Prompt and Circumstance

A Bush Gymkhana

'compete' Feb. 26, 2016

"Was the trophy a large shiny cup of some type?" Kanute muses. "Maybe an action figure of a man and his horse?"

"I can't remember. Either was a standard sort of prize, back then."

"Perhaps even some money, as well?" His voice sounds innocent enough, but his eyes glint at the thought of monetary reward.

Competition paled when lined up against the spirit of mateship shared by the winners, as they hugged and heartily clapped each other's backs, over and over. They stopped only long enough to take great swallows from a welcome 'tinny' given to each of them from well-wishers. Then beer cans were triumphantly lifted high for yet another salute. Clearly their main joy had been in their personal prowess - far above the reward of any trophy.

Witnessing these bush horsemen in such stirring action captured my imagination, and the afterglow lingered long after that eventful day was done. My love for bush ballads deepened considerably as I savoured the words that described my feelings so well. Once again I read the rousing words of the classic, 'The Man from Snowy River' by Andrew 'Banjo' Paterson.

The combination of his words, together with our first-hand bush gymkhana experience, inspired an urge to write a poem myself in his inimitable cadence. I borrowed his rhythm, but not surprisingly his expertise eluded me. Poetry is not my forte... nevertheless it was fun. Here is my interpretation of a small part of those magical hours we spent in the heat and noise and dust of the gymkhana... with humblest apologies to 'Banjo' for the presumption.

There was excitement in the West, for the word had passed around

A gymkhana of importance would be held.

At a little known old gold mine, not much more than scratched up ground

- a near-forgotten spot in this wide world.

Many brave and skilled horsemen from the stations near and far,

Would gather for the challenge—and the fight.

For outsiders rarely know how talented they are,

And how clear the stock horse shares in the delight.

There was Jamieson, who's claim to fame was winning last year's cup.

The blonde 'hunk' with the eyes so blue, you know?

Few could match his prowess, once his mind was fair made up,

To aim higher than horse and man should ever go.

And Simpson from the Alice came down to try his hand,

Few stockmen ever held so tight the reins.

For no horse had ever tossed him, on this red and dusty land,

He'd learnt his skills the hard way—on the plains.

And Jardi who was indigenous, on a most unlikely beast,

Some resemblance to a brumby, undersized.

With a touch of something else—some part thoroughbred, at least?

An unknown type that stockmen rarely prized.

But the way both stood so proudly, you knew they'd never say die,

So much passion in their brisk and fidgety tread.

And they both lay down the gauntlet with a game glint in the eye,

And a clearly challenging toss of scornful head.

But despite all the fire, some doubted Jardi could 'stay'

And one ancient hand worded it the best—

"A competition like this lad?—you'd better stay away,

That little nag of yours won't stand the test."

Jardi wilted somewhat, but Jamieson was his friend.

"Come on fellers. Give him a go!" Jamieson said.

"I know we'll be battling right through to the end,

But don't forget—we're both bush born and bred."...

"Wish I could continue in this rhythmic vein," I say to Kanute. He's grinning broadly as I read my words out loud. He sees and smells yesterday's dusty contest as surely as I do.

"Not a poet, you say? You're pretty bloody good, if you ask me."

The pictures in my mental memory album are clear as ever. Strange but quite lovely, how the years roll back, giving you the chance to live it all over again.