Stephen Whiteside's Famous Poetry Blog

The Chinstrap Penguin

Author: Stephen Whiteside

Some years ago I set myself the challenge of writing a poem that children would want to chant in the school yard. I don’t know if I succeeded – probably didn’t, really – but I do know that I still wrote a poem that children really enjoy. I usually start and finish my school shows with it, because it is so popular.

The other decision I made was that it would be a poem about penguins. I did a bit of research, and decided my favourite penguin – based purely on the highly superficial criterion of appearance – was the chinstrap penguin.

The Chinstrap Penguin

The chinstrap penguin
Doesn’t wear a hat.
Doesn’t wear a helmet.
Doesn’t wear a cap.

Doesn’t wear a busby.
Doesn’t wear a coonskin.
Doesn’t wear nothin’.
Just has a chinstrap.

Chinstrap. Chinstrap.
Just has a chinstrap.
Why is a penguin
Born with a chinstrap?

The emperor is bigger.
The king is bigger too.
Adelies are more numerous.
There’s fairys at the zoo.

The gentoo has a pretty flash
That sits above the eye,
And penguins all swim very well,
Though none of them can fly.

The macaroni has a crest,
Magellan, bands across the breast,
But chinstraps stand out from the rest.
Chinstrap penguins are the best!

The chinstrap penguin
Doesn’t wear a hat.
Doesn’t wear a helmet.
Doesn’t wear a cap.

Doesn’t wear a busby.
Doesn’t wear a coonskin.
Doesn’t wear nothin’.
Just has a chinstrap.

Chinstrap. Chinstrap.
Just has a chinstrap.
Why is a penguin
Born with a chinstrap?

© Stephen Whiteside   27.11.1999

I should talk a bit about the structure of this poem, because it is not like anything I have written before or since. It is really a song – a song without a tune.

The first three verses together really comprise a chorus. The poem begins and ends with these three verses. Verses tend to be longer than choruses, don’t they – or at least the same length – but in this case the chorus is a lot longer than the verses!

Two “proper” verses then follow, once again four lines each, with an AA pattern.

The next four lines are interesting. The rhyming pattern is different – AAAA. For want of a better word, I have called it a “bridge” – it acts as a bridge between the verses and the final rendition of the chorus.

So, with a chorus, verses, and even a bridge, it is really a song! A melody would spoil it, though. It works best just as it is – a chant!

June 5th, 2010  |  Posted in Animals, The ocean  |  No Comments »

That Guy Who Played The Flute

Author: Stephen Whiteside

That Guy Who Played The Flute

I saw him in the paper. He looked so sad and dark.
He wrote the riff upon the flute that gave the song its spark;
The song that hit the stratosphere, for which folk went beserk.
That’s right, I mean ‘Down Under’, and the band, yes, ‘Men At Work’.

‘Men At Work’. Ironic, right? It felt so much like play;
Cheeky songs to lift the soul, to listen to all day,
And all day we did listen, and half the night as well,
As right around our little globe they cast their magic spell.

But now that spell is broken. These tears are not of joy.
We stand in silent sorrow as before a broken toy.
The band once so united in a joyful, glad refrain,
Is splintered – each retreating to his private world of pain.

It was not a conscious copy, but delivered with a muse.
He’d not the slightest notion that he’d lit a long, slow fuse.
It’s a very scary prospect. It could come to you or me,
A flash of inspiration that has brought unconsciously

Some echo of a memory from home, from play, from school.
It’s like a horse that’s Trojan, and it means you’ve snapped a rule;
Transgressed a law, you’ve crossed a line, you’ve copied others’ work.
Can you be sure that in your songs such fragments do not lurk?

So what, then, is the message? I am not sure I know.
Each song that you record is like a dice you choose to throw.
I’ve heard it said, “The law’s an ass.” I guess the point is moot,
But I do feel very keenly for that guy who played the flute.

© Stephen Whiteside   07.07.10

July 7th, 2010  |  Posted in Topical  |  No Comments »

Green Flames

Author: Stephen Whiteside

The best thing about this poem, I think, is the title. I was really chuffed when I thought of it!

Again, this was written during that period when I was not feeling especially committed to four line verses. I must admit, I’ve swung back again. I do really like them, and I think the reader generally does, too.

Green Flames

When winter comes, we light warm fires to help relieve the gloom.
We have a cosy fire-place inside our living room.

