Jindyworobak Club


Sharing his birthday with Edgar Allan Poe is Australian poet Reginald Charles (Rex) Ingamells.  Originally he followed the trail of poets like Banjo Patterson and wrote the songs of the bush as experienced by the whites.  In the 1930’s he founded the Jindyworobak movement.  Although exclusively white artists, they made the first forays into recognition of indigenous Australian art and culture.

The absence of native Australian Aboriginal artists from the group has undermined its validity.  Some might say the current status of Aboriginal art owes much to the groundwork done by the Jindy club.  Who knows?

Shifting Camp: by Rex Ingamells

Glint of gumtrees in the dawn,
so million coloured: bush wind-borne
magpie-music, rising, falling;
and voices of the stockmen calling.

Bellowing of cattle: stamping,
impatient of the place of camping:
bark of dogs, and the crack-crack-crack
of stockwhips as we take the track.

Neighing of night-rested mounts…
This is a day that really counts:
a day to ride with a hundred head,
and a roll of canvas – that’s my bed.

Happy Birthday Henry Lawson


Summer has hit Ireland, it’s a heatwave out there!  Well, in Irish terms.  Today is the birthday of an Australian poet who had a better understanding of heatwaves and drought.


Andy’s gone with Cattle; by Henry Lawson

Our Andy’s gone to battle now
‘Gainst Drought, the red marauder;
Our Andy’s gone with cattle now
Across the Queensland border.

He’s left us in dejection now;
Our hearts with him are roving.
It’s dull on this selection now,
Since Andy went a-droving.

Who now shall wear the cheerful face
In times when things are slackest?
And who shall whistle round the place
When Fortune frowns her blackest?

Oh, who shall cheek the squatter now
When he comes round us snarling?
His tongue is growing hotter now
Since Andy cross’d the Darling.

The gates are out of order now,
In storms the `riders’ rattle;
For far across the border now
Our Andy’s gone with cattle.

Poor Aunty’s looking thin and white;
And Uncle’s cross with worry;
And poor old Blucher howls all night
Since Andy left Macquarie.

Oh, may the showers in torrents fall,
And all the tanks run over;
And may the grass grow green and tall
In pathways of the drover;

And may good angels send the rain
On desert stretches sandy;
And when the summer comes again
God grant ’twill bring us Andy.

It’s not fair!


Is life fair?  Are teenagers right?  Well, it might be helpful if we knew what it means to be fair.  So here is an exploration of fairness.

For me the first thing that comes to mind is “fair of face”.  Fair hair is pale hair and a fair face is supposed to be a pretty one.  Is paleness pretty?

This is probably a hangover from the days when a tan was something to look down upon, especially in women. Peasants who worked in the fields all day had dark skin.  Only high-born ladies could afford to stay out of the sun.  In Eastern kingdoms such as Arabia and India the women were even locked away.  A harem or seraglio was a display of wealth by a lord, and he could afford to keep fair skinned beauties who never pulled a plough or harrowed a furrow.

Fair hair is an oddity.  In a world of brown and black hair the blond tresses of northern Europe are an anomaly.  It is the rarity of fair hair that makes it interesting (outside of Sweden).  In this sense the teenagers have it right, the world is not fair.  The world is black, brown and mouse.

So, is it good if the world is fair?  Well, I guess it is when fair is a positive thing.  We all like to pay a fair price and if we do a fair days work we want a fair days pay.

A fair fight is one where each side has the same chance.  The promise of the US Army to its soldiers is “we will never put you in a fair fight” which for a soldier is fair enough.

If someone is a fair judge we think him to be balanced, dispassionate and even-handed.  We would like a fair judge unless, of course, we are guilty.

But fair can mean more than proportionate.  Someone earning a fair income is probably earning more than me.  She probably has a fair chunk of change.  A fair feed will leave you full and a fair few drinks will leave you three sheets to the wind.  In this sense “fair” seems to be shorthand for “fairly large”.

In sailing parlance fair certainly means good.  Fair weather denotes a dry day absent of gales, storms, squalls or other nasty things.  But it does not mean “flat calm” because that has negative connotations for sailors and yachties.  We love a fair wind because that will allow us to make a fair speed.  A fair wind is a combination of a brisk wind and one in the right direction.  A brisk wind against us is a headwind.  Nothing fair about headwinds.

A fair is also a good day out.  Fair days in rural communities were traditionally the planned days for selling and buying of stock.  Cattle fairs, horse fairs etc.  To serve the needs of the farmers and herders a fair day was served by all manner of eateries where you could get a meal.  And because a man who makes a big sale deserves a drink or two there was always a party atmosphere at a fair.  Kids could bank on getting a few pennies to spend on sweets, and often, for rural families, it was an opportunity to stock up on clothes, goods, shop bought foodstuffs and the little luxuries of life.

Most real stock sales have moved from fairs to marts.  The stock fair has turned into the County Fair.  Modern fairs have all manner of competitions, judging stock, baking, home crafts, food preserves etc.  Larger ones have carnival rides and stalls.

The fair has evolved into the fairground, a big attraction for the teenager.  So if you say that life is not fair, does that mean you don’t want to go, or you don’t get to go to enough fairs?

Fair can carry negative connotations too.  A fair weather friend is not worth much in the great scheme of things.  Parents are seldom impressed by teenagers who receive a “Fair” on their report.  We would much rather see words like Good, Very Good, Excellent, Outstanding, Distinction etc.  “Fair” is only camping on the doorstep of “Poor”.

So what is fair?  We haven’t even spoken of the added confusion of Fare which could be food, a fee or indeed anything served up to us.  I hope you have found this particular fare to be fair, whatever that may mean for you.

Fair enough?

She Moved Through the Fair; lyric (part) by Padraic Colum

My young love said to me,
My mother won’t mind
And my father won’t slight you
For your lack of kind.
And she stepped away from me
And this she did say:
It will not be long, Love,
Till our wedding day.

She stepped away from me
And she moved through the fair
And fondly I watched her
Move here and move there.
And then she made her way homeward,
With one star awake,
As the swan in the evening
Moved over the lake.

The people were saying,
No two e’er were wed
But one had a sorrow
That never was said.
And I smiled as she passed
With her goods and her gear,
And that was the last
That I saw of my dear

Last night she came to me,
My dead love came in.
So softly she came
That her feet made no din.
As she laid her hand on me,
And this she did say:
It will not be long, love,
‘Til our wedding day.

Foggy Day

Today is a foggy day both physically and metaphorically. A white mist lies across the land and across my mind. The one across my mind is a result of a stinking cold, a very upset stomach, and some powerful drugs. As a result I am not feeling lucid enough to write a long post. So I give you a foggy poem. As I recall this was given to us as examples of personification and alliteration when learning poetry criticism in school. Stay well clear of cruel, hungry foam. Instead pour yourself a beer and marvel at that cool and thirsty foam winking merrily at you from the top of the welcoming glass 🙂 Now, I must go and call those cattle home!

The Sands of Dee

Charles Kingsley (1819–1875)

‘O MARY, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee;’
The western wind was wild and dank with foam,
And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand,
And o’er and o’er the sand,
And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see.
The rolling mist came down and hid the land:
And never home came she.

‘Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,
A tress of golden hair,
A drownèd maiden’s hair
Above the nets at sea?
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
Among the stakes of Dee.’

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel crawling foam,
The cruel hungry foam,
To her grave beside the sea:
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee.