A selection of poems about the Mudgee region

by

Diane  de St Hilaire  Simmonds (C)

The poems on this page are copyright (c). If you wish to use any of the poems, please contact the author: info@mudgeehistory.com.au for written permission.

The Melbourne Cup in Mudgee

Written after visiting a Melbourne Cup 'do' and seeing a friend attacked by foolish snobbishness.

by Diane de St Hilaire Simmonds (c)

The first Melbourne Cup dinner I attended

Was glamorous.

Eyes ran up and down

When I arrived

That  said, “Who’s she?”

That was ten years ago.

Ten years of drought

And recession.

This year’s Cup

Had lots of home-made hats

Some a little crazy.

Fertilizing troubles

This poem speaks for itself and was one of the first I wrote  about our alternative lifestyle in Mudgee.

by Diane de St Hilaire Simmonds (c)

The old tree down the back was a terrible disgrace,

When we first came to Mudgee, with its gnarled and battered face,

And bare arms mutilated from the drought and scathing wind;

Its twisted knobbed old body dripped its bark as though t’was skinned.

We pondered on its future: what a shame to cut it down.

If only we could save it and somehow restore its crown.

We thought of it in days gone by when it was in its prime;

Its hair all bathed in glory; boughs strong for kids to climb.

Six drought years of settling in, our house now built upon

Our land, where battles conquered foes; where victories have shone.

Our tree it seems joined in our fight, its enemies it scorned,

And aided by our battling plight, boughs stand with leaves adorned.

When now I look at ‘standing grace’ sway gently in the breeze;

Its arms outstretched to touch the sky, sun shining on its leaves.

I think of how its battles won, it laughs in victory,

And thanks us for excretion waste, we buried beneath our tree.

The Shearing Cook’s baked dinner

by Diane de St Hilaire Simmonds (c)

“Not stew again,” the men all cried, ‘We’ve had it up to ‘ere.’”

“It’s different,” the camp Cooky lied, “to last night’s mince and beer.

Tonight’s a specialty my friends,

A rare delicious treat.

Superb creation never ends;

My menus are a feat.”

“It’s stew again. Don’t cover up.

It’s boring plain old stew.

Why can’t we feast a different sup – roast beef, and baked spuds too?”

“How can I get roast beef out here?

Lamb meat the boss provides.

A shearers’ cook can’t poach a steer,

He’d tan our flamin’ hides.”

“We’re sick of lamb, we’re sick of stew,

We want some better tucker.

We’d give our pay cheque for one ‘do’ of real home baked beef supper.”

“I’ll try,” said Cook. “I’ll search my brain and risk to poach a steer.

My reputations all in vain if my meal brings one jeer.”

So Cook crept out later that night,

His nerves were all ajitter.

His sharpest blade he held fist tight

And hoped the steer don’t twitter.

The ‘job’ all done by early morn

In silence of the moonlight,

The sun rose stealthily e’re the dawn

Found cook back from a dune hike.

He’s searched and found rare native fruits

For fruit pie of the century.

“I’ll fix these flamin’ whinging brutes;

This taste will test their dentury.”

He fussed and clattered pans all day;

He seasoned, sifted, walloped;

Stuffed tender beef with scented hay;

With his 'choppers' pie crust scalloped.

The meal was served: a brandy baste on the beef men voted ‘different’.

The pie, ‘superb’

A wondrous taste –

None knew Cook’s false teeth crimp’d it!

The Mudgee Blockie

by Diane de St Hilaire Simmonds (c)

[This is the story of the Simmonds family's first days in Mudgee, in the alternative lifestyle period of Mudgee's development, when 25 acre people came from Sydney and other areas to live a 'self sufficient' lifestyle. They were commonly called 'blockies' by the 'true locals' and often looked down on. However the years have proved the blockies' worth and the region has become a vibrant growth area because of the diversity of skills the blockies brought.]

T’was from Sydney she came

Country life in her veins

Enthusiasm simply was ooz’n.

The good life for me

And the kids will be free

From the smog and the rat race and booz’n.

They moved into a shed,

Enough room for the bed

A table and chair and the kitten.

“We don’t need much,” said she

“Bush work’n we’ll be.”

By the ‘build your own’ bug they’d been bitten.

In just a month or two

Our house will shine all new.

Built with our own hands – and no mortgage.

The garden’s all planned

‘Course chemicals are banned.

You KNOW bugs don’t like garlic and borage.

There’ll be water in excess,

Waste not want not’s a success,

With bathwater, dishwater and slops.

And the veges will grow

With the herbs in a row

And the show judge will vote them the tops.

Our own meat we will raise

As o’er pastures we gaze,

While on the verandah we sit gently rock’n.

While MUM milks the cow

Milky froth flowing, and now

Fresh butter and cream bring us flock’n.

Yes, life was just grand

All reality banned

The good thoughts were only worth think’n.

Everything was so rosy

Home and garden all cosy,

Never realizing how quick they were sink’n.

What a shock it was when

To this dear little hen,

Troubles came, and started multiply’n.

The veges grew full

To be eaten by the bull,

But that didn’t stop her from try’n.

Again and again

She planted in vain,

And always was someth’n against her

She dug and she toiled,

The sun merrily boiled,

And troubles securely did fence her.

Dam water dried up,

Not even a cup

Full could EVER be wasted.

She longed for the rain,

If it came she might gain,

But it didn’t, and the veges all basted.

The cattle all died,

Couldn’t save even a hide,

When they got in and ate her oleander.

And as for the house,

Boy didn’t she rouse,

When in two years, all t’was built was the verandah.

City slickers take warn’n,

Or else you’ll be mourn’n

Your fate, when you come to the country.

Country life is just grand,

In the MIND where it’s planned,

It’s not really for all and sundry.

HOW ABOUT THAT!!!!

 I've had a really rotten day

when everything's gone splat,

from the time the cock crowed 'doodle doo'

till dark, now how about that!

When I got up, Jack Frost had been

Cow's mooed 'my udder's fat'

so warmed my fingers cuddling their hides:

romantic?  How about that!

My tank went dry; the dam just mud;

I divined, but smelled a rat

when I dug down to a water pipe -

Eureka!  How about that!

My chook business has gone astray;

There's no eggs where they sat;

An old tramp took my free range eggs

for breakfast!  How about that!

And then it rained torrential rain,

Leaked through the roof  ' pit pat'

They caught the rain drops in my boots -

My new ones!  How about that!

So now I've 'ad it up to 'ere,

My farm's for sale next Sat.

I'll sell it for a 'hobby farm'

A bargain!  How about that!

THE WATTLE TREE

by Diane de St Hilaire Simmonds (c)

[Alternative Lifestyle is not always easy. In the hard times, the wattle trees around the Mudgee district gave much inspiration.]

Don't forget

in the winter gloom

blooms the wattle tree.

A silent testimony

that defies the winter frosts;

a promise of new birth

in the spring.

When all is bare and white,

the frost burnt grass

a brown sludge,

stringently stretching

to at least give an impression

of covering and protecting

the cold ground;

when grey clouds loom

every day

and chill winds

shriek through the storm tossed scrub,

harassing the gums

to huddle their olive gowns

close to them;

the wattle stands

silently

spilling its courage

in sprays of golden hue;

surprising the winter wind;

meeting its teasing challenge

with little puffs of golden delight;

rather than cowering

to the icy blast.

And before long

the winter wind

gives up its fight

and lays to rest

its fierce aggression,

melting in the face

of this golden gown of glory.

Yes, heed well,

the wattle tree

in winter.

The Woman on the Land

Won a first prize in The Land poetry competition.

How much heartache can one woman bare

at the sun's rise and fall on the day.

In the scorching heat and the red dust plains,

is it life - or is it life's way?

Her family of young ones play round her knees.

For them she will toil and bear

the trials and the tears of the Aussie bush:

but for them she'd be way past care.

Is it love of a man or love of the land

that keeps her slogging through?

Or is it love of a life, or life's challenge?

It depends on your point of view.

For women are deep and mysterious,

not shallow or surface beings

and a real Aussie woman of the bush

is a woman who real life is seeing.

BOB'S  TALE

by Diane de St Hilaire Simmonds (c)

Highly Commended in the Bronze Swagman Competition and printed and illustrated in their  anthology.

