A Few Poems by Corry de Haas
For Charlee
THE CALL OF A FRIEND
by Corry de HaasHelensvale, Queensland, Australia.
When first setting out onto byways of rhyme
And searching for stairways where songmasters meet,
My ears more attuned to a rythmical dance
Now whatever the future will chart
My songs yielded words that refused to keep time;
My pacing was laboured, no strength to its sound,
No vision of greatness on claiming new ground,
But nearer the highway where learner lanes end
I heard in the distance the call of a friend
I followed the signposts as guides for my feet;
With measures of courage and patience in tow
I detected the laneways all novices go,
And each daring step around corner or bend
New guidance was waiting in the words of a friend
I ventured out further and wagered a chance.
I travelled the regions once closed to my mind
And left my poor efforts on sidings behind;
And despite all my striving I failed to transcend
the lyrical wordsongs composed by my friend.
I'll hear muted murmurs of songs in my heart;
For a voice reaches further than borders or gate
And goes where a poet's emotions dictate;
And away in the distance towards journey's end
I'll find inspiration in the verse of a friend.
Sunset On The Isa
Helensvale, Queensland, Australia.
I sat and watched the centre's brilliant sunset
And I fancied that by silent observation
And I, but frailest atom in the vastness
And I wondered, could I in another lifespan
And later, when the outback's fiery colours
That fired the barren hills in scarlet flame
And once again I marvelled at its grandeur
- A picture window in a twilight frame . -
I could feel the faintest heartbeat of the land
where once the massive mouths of its volcanos
spewed forth the crimson sculptures in the sand.
Grew still to better hear its native tongue
So strange at first, yet strangely familiar
Relating stories from the days our world was young.
Where time was measured by a million years
Have travelled sacred grounds exploring planets
That posed no threats, anxieties or fears?
Has faded into shapes of early morn'
Faint breezes stirred the sleepy air around me...
Announcing that another age was born.
CITY GIRL
Helensvale, Queensland,
Australia
The girl of the city wears the latest haute couture
The girl of the city wears her hair in latest style,
But at times the city girl hears a call she can't deny,
For her roots store an emotion that is hidden deep inside
And when at last the shadows turn to blue upon the sky
Yet country-girl will trace her steps to where she parked her car,
Perri Cutten, Di Givenchy or a Klein,
And she jets across to Europe for the springtime fashion shows
With their usual acclaim for French design.
The girl of the city dines in five-star restaurants
Where the Maitre de Hote serves slimming consomme
Where she sips Manhattan cocktails, meanwhile gossiping with friends,
While attending yet another matinee.
As she entertains with gala and soiree,
That steer her husbands footsteps to the highway of success,
And hold her mental weariness at bay;
She will frequent the museums as a patron of the Arts,
Is valued as a most attentive guest,
Holds a clever conversation with first-nighters on the town,
And her speeches ring with mastery in jest!
And she'll turn her back on glamour and on glitz;
While she dons a motley T-shirt with a ragged pair of jeans
That the life-style of a country girl befits;
For the lure of her beginnings sounds too loud to be ignored,
So she leaves her city-image way behind,
And the power of her Porshe eats away the lonely miles
While the ribbons of the country roads unwind.
And she aches to walk the sandy tracts again,
Where the Wilga tells a story that she never tires to hear
Where her eyes drink in the beauty of the plain.
There she strolls the sacred lane-ways that she walked so oft before
Sits and rests upon some freshly gathered hay.
As she leans against the gate-post of a long abandoned home
And her city life seems galaxies away.
Country-girl will sit and watch the colours rise
That are sketched on the horizon by her Maker's feather touch
Into shades no mortal soul can equalise;
And her mind keeps contemplating on the values of her life
That pour like drifts of sawdust through her hand,
For the glitter of the city is a diamond made of glass
That disintegrates to slivers in the sand.
Waving grasses blowing kisses in the breeze;
And sudden painful tears streak the mascara at her eyes
As the twilight's fading picture disappears,
And the rusty greys and bronzes of the outback 'neon signs'
Recede into the softly falling rain...
And country-girl will leave her precious moments to the past,
While city-girl takes up her role again...
FERNWEH
Helensvale, Queensland,
Australia
The summer sun is westering across a liquid sky
My wanderlight is shining like a beacon up ahead,
The vision that I see projects a picture on my mind
One day I'll find the entrance to that labyrinth of time,
Fern = Far
Where wayward clouds create a mellow maze,
And tender tinges spill upon a palette of azure
With twilight shadows deepening its haze.
And once more I feel that same familiar pain
That fills me with a yearning to explore an alter sphere
But I'm bound to follow trusted roads again.
In tones no modest mortal would display,
It's where I venture further past the boundaries I know,
Without a backward glance for yesterday.
Where every road will lead towards the sun
Beyond the far horizon in the dreaming of my days
Where the ache for new environs first begun.
Weh = Pain
A German expression which means the ache for foreign places.
THE LAST FLIGHT HOME
Helensvale, Queensland,
Australia
I saw a 'V' of swallows flying south today,
The swallows paved my way towards the Southland,
Behind me lie the memories I gathered,
For all I valued most is gone forever,
Heading for the sun before the crystal breeze
Of winter would blow across the lowlands
And frame the autumn gold in silver freize.
Where summer sun will melt the inner chill
That fills me with the pain of spent illusions,
And won't abate - for I'm a dreamer still.
Like velvet clouds beneath this giant plane,
And suddenly I know to be the loser -
I'll never find those treasured times again.
And youth is just a fiction of the past;
And in my hand I clutch the wilted flower
Of dreams I dreamt - and knew they could not last.
THE ORANGE AND THE GOLD
Helensvale, Queensland,
Australia.
When in town the other day and browsing through a store
The blooms were dressed in graceful silk - the shop-assistant told -
I saw a band of childrem marching proudly on parade,
Though decades since have come and gone, the picture still is clear,
And deep inside the petal hands I see the tendril thread,
I came across a tub of flowers on display beside the door;
And between the virgin blossoms showing vivid tinge and shade
I found two lonely tulips that a clever craftsman made.
And one was wearing orange and her sibling shone in gold;
And stalking through my mind I sighted remnants of a dream
Where past and present seemed to blend like lightly beaten cream...
An orange sash around the waist - for royalty displayed,
While from the humble houses lining many cobbled steet
The national colours floated free to make the scene complete.
The images more treasured now as time speeds every year;
For life has steered me onwards to a sun-ripe golden plain,
To find a single tulip where the gums and bloodwoods reign.
That weaves the cloth of courage for the hidden road ahead,
The weft and warp in equal strands to make the texture strong,
The roots embedded in the soil... her life-span to prolong...
"THE POPLARS OF MURRURUNDI."
Helensvale, Queensland,
Australia.
The Murrurundi poplars copied pictures of my past
And through my teens I feasted on the summer of my days
Now that my life has ripened into latent autumn years
The silence of my future lies behind a shadowed wall
When I used to stroll the springtime lanes alone.
My wordsongs lying dormant in recesses of my mind
Now awash with all the beauty I have known.
The chestnut lit her candles then to celebrate new life
The wind played overtures in nature's band,
And poplars told me fairy-tales in countless reveries
In a language only children understand.
When colours shimmered in a tinsel sky;
And cheerful breezes sang upon the poplars' festive boughs
In tones my heart nor body could deny.
My poplars mixed a potion then, a nectar that I drank
Coursing freely through my veins in gay pursuit
Of a jubilant expression in an enervating dance...
With the voice of my tomorrows rendered mute.
I turn towards the poplars once again;
They display perfection in their gowns of burnished gold
In a brilliance no mortal could attain;
For like the mystic thorn-bird that trills her tragic song
Then falls upon the spike that spears he heart,
So the poplars'fading splendor show a picture of grandeur
Before the dwindling leaves erase their art.
Where pipers play a timeless saraband...
And ancient music soothes like a rondo by Bizet
And waning tides will wash my footsteps from the sand...
Will the poplars tell a stort of a season fresh and green?
Show their beauty they so proudly shared with me?
Will they sing a new cantata for the joy a birthday brings?
And will those that come behind me truly see?
THE SPIRIT OF AUSTRALIA
Helensvale, Queensland,
Australia
I often sat and listened to the silence
I travelled to the barren inner regions,
I asked my friends, the Karri, in the forests
So I climbed the bushland's scarlet mountains
But now that rambling days are over
Of bushlands dreaming, where only eagles soar,
And hoped to hear the land reveal her secrets
Her wisdom far too precious to ignore.
I left my mind wide open to her message
To all she would be willing to convey,
But when at last I seemed to grasp her meaning
It slipped away.
To shimmering seas of carmine rippled sands,
But playful whirlwinds wiped away my footsteps,
And spoke in tongues no mortal understands.
I tried to find a reason for my wand'ring -
This urgency I could not disobey -
To distant tracts that seemed to hold the answer,
Then turned away...
To help me in this unrelenting quest,
Their lifetime crowns the vast expanse of ages,
Since time began her journey in the west;
But nightfall cast her shadow on the giants,
The moon began her course across the bay,
And I was left to drift again and wonder...
Then turned away.
And marvelled at the scene beneath my feet;
The air awash with fragrant scents of summer
A cooling breeze that made the day more sweet;
And standing there I felt the merest whisper
Of kindred minds that swept my doubts away...
And a promise that I'll soon find her spirit...
Then slipped away.
I've settled down and found my special place
Where the Spirit of Australia walks beside me,
Delights me with her gentleness and grace.
Her message here will never be forgotten,
But we're custodians of this ancient land...
For the answer to my questions lives inside me
And I understand...
LIFE'S THEATRE
Helensvale, Queensland,
Australia
My mirror has a double-sided looking glass
And looking in the mirror at the finely fashioned lines
And the clown of my existence wears a double-sided smile,
Which shows the many characters I've played;
My alter ego safely hidden in the wings,
A Harlequin enhancing the charade.
Life's theatre has etched around my eyes,
I see ghosts of my tomorrows waiting patiently backstage -
Wearing bells and jesters cap in cheerful guise.
The greasepaint masking all that's grim and sad;
For I dressed his role in sunshine, left the tragedies behind
As we share the stage and footlights here instead.
THE OCHRE, THE BLUE AND THE DREAM
Helensvale, Queensland,
Australia.
Memories stalk my restless mind,
Of a little country township
Where life was simple, seasons kind;
And I see the gentle sloping
Of the undulating hills,
Of the ochre-tainted fallows
And the ripple of the rills.
And I hear the faintest footsteps
Of a little boy at play,
Where the greying blue-stone cottage
Matched the shades of yesterday;
And beyond where greening meadows
Heralded another spring
Hopes and dreams filled my existence -
Riding on a youthful wing.
So I travelled to the region,
To the town of "Long Ago,"
And I tried to find the pastures
Where the jonquils used to grow;
But the town - almost deserted -
Turned its back upon my dreams...
And life's early-written pages
Now present more recent themes.
Since my hair has turned to silver
- Early years lost in a haze -
Life itself has sped me onward
Entered yet another phase;
But each springtime still I see the
Tender flowers, flush with bloom,
And I almost taste the flavour
Of the country's rich perfume.
WHERE THE WORLD IS WIDE
Helensvale, Queensland,
Australia
And the waves are rolling free,
Where the Northern breezes travel
Lies a tranquil opal sea.
There thr Daintree's silent beauty
Speaks a language always new,
But the wisdom that she voices
Will be heard by only few.
Lucky they, who for a moment
Heard the heartbeat of the land,
As they watch the ceaseless breakers
Write her message in the sand.
For she speaks of times eternal
Where the cosmic spheres reside,
And man is but a twist of seaweed
Left to drifting on the tide...
Where the mountains meet the ocean
And their peaks are steeped in pride
Lies the Daintree's sacred treasure...
Where the ancient world is wide.
"WHISPERS OF THE PAST."
Helensvale, Queensland,
Australia.
What I wrote was a song from my childhood,
And the scenes became songs of my childhood,
Your bards told of mountains and rivers,
But deep down inside mists were swirling
They write of the rush to the goldfields,
Still the pictures I see are the memories
But now as I read recent verses
I wanted to write me a bush verse,
- I'm almost addicted to them -
But I found I lacked the right background
For my pen to produce such a gem.
For suddenly as I was writing,
My lines seemed to fade clean away,
And a memory stirred that was hidden between
Of a small country's crisp autumn day.
Where the whirr of the windmills kept time;
With a far different tune to its music,
A much sadder note to its rhyme.
I searched for some fresh inspiration,
Read Lawson and Paterson too;
They showed me the past and its struggles,
The back breaking plight of the few.
But as I was reading their verses
The themes of my youth filtered in,
I smelled the fine tang of the heather,
Felt a bitter-sweet yearning begin.
With their lyrics etched deep in my soul,
When my footsteps would pace out the rhythms
On the cobblestones I used to stroll.
Of brolgas that danced on the plains.
Of young, spring-time growth in the valleys,
And life-giving monsoonal rains.
They wrote about fierce floods and fires,
Of bushrangers everyone feared,
The bullockies, shearers and swagmen
And the yarns that - with them - disappeared.
