrical voice thrilled Riccardo’s ears,

And filled his heart with longing.

Each to each they sang into the echos

Of the cliffs over the river,

Over the soft swirling calm of the river,

Over the evening light of the river,

And the reverberating echoes mixed their songs

Until the words blended together in soft harmony,

Until the words flowed back to their ears,

Each to each filling their hearts.

Each to each the words filled their senses,

In gentle, joined ecstasy..

And their eyes met each to each,

And their hands joined each to each,

And their arms reached for each to each,

And their faces turned to each together

And their lips touched in a kiss…

Each to each…

Riccardo gazed in loving embrace to Tess and spoke;

“Oh woman..thine eyes alone would tempt,

Greater gods than man’s humble creation,

Thy beauty, even if only beheld in mine eye,

Enough to blind the honest to thievery

And if thou desires,

Let thee accrue the price or cost,

Beholden to no man’s pitiful measure..

For it is thy cup that pours the bouquet,

Let know that YOU will choose the bloodline,

Your body the time and place..no disgrace”

Tess pulled Riccardo close to her body

So her breasts were hard against his chest,

She looked up into his gaze and smiled,

And then let a drop of her spittle to tip of her finger,

And lifted it to the lips of Riccardo,

Who parted his lips and took her onto his tongue.

Tess took Riccardo’s hand and placed it on her breast..

And there under the fall of the evening light whispered;

“Come to me Ricci’..come to me..take me here..take me now.”

And so they lay together on the banks of that mighty river.

On the banks of the gentle, swirling river,

Under the soft evening glow by the river.

And the woman made her choice,

Her choice..glory or vainglory,

Time can grow jealous, men grow old,

Let her choose to look to either,

Heaven befits a granted grace,

And such beauty will reach even the heart of a stone,

But the moment loaned of a woman’s touch

Is enough for a wanting man,

To satiate his thirst for a sensual desire,

To satiate any longing hunger for Heaven’s Gate.

(Nb. This is a “work in progress and may be altered or added to at any time….J.C.)

 Song of the Mallee.

 

Part 1..: A New Homeland.

They rolled across the flatlands of the Murray River plains like an unstoppable force of nature..

They rolled with tenacious persistence,

They forged a new Silesia.

They forged a new Posen.

They forged a new homeland.

From the Vistula River they came,

From those fertile river flats and valleys,

From The Oder River they came,

From those hills and mountains.

Where myths and eagles flew,

Where Roman legions once fought,

Took their dreams from their own land.

To this strange country,

To this strange and distance place.

Where dreamtime and eagles fly,

Where the indigenous people danced.

Sang their songs to a new land,

New life gifted from their God,

God of one people, one faith, one fortune.

So they were told by their pastors,

So were foretold by their gospels,

In the faith their version of religion,

Twisted, shaped to fit their character,

And to fit their culture,

And to fit their nature.

No deviation allowed,

No forgiveness those who fell from grace.

No forgiveness for not pulling their weight.

A weight owed both community and Pastor.

Pastor’s words were the words of their god,

Words of their God were to be obeyed.

Churches were quickly built,

Churches were proficiently built,

On that land that still held scent,

Scent of wild animals hunted,

Hunted and held and respected

Hunted by the indigenous peoples

Totems of the indigenous peoples.

Indigenous peoples driven away,

Driven away at gun-point,

Driven from their hunting grounds,

Driven from their living lands,

Driven from their ceremonial grounds,

Alongside stream and river,

Along hills and valleys,

Driven from their own particular “churches”.

The settlers had arrived in numbers,

Didn’t understand the indigenous peoples,

Forced themselves from their own lands,

Forced at gunpoint from their Homeland.

Kaiser’s army breaking the towns,

All the weavers and crafts people,

All the trades and craft people,

Despised also for their culture,

Despised also for their nature,

Farmlands enclosed by cruel governance,

Work-skills torn from their hands,

Forced to re-make their religion,

Forced to re-learn another language,

Forced to change their family names,

Forced at gun-point to flee their country.

So they come far away a sailing,

Far away to this new country.

From far away to this strange country,

With their folk their clatter and cluster.

A desperate people with nothing to lose,

A determined people with nothing to lose.

To create a new home from memory lost.

So the English governors of the day,

Knowing their plight,

Knowing their flight,

Used them to open out that wild country,

East of the Ranges, West of the river,

Open out those hunting grounds,

Open out those indigenous lands,

Used them to push into, force unto,

Confront the indigenous peoples.

Confront true owners of the land,

Force confrontation force the hand,

To “Justify” retaliation.

To “Justify” indignation.

To “Justify” brutal militia retaliation,

By the governors of this new nation.

A collection of criminals,

A collection of prospectors,

A fascist corporate state,

With no regular military,

No sober police force, only delinquents.

Seeking any excuse to break,

The agreement of The Letters Patent.

The Letters Patent that gave right,

To the indigenous people’s rights,

From the King came those rights,

From the Parliament came those rights.

A signed agreement for their rights,

Directed precisely to the governors,

A betrayal of King and Parliament,

By the Governors of the State.

“Governors”..Ha!..better called lazzeroni!

The lands of the Ngayawung,

The Ngawait,

The Ngarkat of the mallee region,

Each with its own beliefs and laws,

Each with its own language,

Each with its own culture.

Driven out from their homelands,

Driven at gun point from their lives,

If not guns then swamped and ruined

By the running of thousands of sheep

Through their hunting grounds,

Over their living grounds,

Through their water holes.

Tens of thousands of sheep and stock,

Ruining feed ruining quarry, water..

Ruining the bloody lot not a jot!

When the indigenous stood ground,

They were shot.

They were small-poxed,

They were given disease,

They were given alcohol.

The women prostituted.

Their whole system was betrayed

Religion, laws, ceremonial culture,

A society guarded by kinship,

Knowledge from the Elders,

Knowledge passed to the younger,

Exactly as our “civilized” culture,

All this was lost in the melee.

Hunting grounds and boundaries lost,

A network of respect lost,

A network of ritual lost,

A network so lost and destroyed

With the coming of the middle-classes.

White men with their property boundaries,

With their titles of land ownership.

With their grazing erosion,

With their grazing destruction,

The end of millennia ways of life.

Of corroboree and songlines.

It is gone,

It is gone,

It is gone.

Came the Silesian settlers who knew no better,

Who too were fighting for their lives,

Used as blunt-instruments to confront

Used to clear-fell the mallee.

To clear-fell too small blocks of land to farm,

Allocated to them from far away.

“Trees don’t pay taxes” they were told,

So the taxes were eternal,

But the trees were not.

Some will have to break,

The weak will fall, strong take all.

“Let the strong swim,

The weak may sink”.

Underestimated were these new settlers,

Determination, perseverance in measure,

Already had they been tested,

By their own German government

Had they not been harried, shot, chased

From their own homelands.

Compelled to “Germanize” their names,

Their religion, their cultures..

The new Republic of Germany.

Suffer the consequences….

So they came,

A multitude came,

With their Pastors,

With their gospels,

With their songs,

With the village,

To Australia…to South Australia.

To the end of the century,

They came,

The Sorbs,

The Wends,

Slavic peoples in ancestry,

Germanic in nationality,

Eastern European in geography.

They came, veni.

They saw, vidi.

They conquered. Vici.

Three waves of Germanic migration,

The Eastern farmers and trades,

They brought their animal husbandry.

The cultured Urban Middle-class,

They brought opera to the state.

They brought vineyards to the state,

The proletariat industrial workers,

Brought their skilled metal trades.

Held themselves to themselves,

Settled in The Barossa Valley,

Settled on the St. Kitts, Kapunda lands.

Farmed the Steinfeld,

Farmed the Truro,

Farmed the Murray Flats,

Farmed from Eudunda to Sedan.

Worked their tynes knife-blade thin,

On the “Break-heart country”.

Spoke their own native tongue,

English in their homes a second language.

As any families who have lost everything,

As any who had been granted second grab at life,

They took no prisoners, social, pragmatic.

Ghettoed,

Clustered,

Protected their own.