Buckaroo is a locality in the Mudgee region, about 8klms north of town with Mt Buckaroo its main feature. Based on a story told to me by the late Jim Freeman of Mudgee, locally known as 'the Mayor of Menah', who was our friend and mentor when we first came to Mudgee and told the stories many of my poems are based on.

Old Bob was a mate with a store of old tales

of the bush and the scrub, all true blue.

Round the campfire he caused howling laughter or wails,

depending the tale on review.

His eyes used to shine when he told of the times

as a lad, with his ear to the wall,

he would hear elders talking - such gossip and tales -

as life's troubles, or fun, they'd recall.

Old Bob had the knack of entwining the tales

of his boyhood, and life in the scrub.

He'd paint vivid pictures of life in the raw

that delighted, from churchyard to pub.

My favourite story, I often recall

is a 'snake yarn'; the top one of all.

For you know that the 'snake yarn' each blighter repeats

gets embellished to taller than tall.

Bob tells of a time, when he was a lad -

swears on his Mum's grave that it's true -

he was out in the bush with his Uncle Roy

woodcutting - back of old Buckaroo.

It was time for a 'smoko'; the black billy boiling,

Roy reached to the swag for the tea.

He disturbed a 'King Brown' all of nine foot in length,

with a waist that was thick as his knee!

He screamed for a shovel, Bob swished it around,

but 'King Brown' was too crafty: slipped through.

Exhausted and shocked from chasing the brute,

old Roy sought a seat, and his brew.

They sat on a near log, sipping murky black tea,

as at ease as in armchairs at home.

Refreshed, heart beats steadied, they got back to their job

of woodcutting.  The time had just flown!

Roy looked at the log they'd been resting upon:

its size would just finish their load.

With the chainsaw blade roaring he sliced ten even rounds

so quickly - he jumped like a toad.

Roy picked up the first round; Bob carried the next:

what they saw turned their faces snow white!

From the first to the last block its hollow was stuffed

with the 'King Brown' they had chased out of sight!

Alternative What?

by Diane de St Hilaire Simmonds (c)

Written during the 1980s during the big alternative lifestyle movement in Mudgee when Sydney people, including the Simmonds family, were buying small 25 acre blocks in Mudgee to live a self sufficient lifestyle. They were called 'blockies' by the locals, and, although looked down on at the time, were ultimately responsible for introducing the diversity that has made the Mudgee region so attractive today. One of the first things Diane learnt about life in the bush was to laugh at yourself, and find a sympathetic 'local' to learn from. As said above, for us that was the late Jim Freeman, who got sick of laughing at me carting the calf about in a wheelbarrow and taught me how to wean it.

Dear Mum,

You can stop worrying about me now mum,

I'm really alright you know.

I know you'll miss me terribly,

but I'm o.k. - here with Jo.

I know the farm's run down and ragged,

but the house is a handyman's dream.

Though with six kids, the cat and canary

it is busting apart at the seam.

Yet it's cosy when you get used to it.

The dirt floor is packed carpet smooth.

An orchestra plays on the tin roof mum,

when it rains - a sound to soothe.

Although it's a little bit leaky

I've buckets to catch all the drops.

It's the most Aussie sound I have heard mum:

the tin roof, and the rain dripping plops.

My Joe's got conveniences streamlined:

our old mini's parked by the back door

to drive down the track to the loo mum,

and just eight metres more to the bore.

So we don't even waste a trip mum.

Pay a visit, then on to the pump.

The back seat holds three buckets full mum,

we can bath - if we don't hit a bump.

And the loo is quite picturesque mum:

A big hole in the wall to look through

and the times when there isn't a line-up

we relax and enjoy the good view.

I'm getting quite good at farming.

Helped a calf to be born yesterday

and I even taught it to suck mum -

though my finger's sore now I must say.

I had quite some bother to begin with:

the cow kept deserting her calf,

so I put the bub in a wheelbarrow

and followed the mum down each path

till she gave up, and stayed with her baby,

fed it and licked it all clean.

I can tell you, I was tired that night mum,

I was tempted to let that calf  wean.

We aren't desperate for rain anymore mum.

We have mud and slush up to our ears.

But poor Joe had to go and get sick mum,

plus it struck down three of my dears.

The 'Jenny' then had to break down mum,

so the washing by hand must be done.

Chopping the wood in the rain mum

ain't exactly what I call good fun.

But like a good farmer's wife, I braved it.

Got a skinned shin and bruised foot by the way.

Still, the pink tracksuit you sent up for my birthday

kept the mud and the slush all at bay.

Oh mother, dear mother, don't panic.

Me and my Joe will do fine.

My dear children are blooming from farm life.

Don't worry, dear mother of mine!

The Dancing Chook

by Diane de St Hilaire Simmonds (c)

Dedicated to David and Jackie , who also had a hard time learning to become alternative lifestylers. Wanting to harvest their chicken farming, Jackie went to the library and borrowed a book on how to kill a chook. She read the directions while David did the job!

I'll tell you of the other night

when my chook did the Rhumba.

His name is Percy and he danced

it true to beat - by gumba.

We thought we'd make a ‘Percy Stew'

to fill our growling tum-ba.

"We'll wait for night to catch him:

outsmart that chook adumb-ba."

I crept up to old Percy’s perch

but he saw me acome-ba.

I grabbed his legs; he shot his spur

in flesh of my poor thumb-ba!

Still, held him tight and whacked him on

my chopping block of lumb-ba.

I swung the axe - but Percy ducked

and he began to hum-ba

In chicken tune, a beat that sound

just like the rolling Rhumba.

I swung and swung - he ducked and ducked

(or chicked and chicked say some-ba)

I got'im - then I fainted;

(from the shock I went all numb-ba).

I woke up thinking Percy’s dead!'

but what a fright to come-ba:

Old Perc was dancing round the yard -

old fashioned, old time Rhumba!

I chased him, grabbed him - in the pot

made 'Chicken stew a Yum-ba'!

Won a Highly Commended Certificate at the Henry Lawson Poetry Competition.

I need a man about the house.

I said a man now, not a mouse.

Someone who's willing to swing an axe.

Someone to work hard, not one who's lax.

I need a man about the house.

Who'll say "I do" and be my spouse,

And do the things a good man should -

like cart the garbage and chop the wood.

I had a man about the house.

Unfortunately, he was a louse

so I got mad and sent him packing.

and now for company I'm lacking.

I need a man about the house.

Don't need good looks, nor body grouse.

He needn't take me to wine and dine.

If he'll empty the loo, he can be mine.

I need a man about the house

who loves a woman in a skirt and blous(e)

A "he" man with muscles to mow my lawn;

who's up and working at the crack of dawn.

Have I made it clear now, who I'll espouse:

someone to do things, someone with nous.

Someone to help me in my strife.

Someone who'll stay with me and make me his wife.

Mateship

by Diane de St Hilaire Simmonds (c)

Boris and Suzie were eagles.

They lived over Orana's farms.

The smooth barked pink gum tree that housed them

stretched its arms to the heavens above.

They were a pair.

They homed there as one.

Now Boris thought Suzie was super.

Her feathers so soft earthy brown.

His big  hearty chest swelled with love for her

as he winged over  Mudgee town.

She was his girl.

Their life just begun.

 Suzie was young and coquettish.

She flirted and flounced through the trees.

She circled round Boris and teased him

as she glided on the springtime breeze.

He was her man.

Kept hot on the run.

They built a big nest there together,

of sticks: very classy shebang.

They primmed and they primed it with love songs;

of their pride in each other they sang.

This was their home

basking neat in the sun.

Their home had a long, tarred verandah.

Steel animals ran up and down.

They swished and they squealed with their tyres

and brought man to invade the land.

And just for some practise,

one shot off a gun.

Suzie was flirting with Boris.

She swooped and she swirled through the sky.

Creating a challenging target

for mankind with lust in his eye

to shoot and destroy;

to kill on the run.

The lead pierced her heart and fine feathers.

The shock on her face showed her pain.

Her eyes locked in farewell to Boris

as she swooned to the earth again -

a flopped bag of feathers:

man's trophy was won.

Poor Boris' scream pierced the heavens.

He screeched and he clawed at the sky,

then perched on the bough of their love nest,

gave a wounded and grief stricken cry:

a target of sorrow

for man's carnal fun.