On the low-lying fields I once knew,
Where the willows stood guard at the ditches,
With cattle near hidden from view.
Where fortunes are lost as they're made,
And tell of the slow rate of progress
When the early foundations were laid.
Then - later - when shadows grow longer
And mirages of riches have gone,
They speak with the pride of a nation,
That was so reluctantly won.
Of pine forests dressed in pure white,
And of dreamy, long summery evenings
When the skies were aflame with the light.
That are written by poets so fine,
I feel that their roots are beginning
To be interwoven with mine.
I can still hear the whispers of childhood,
And my heart can still treasure the past,
But the new songs I hear of this country
I can truthfully call mine at last.
CHARLEE'S RUN
Helensvale, Queensland, Australia.
A school-house stands deserted now amid the rolling hills
The school-house was the setting for a poet's poignant pen
And yet a single candle sheds a tender, trembling light
Where galahs will claim the water tank, the call of peacocks shrills,
The bluish shades on the horizon accentuate it seems
The echo of a school-bell I keep hearing in my dreams.
Fading colours, fading memories are gathered in a haze
Of bygone years and happy times that filled my yesterdays;
When a lonely pony paced along the fence against the sun
And I feasted on the pastels that depicted Charlee's Run.
That moved a cynic world to believe again in man;
With words like raging rivers, or a brightly babbling brook
Cascading down the rock of life and captured in a book.
His lines were wrought with silent tears, the way a verse is made,
And still I hear the lyrics of a song that will not fade,
Though nature soon will take posession of a place his critics shun
The singer and his songs will still be heard on Charlee's Run.
To guide me to a country house where poetry takes flight;
For the flame a singer carries to illuminate his lines
Will fashion them into a song his fantasy defines.
Its light will never waver, nor will it ever die,
For there's a special star somewhere way up a distant sky,
And should I falter in the race, my world would come undone...
I'll find a safe haven - at a place called Charlee's Run.
THE RIVER
Helensvale, Queensland, Australia.
I'm sitting on the river bank
This river of enduring love
We left the silver far behind
To pause a while and dream,
While rosy tints of cirrus cloud
Are mirrored in her stream.
The once wild flow of youthful love
-Becalmed throughout the years-
Still holds us in her warm embrace
In memories held dear.
Which sprang from distant source,
Grew wider as it gathered all
Before her winding course.
The busy years came rushing down,
Swept all within their way...
When life became reality
And future... yesterday.
But the river rolls along,
Towards that faint and shadowed shore
Her drift still surging strong.
Surrounded by the ones we love,
Touched by their caring ways,
We live the gilded autumn years
That fire our twilight days.
Return to Corry's verse index
THE TOWN THAT ISN'T THERE
Helensvale, Queensland, Australia.
Faint voices of a distant past still echo in my ear,
The lush green meadows hide the ruts once gouged by ball and chain,
Black arrows lead me on my way towards the steepled church
But way across the bay upon the island of the dead
Yet sometimes chilling Southern winds still carry the despair
As I walk among the ruins of a town that perished here;
The crusty, crumbling parapets depict the sad displays
Of ancient times and ancient laws in early convict days.
And hide the cruel course of life that none will walk again,
'Mid dainty daisies in the fields the pauper's prison stands
Each star-like bloom a wayward soul now nursed by caring hands.
Where nature plays the organ and its choristers converge,
The psalms of sunday services are hanging off the breeze
And voices of the righteous few are sighing in the trees...
They dug the holes and shoved them in - no Requiems were said;
In unmarked graves a thousand men have found their final rest,
Where sea-gulls sailing on the wind will gather on its crest.
That haunt the remnants of a town that is no longer there...
Now tourists walk the quiet lanes reflecting on a past,
How a nation built on other's guilt has found its role at last.
WHERE ONCE...
Helensvale, Queensland, Australia.
He stood before us, a bushman reared by mountains
These giant castles of his carefree childhood
And golden as a dewy-dusted morning
And way between the craggy, crusty boulders
With eyes that see beyond horizons rims;
Perceptive mind reflecting nature's grandeur
In words that rang like country-chapel hymns.
Still tower high above the forest-floor,
Where his soul rejoicing in their splendour
Will lift him up to where the eagles soar.
His words flowed freely like a sparkling stream,
Which found an echo in all who gathered 'round him
To listen in and live his youthful dream.
The Curtis falls will sing a song untold...
And a single rose will bloom amid the wildness
To show the place where once a poet strolled...
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