Small hamlets scattered on the mallee,

Small hamlets under one pastor,

Families all working together,

Families all praying together,

Their land leased from a tyrannical landlord.

A fascist corporate state,

A fascist South Australian Company,

Even before the name “Fascist” was defined.

Cruel landlords keen on speculation,

Keen on entrepreneurialship.

Using the German pioneers as cheap labour,

To clear that land recently stolen,

Stolen from the first peoples.

Northern clans and tribes driven,

Massacred by advanced weapons,

Weapons imported without restraint,

Weapons of the American carbines,

Carbines to replace the black-powder muskets,

Muskets that needed close-quarter contact,

Close contact that at least gave a chance,

To the skilled indigenous spear throwers.

To at least fight back.

Then on it was shooting fish in a barrel.

It was all over..

New hamlets come to grow,

More children come to grow,

Hamlets come to grow into towns,

Farmlands start to produce profits,

German peoples start to organize,

Civil governance, local councils,

Town bands, choir, theatre they made,

Organised around church and pastor,

Liaison with central state government.

But kept at arm’s length,

Kept away from state intrusion,

Kept themselves to themselves,

Still suspicious of the English landlords,

Still wary of the English system.

Still leery of the hard hand,

Hard hand of the ruling class.

Ruling class that valued little,

The use of an alternative culture,

The songs of a cultural people.

Would cast adrift any group,

Any peoples hindering their path,

Toward total capital domination.

Suspicion from both parties ruled,

Little done via civil intrusion,

Intrusion into health or education,

The Germanic clusters with own schools,

With unpronounceable names,

With inflexible natures.

Watched with suspicion,

Watched from afar,

Left to their own devices,

So when disease swept the clans,

So the central administration,

Did what they did to the indigenous peoples,

…..They left them to rot!

So they drained the swamps,

So they farmed the flatlands,

So they farmed the hilltops, stoney flats,

Draught horse and harrow,

Picking up the stones by hand,

Making piles from the back of a dray.

Farmed their lands with wood and iron,

Wood, iron and steel ploughs,

Till the tynes and shares were worn,

Worn to a slither, blunt as a gibber.

Farmed the wind-blown flats,

Sang songs to the billowing clouds,

Even as their families died with the fever,

Even as their children died with diphtheria,

Or harrowing births gone wrong,

Attended only by young girls as midwife,

Too frightened by ghastly complication,

Of a childbirth gone wrong,

To do little but cry in shock,

What could very well be their own fate.

Died in fires and accidents,

Too frequent to collate,

On a statistician’s slate,

Too far from medical assistance.

Left buried in sad cemeteries

Serenaded through the fall of time

By lonely, sighing sheoaks around the perimeter of the church yard..

“Peter’s Hill”,

Under the lee of Marschall’s Hut,

Under the soil interred sixty-eight souls,

Forty two there are children.

What can a people do with an “unholy site”,

That taken so many of their small ones,

The count of tears becomes so high,

The count becomes so intolerable,

Move away from that “unholy” place,

Move over the flat-lands of the Murray plains,

Their names spread like Summer chaff,

Place to place,

Town to town,

Dutton,

Steinfeld,

Sandleton,

Sedan.

Driven by a faith unstoppable,

Driven by a courage inviolate.

(Nb. This is a “work in progress and may be altered or added to at any time….J.C.)

 

 Song of the Mallee

Introduction. 

 

As the sunrise upon the morning,

So sunrise on the mallee dawning,

Upon The Mallee brightly shining,

We hear crow announce its calling,

Calling, calling, rousting crrrarking!

Carrakkkk, carrrarking treetop calling,

The crow to its family warning.

Hear the butcher bird chortle,

Hear the honeyeater sparkle,

The magpie and the wagtail squabble,

Galahs and the cockatoos scraying

The kangaroo with joey in the stubble.

Wombat and possum trumble.

We hear the wanton, woeful die ,

Of the bush stone curlew cry.