A True SNAKE YARN

by Diane de St Hilaire Simmonds

This is said to have happened in the Wyaldra area of Mudgee.

Out in the bush, round Willow Creek Glen

Two emus were prancing round three working men.

A kanga with joey tucked safe in her pouch

All witnessed a snake yarn, for which they all vouch.

The workman named Bill was a bit ‘green’ and dim

The others thought they’d take the mickery out of him.

In the old workman’s hut they were working upon

Were some mouse holes in the dirt floor

Their swags laid out on.

Bill was nervous of snakes, spiders, lizards and rats,

Jumped at things in the dark, like the screaming of bats.

He’s never ‘been bush’ in his young life before

And to initiate Bill, his two elders had swore.

Now before he shut eye, Bill covered those holes

With a plank and a brick, to keep snakes from bed roles.

But by morning was shaken to wake up and see

The plank and brick moved and the hole left quite free.

‘A snake! A snake!’ He yelled in the dawn

And woke his two workmates who stretched with a yawn.

‘Don’t worry young Bill, there’s no snake in there,

A snake out so early would be awfully rare.”

But Bill was determined to make sure that was so

And he poured petrol down the hole so he’d know.

But the old shack belonged to some miners before

And a shaft three miles long was under the floor.

Bill poured ten gallons of petrol right down

Then thought for a bit, and said with a frown,

‘That bugger’s gone deep, I’d better make sure.’

So he threw a match down the hole in the floor...! There WAS a big snake down that hole

Now his head’s up in heaven; his tail’s with lost souls.

The Ostrich Waltz

Written during the Ostrich period of Mudgee's alternative farming pursuits for neighbours at the time, John and Janet.

Step, 2, 3,  Step, 2, 3,

Ruffle the wings.

Step, 2, 3,  Step, 2, 3,

Bloated neck sings.

Roaring and hooting and flapping a feather;

Dancing and prancing, he thinks he's so clever.

Step, 2, 3,  Step, 2, 3

Look at him dance,

Wooing and cooing, his eyes on romance

IT'S SURPRISING

WHERE WATTLE TREES GROW

Inspired by wattle trees growing in the wilderness approaching Ilford

 Gum trees in the gorges

twist and curl their agony

as the windswept barren ridges

bare red earth for all to see,

and red clay bound scraggy mulga

bows its face in windswept prayer

as the queen of nature's glory

flaunts her golden crown of hair.

There she stands in crowning glory

to surprise all who behold:

how though in earth's poorest crust,

she is gowned in purest gold.

Though the fierce wind howls and gales there;

drought bound trees all gnarl in pain;

still the beauty of the wattle

lends to earth its grace again

to claim beauty in its landscape,

though a harsh and barren land:

yes, it's surprising how the wattle

sheds its gold in God's wise plan.

And it's true how in our own life,

although poor and harsh may be

we can learn a valued lesson

from the humble wattle tree.

When fierce troubles howl around us;

drought bound friendships seem to be -

don't twist and gnarl to fit your trouble -

proudly be a wattle tree.

A DREAMTIME WISH

 Black spirits danced across the plains

a strange Corroboree

and dusty willie-willies

sighed a Dreamtime wish for me.

My soul felt so united

with this land and with its soil

and my heart just swelled with music;

made my anguish disembroil.

The peace of velvet night skies;

Southern Cross; the Milky Way:

symbolic stars of harmony

and union, within lay.

I heard a Dreamtime whisper

as a song sighed through heat haze

to the throb of dusty dancing

as Corroborees mime plays

to pass on the ancient legends

of a mystic unity

of land; creation; spirit,

for unique souls who are free

to be different; individual,

yet united and as one -

not just with neighbouring brothers

but with water, earth and sun.

My spirit captured legends

of those ancient orange sands,

though great parents were not born here -

yes - they came from foreign lands,

but my soul's conceived in folklore

and my heart's a southern myth

which lingers round the gum trees

and Blue Mountain caves as if

way back there in ancient Dreamtime

when the earth was formed as one

I played with dusty brothers

when our dreams had just begun.

Now my hopes and dreams aren't mystic -

they're here now; for time to come:

that though unique we may be

united destiny we've won.

DROUGHT WITHIN

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