The petrol station sells big bags of neatly chopped-up wood,
But daddy will not purchase these. He says they are no good.
He says they come from forests. He says it isn’t right
Consuming native habitat to keep us warm at night,

And so he scours the neighbourhood for little woody piles
Standing on the nature strip. He sees one, and he smiles.
He parks, and opens up the boot, and stacks it in the back
Or, of the piece is very long, he’ll lash it to the rack.

I see the merit in his plan. I know it makes good sense,
Saving all those animals, and saving, too, expense.
But still, it feels a little odd to mine this free resource.
I feel I am a beggar, thought I know I’m not, of course.

And when we’re home, dad saws it up, and chops it down to size.
This is what he most enjoys. It’s like he’s won the prize.

We have a mighty varied mix of firewood out the back;
Gum trees, wattles, plum trees, pine trees all make up the stack.
Exactly what we’re picking up, we often cannot tell.
Our cosy fire gives off at times a most unusual smell!

But, still, I’m glad we do it. It is really rather neat
Collecting piles of wood that folk have left out on the street.
It’s green. It’s eco-friendly. It’s recycling at its best.
Searching high and low for junk is such a noble quest!

© Stephen Whiteside   27.05.06

Commended in the 2006 Nimbin Agricultural & Industrial Society Bush Verse Competition.

July 4th, 2010  |  Posted in Around the house  |  No Comments »

The Ant and the Aphid

Author: Stephen Whiteside

Here is another poem that was inspired by an article I read in the New South Wales School Magazine. As I recall, it was written by Jonathan Shaw. I had no idea of the extraordinary relationship between ants and aphids.

The Ant and the Aphid

An aphid once was sitting near the bottom of a leaf,
Sucking juices from the stem, behaving like a thief.

An ant arrived. He saw the bug. He had a little think.
“Why, what good luck! I’m thirsty, and I’d like a little drink!”
He softly stroked the aphid’s abdomen till, by and by,
Sweet honeydew, that aphids make while sucking plants bone dry,
Appeared like buds upon the ends of two protruding pipes.
Alas, before the ant could drink, it started raining. “Cripes!”
Called out the ant, “My little cow will soon be wet!”
But then he had another thought. He wasn’t beaten yet.
He grabbed the aphid firmly, and he dragged her from the leaf.
“Help! I’m being kidnapped! Let me go, you wretched thief!”

“I am a thief. I’m stealing you. I know that that is true.
But don’t forget the juice you stole to make the honeydew.
We all are thieves. Our little world is tough and unforgiving.
There’s none of us could truly say he makes an honest living.
I do not want you all exposed beneath the open sky,
I’ll take you back into my nest, where you’ll be warm and dry.”

“Oh please, kind sir, I beg of you. Don’t take me from this plant.
I think you are a most uncommon, noble-hearted ant.
You haven’t thought this matter through. If you should kidnap me,
Think of all the sorrow you would cause my family.”

The ant cried, “Shoosh! You’ve made your point!” He knew not what to do.
He held his head between his legs, and tried to think it through.
“I am indeed a noble ant. It’s truth I can’t deny.
But if I cannot have a drink, my mouth gets very dry.
I’d say to any ant, be kind and good if you are able.
It doesn’t help, I’ve found, to put much food upon the table.
You’ll come with me. I guess it’s cruel. I truly have no choice.”
The aphid shrieked. “Don’t touch me!” in a shrill and piercing voice.

The poor ant staggered backwards, but he wasn’t more surprised
Than the angry little aphid who had never realised
The strength she held within her when her life was put at threat.
The ant felt tired and hungry. He was cold, and getting wet.

“I’ll have to find another one. I fear she’s too much work.
I cannot use an aphid who is going to go berserk
Every time I look at her. She’ll cause me grief and sorrow.
But now I’m going home to rest. I’ll try again tomorrow.”

Sleep did not come easy to the ant, alas, that night.
He tossed and turned with troubled dreams, and woke at last in fright.
He dreamt the aphid had moved on, and found another plant.
He tried to track her down, but found her trail was very scant.
In truth, he did admire the way she’d fought, and held her ground.
He’d go and search for her again, and hope she could be found.

The aphid missed the ant as well, He had not been that bad.
To think she’d see him never more, it made her very sad.
He had been rather noble. She found him kind of cute,
And if an ant must milk her, she desired no substitute.

The ant set off at crack of dawn to find his aphid friend.
Around so many sticks and stones his tireless way did wend.
He went back to the same spot, and he found her waiting there.
He saw her eyes flash fiercely, and he saw her nostrils flare.

“I come in peace!” (He raised one leg.) “I’ll leave you well alone.
I know you’re independent. You are not a bug to own.
And yet, I love your honeydew. Perhaps we’ll meet halfway.
Can I milk you still if I agree to let you stay?”