So we begin our story telling,

Our story of our ancestors telling

That came from afar seas a-sailing,

That came afar with their families sailing,

That came many to a land so willing,

A land willing tho’ crops a failing,

Walked to the lower Flinders Rangers,

With their ploughs and animals trailing

To farm there that treacherous climate,

The rain follows the plough

They believed.

But it didn’t.

And their farms died,

And their animals died,

And their dreams died,

And their children died there.

So were the Sorbs again driven,

Driven from their German valleys homeland,

Driven by the Kaiser’s armies attacking.

The Silesian weavers and their offspring,

Came with strength and courage unfailing.

That came the Selisians and the Posens,

That came the Wends and the Sorbians

I will tell you of their stories,

Of their travail and trying stories.

I can tell you of their stories,

Because I have been watching,

I am the watcher always watching,

From the rim of a far horizon.

Came with them their families and friends,

Came with them their trades and skills,

The farriers, saddlers and horsemen skilled,

The farmers, bakers and carpenters too,

Came the music came the songs,

Came the singing from far along.

That came from afar seas a sailing,

Came the Irish,

Came the Italians,

Came the Cornish to mine hills and valleys.

All of them come and bring their cultures,

All of them come and bring their families,

Come and come so many singing,

All of them come and bring their cooking,

Food exotic and tastes of heaven,

Work as hard as any draughthorse,

Work as long as work was willing.

Work always there for the tilling.

Women bearing so many children,

Bearing also many still-born children,

Graveyards with young women filling

With both mother and in-birth child a dying.

The ground awash with tears a falling.

Let me tell you of their story,

It will be telling of the last story,

This epic will be their last story,

This poem will be the last of that era,

This time has gone and so far ended,

This time has so far gone and passed

As have all those players passed

As have all their done deeds passed,

As have their guilt and innocence passed,

Their work and building and lived lives passed,

All the farmers, their wives and children,

Gone, gone to the history past,

Gone like yesterday’s sunset past,

Gone like youth’s wild laughter past,

Like the blown leaves of Autumn falled…

Like empty husks of Summer seeds fallen,

The summer crops pouring their seeds

Onto the Earth and onto the stone,

A heart of stone the world has become,

A new world rising of stone and cinder,

Where hope is but a one minute wonder

Where love is but a speculative opportunity.

This is why we will not survive,

This is why we will not survive,

This is why we will not survive.

Through war and plague we did thrive,

Disease and disaster we did survive,

Small tribes wandering water to water

We did survive,

We did thrive,

Hunting ground to hunting ground wander,

We did survive and thrive there under.

Shelter to shelter, hut to stone,

We did wander..we did thrive.

We did live..we did survive..

Alive for one primary desire,

Desire for one other’s life..

Desire for that loved one special..

Special loved for that one desire..

A certain one within the tribal clan,

A special one within the tribal group.

Within the shelter of the tribal clan.

Protected by the shelter of the tribe,

The one who shared our likes and dreams,

The liking for particular fruits and seeds,

The liking for a singular woven cloth,

A place of refuge,

A place of resting over others.

In times more conducive grow,

Within the heart grow to love.

Within the tribe grow to love,

But can such a thing be allowed to grow,

If not in the interest of the culture,

If not in the interest of the tribe.

What the custom where the culture,

If not of the interest for the tribe,

If not of the interest for the lovers.

And of the class and of the creed,

Can love form outside of these?

Outside of station in the culture,

Outside of position in the status.

Yet regardless if ever consummated,

Regardless of such station born,

Still will embryonic desire grow,

Still will the beginnings always show

Of that need for imagination show

Of those hidden senses and know

That the heart will hold the fruit

And the senses in conspiracy stored,

For those who are loved and adored.

These are the people my story tells,

Unknown people my story tells,

Neither brave nor heroes be,

Neither great lover like in history

There are no heroes in my story,

No heroes and no Gods in this story.

No Gods to steer or to control,

So let this story epic unfold,

This story that so needs be told,

I will make this story unfold,

For I am one of those families old,

That lived and thrived in this country,

Family that lived and died in this country.

That gave all they had to this country,

I AM the story of this country.

 

(Nb. This is a "work in progress" of a larger body of work. There may be changes or corrections as it progresses.)