OCCASIONAL VERSE
We would like to feature poems that play with words and have a particular Australian take on our language. Anyone interested in submitting verse of their own for consideration should contact the editor.
Ray Kelley has been a regular contributor to Australian Style. Here is his salute to Ruth Wanjryb's FUNKtionary: a cheeky collection of contemporary words
Ballade of Neofunkies
Gazillions of them, coming thick and fast!
Newies like blondespeak crop up every day.
Will floortime, goth and single-cheeking last?
Are squealathon and renton here to stay?
Mcbesity and autodentist may
Endure, along with microsleep, arm candy,
Gym bunny, agritourist and postgay.
Such with-it-isms will prolly come in handy.
There was no term for kidfluence in the past,
Or latchkey dog; no need to be au fait
With hyperparenting; and something classed
As sick or mad or rough did not convey
Approved-of coolth. We managed to obey
Sand etiquette wherever beach was sandy
Without that label; but it's fair to say
Such with-it-isms will prolly come in handy.
Worry about your flab can flabbergast
You now (old word, used in newfangled way).
Some pregnant women get a belly cast.
A televiewer needs a good laptray.
The avid fan of cock rock tends to play
An air guitar. It's alcopop, not brandy,
That makes me fap and subject to manspray.
Such with-it-isms will prolly come in handy.
Prince, some folk think these coinages depra-
Ve our English speech; some find the fetch – just dandy.
Whatever. For the most part they're okay:
Such with-it-isms will prolly come in handy.
Timoshenko Aslanides is a published poet of repute. Here is a poem of his from the 1970s that Australianises Chaucer.
The Canberry Tales
When that Aprille, with his wind and raine
Comes, dragging us through Autumn once again
And leaves tyrne bilyus coloures onne the treese,
And clogg-up draynes, and rotte like stinkynge cheese;
Whan days refuse to do whatte theye are tolde,
(Now warme, now hotte now freezynge bluddy colde)
Thenne people starte to thinkk aboute the time
Wych theye might have inne some more plaisant clime,
And travail agents advertyse some trapps
That theye have sette, onne grottie touryste mapps.
‘Come visite sunny Queenslande’, some they say,
‘And meete a meter maide inne merrie May.’
My God! Howe do we bere such wrecchyd stuffe?
(Yeere inne, yeere oute, it getts us sure enoughe)
As peopel of all sortts, the strayghte, the freeke,
Hytch-hyke uppe, or flye there for a week
Or so. Some tayke the family uppe inne cars,
(Theye dryve inne tyrnes, and navigayte by stars).
And so it was inne Aprille I sette oute,
To see juste whatte thir tripps were all aboute.
But first I thoughte I’d meete some onne the way,
Before I putte downe whatte theye had to say;
And try to picture, as itte seemed to me,
Juste who theye weren, and of whatte degree.
And eek in what array that they were inne:
And wyth the hippies wil I first biginne.
Whyle hytching uppe to Sydney towne I founde
A COUPEL, oute-of-sighte, but onne the grounde;
His flowing haere and beeds juste seemed to speeke
That here, atte last, I’d founde a reele FREEKE.
I stopped, I satte, I asked about thir tripps,
And who theye were, and if theye’d any tipps.
Like manne, he saed, we’ve juste, like, splitt the scene:
They tolde me of the playces theye had beene,
And howe theye moved, and whatte theye’d used for bedds,
And juste whatte theys woulde do atte Noosa Headds
Where unemployede liun tamers teech
Assorted sutherne catts downe onne the beach
Some triks: howe to negotiayte a shoale,
And fixe thir bordes and queue-uppe for the dole.
Thenne further north, uppe to far-oute Townesville,
Where greener grass growes bothe sides of the hille,
Where faeries tripp and magik mushroomes sproute,
And varius other enchanted thinges ‘come-oute’.
His gurlefrend, quite a pritty chik, I thoughte,
Had sadlie left appearaunces for noughte:
She woulde, it seemed, be quite a sighte inne Noosa,
Wyth haere to rival that of faere Medusa.
Atte Sydney Airporte, wyth the motlie thronge,
I joind the Coolongatte ‘playne, alonge
Wyth senior PUBLIK SERVENTS, in thir hordes,
Juste pouringe past the indicayter bordes.
And eek, one satte beside me as the ‘playne
Departed thenne for Queenslande’s wat’ry maine,
His daughtor onne the aisle (to be seene:
Dressed inne kilOMeters of krimpolene).
Whyle he himself had all the latest geere,
(Recycled from some vogue of yesteryeere)
He tolde me of his planns whyle onne the way
Of howe he’d boughte some land in Morton Bay
To founde a pryvate companie (his owne),
And based in Brisbane, so itte mighte be showne
That thys quik tripp was juste to gather facts,
(And have a hohidaey agaynst his taxe).
His house inne Flyinne, an arkhitektural freeke,
Had been leised-oute: one hundred buckes a weeke
And whyle he was inne Brisbane for a day,
He’d see his olde State Ofice - onne T.A.!
To chek the bisnesse sceene, I thoughte I shoulde
Visite some riche Island, and — tuche wood —
Observe some BISNESSE MEN, and try to work-
oute juste where theye were atte: whatte lurk or perk
Thir companie had thrawan thir way att all
(We all have lurkes specyfick to oure call),
To hyde or flaunte, dependyng on oure gall.
Now in thys swanke BOATEL beside the sea,
Equippyd wyth evry knowne fadilitie,
Thys BISNESSE MANNE was playing inne the pool
Beside the boss’s daughtor (he was cool).
Theye frohlycked rounde the cabans half the day,
(All bilt from sellynge land inne Morton Bay),
Whyle half the staff — his companie was there —
Just stuffyd thir faces wyth pate gruyere
As uppe and downe the concrete paths theye thronge,
(For paradise IS paved, as inne the songe)
Wyth drye martiniis spillynge from thir glass,
And wetyng all the artificel grass.
I satte beside the pool, to waetche thir glee,
And leaned my headd agaynst a tall thynne tree,
Whan all atte ones, I heard a boomynge BONK!
A coconutte had fallen onne my CONK!!
So no longer am I able to relate
Thir grippynge tales. For these you’ll have to waite
Till my returne from hospital whan those
Younge nurses fixe, and medybanke my nose.
And whyle you waite, you mighte juste like to sipp
These several severed snippetts from my tripp:
The PUBLIK SERVENT, and his luvlie daughtor
Who’d founde thir land — Juste three feete under waeter;
The companies he’d floated for his taxe:
Theye’d sunke from sighte, throughe want of legal facts
The FREEKE, unwashed, bommbed-oute, had mette his doome:
He’d tripped onne toade stooles, notte magik mushroomes.
The BISNESSE MANNE, now stranded onne the roade
His poodel swallowed by a huge cayne toade,
The hyghwayes fluded-oute, ah! woe is he:
His bagage washed downestream, and oute to sea.
Onne these and other tales, you’lle have to waite:
We’ll see itte all, wyth sounde, onne super-eight.
Reproduced, with kind permission of the author, Timoshenko Aslanides, from A Calendar of Flowers, Selected Poems 1975-2000 (Five Islands Press, 2001). Available through: http://timoshenko.actewagl.net.au |
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