Dawn Fraser: Echoes From Labor's War

I Write Not What I Wish to Write
But Rather What I Must

I write, not what I wish to write,
But rather what I must;
My many imperfections
You will pardon, friends, I trust.
I cannot write to order
By plan or measure given,
My dreams come rushing o'er me
As by a tempest driven.
You do not blame the tempest
Because perchance it screams—
And will you blame the dreamer
Because the dreamer dreams?
Vain might I seek for "lofty thoughts",
Vain seek the "noble soul"—
How can I offer what I lack?
How can I thoughts control?
Thoughts fantastic in their course
That, as they travel, gather force.

I am like a boy who shakes a tree
With many an apple fair to see—
The ripe fruit showers round his head,
He views his act with awe and dread;
And yet the deed no lesson taught,
The consequence is soon forgot;
Despite all punishment or pain,
He will shake that tree some day again.
So, gentle friends, it is with me—
I am about to shake the tree.
The fruit of this strange tree is verse,
And some is bad and some is worse.
It tumbles down—disordered rhyme—
(To call them poems might be a crime);
And yet I ask, may it not be
That somewhere hidden in that tree
Are some few truths, wholesome and sound?
Oh! could I bring them to the ground,
Though root and trunk and branches break,
I'd give that tree a mighty shake.

And so I sit and write and write,
Through all the day and half the night;
My fancy carries me away—
I see strange lands as plain as day;
Put pen or pencil in my reach,
I visit Europe or Palm Beach.
I see it all in clear detail
And could describe it without fail—
Describe it as it seems to be
In my imagination free.
Ah! little book, 'twas in my mind
To have you gentle, true and kind; T
o fill your soul with wit and fun,
And yet speak well of everyone.
To call the world a paradise,
('Tis so our schools instruct the youth)
But, oh! alas! that's not the truth;
And if I catch you lying ever,
I'll tear your heart from out of your cover.

Among the masses I am one
Who never had a natural son;
You, product of my fancy wild,
With all your faults, you are my child.
I take a father's pride in you,
I'd have you honest, lad, and true,
Courageous, honest, free and bold—
Truth is more precious, son, than gold.
We scorn the base pen-parasite
Who for a wage betrays the right;
Such souls are peddled, sold and bought
To duplicate their masters' thought.
A man in chains may yet be brave,
The meanest is the mental slave;
Shame upon the ink-stained slob
Who only writes to please the mob.
Here is a truth, lad, known to few—
Ideas are cleanest when they are new;
It's best parade them at their birth,
They grow stained on the vulgar earth;
But if their source, the mind, is clean,
They are like to flourish ever green;
Parade them then in justice cause
And be suspicious of applause.
Perfect this lesson in your youth—
You win few laurels speaking truth;
Such products often sting and hurt—
You will find more sale for lies and dirt.

We will run this race, lad, unattached,
The others are unfairly matched,
So weighted down in soul and mind—
G'dap! we'll leave them far behind.
The man is beaten to his knees
Who hesitates and strives to please,
Who blends a mess of truth and lies
That he may win the Nobel Prize;

Who sacrifices honest thought
To catch the nod from some Big Shot.
Oh! pass such trifles up, my boy,
That you may know the keener joy
Of writing freely, day by day,
And let the chips fall where they may.
When thoughts are launched unselfishly
They are more likely true to be,
And writing is a worthy game
When one scorns gold, applause and fame
But he who sets these as his goal
May win them all, but lose his soul.

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I Write Not What I Wish to Write But Rather What I Must

I Write Not What I Wish to Write
But Rather What I Must