Australian Poetry
Hi, I’m Michael, and I’m a stroke survivor.
I've recently returned to rehab to work on my speech. For a boy from Newcastle, constantly being asked if I’m French or Dutch is getting old. While I don’t want to sound like a North Queenslander, this intense rehab sprint is focused on trying to get my Australian accent back. And what better way to do that than by reciting Australian poetry?
There was movement at the station
The speech therapists recommended that I read poetry. It has the combined benefit of cadence, which helps with flow, and unusual grammar, which makes anticipating the next word difficult. This forces the reader to slow down and focus on each word rather than jumping ahead. So Harrison and Old Regret became my first attempt.
The Overflow
Looking to expand my repertoire, I was drawn to another Australian poem that I’ve always found difficult to read aloud. Lines such as “And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city. Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all” can be hard to get your tongue around at speed. However, the image of droving where the seasons come and go sounds quite appealing.
Of droughts and flooding rains
When I got over the surprise that “I love a sunburnt country” has four stanzas, I found it much easier to read than Banjo Paterson. It’s less Shakespeare and more The Seekers—similar beautiful imagery but with more standard grammar combined with an easy melody to provide cadence.
Beards are still the rage in Ironbark
Wanting to complicate things, my speech therapist went searching for another tongue twister, but one I couldn’t recite by heart. She returned to Banjo Paterson and the story of the country boy who visits Sydney and gets tricked by a local barber. “The Man from Ironbark” is a bastard of a poem to get your tongue around when you have a speech condition. But give me a few weeks, and I’ll be able to recite it like I can “The Man from Snowy River.”
The Unexpected
The whole process has reignited a long-dormant interest in Australian poetry for me. It brought back memories of my father bringing the Banjo Paterson book to the dining table after dinner to recite “The Man from Snowy River.” I remember the first time I saw the statue of The Man in Cooma as you drive down to the NSW snowfields. All of these memories from a small thing like practicing poetry in stroke speech rehab.
Thankfully my accent is improving as well.