“Of course you can, you noble ant. I had begun to fret.
I feared that I had lost you, just as soon as we had met.
I’ll introduce you to my folks. They’ve heard so much of you.
We can be good mates, and you can drink my honeydew.”

And that’s the way they worked it out. The ant came every day.
He visited his aphid friend for food, and talk, and play,
And if the sun shone bright and strong, they had the best time yet,
And if it rained, they still had fun. They just got very wet.

© Stephen Whiteside   12.05.06

Phew! That was a bit of a marathon typing session!

Once again, you’ll notice I’ve abandoned regular four line verses for the sake of the narrative. Of course, the last four verses are in fact four lines each, but that was just an accident!

July 3rd, 2010  |  Posted in Insects  |  No Comments »

The Old Tree and the Strangler Fig

Author: Stephen Whiteside

In retrospect, this looks like another ‘chit-chat’ poem. I don’t think it is, though. (I certainly never had it in mind as such.) There’s too much interference from the narrator!

I never knew (or even thought!) much about strangler figs until I read an article in the New South Wales School Magazine one day.

The Old Tree and the Strangler Fig

It started as a little itch, somewhere near the crown,
And then she felt the tiny rootlets slowly drifting down.
She knew her fate was sealed. It had started as a seed,
But the strangler fig would kill her as it met its growing need.
The little roots kept dropping down towards the forest floor.
Soon they’d battle with her own for food from nature’s store.

The tree endured in silence, but she broke it one clear night.
“This isn’t fair at all,” she said. “You know it isn’t right.”

The strangler fig thought hard and long, then answered “Yes…and no.
It’s Nature’s Law. Some trees must die, that other trees may grow,
And in a sense, we’re servants, both, of animals, we two.
With all the things we offer them, we could support a zoo.
They’ll eat my figs the whole year round. They’ll take what I can give,
And when you die, I’ll have a hollow trunk in which they’ll live.”

“But that’s my point. You’ll live to see the dazzling years ahead.
You’ll witness all this action, and you’ll squeeze me till I’m dead.”

“I, too, will die, do not forget. My turn will come some day,
And, just like you, my leaves and stems and roots will all decay.”
“But no-one will have killed you. You will die because you’re old.
It’s not the same in any way. Your logic leaves me cold.”

“I do not mean you any ill. I know no other way.
If I survive, and prosper long, another tree must pay.”

And so the two fell silent. There could be no happy ending
For the old tree once the fig’s roots round the big trunk started bending.

But the old tree, too, had seeds, and on the forest floor below
She knew, in time, that some of these would germinate and grow,
And though she faced an early death, before too very long,
They’d flourish in the forest, round the fig tree, tall and strong.

© Stephen Whiteside   18.05.06

You’ll notice that I have diverted from my common path of four line verses. I was experimenting at the time of writing this with varying the length of verses depending on the ebb and flow of the narrative. I’m not sure it makes a lot of difference in the long run, but I’m leaving it here as I wrote it then, simply because that’s how I wrote it then!

July 2nd, 2010  |  Posted in The bush  |  No Comments »

The Trunk and the Twig

Author: Stephen Whiteside

Here’s the last ‘chit-chat’ poem – and the longest, too, I think.

The Trunk and the Twig

The trunk said to the twig, “You are curly, thin and small.
But look at me. I’m thick and strong and tough and straight and tall.”
The twig replied, “Don’t write me off like that. You ought to know.
I carry leaves which trap the sun, without which you can’t grow.”

“That’s true,” replied the trunk, “but it’s simple, can’t you see?
Twigs there are in thousands, but there’s only one of me.
Lose a little twig or two, the tree would still stand tall,
But if the trunk should ever break, the tree must surely fall.”

“Just look around this forest, trunk, and say it isn’t true.
I see a thousand trees with trunks that look a lot like you.
They’re crowding in around us. If this tree should ever die,
There’s lot of other twigs with leaves to fill this patch of sky.

“And look upon the forest floor. There’s seeds amongst the moss.
They’d love to sprout and grow to trees. They’d soon replace the loss.
We have to work together, trunk. We can’t afford to fight.
We need your strength to hold us up. You need us for your light.

“We’re both a part of just one tree, a single tree, that’s all.
The forest will not miss us if we falter and we fall.
But we matter to each other, trunk, and that is all we’ve got.
We’re the only tree that stands upon this little spot.

“So be my friend, and I’ll be yours, and we can be a team,
And if we work in harmony, we might just live our dream!”
Now, this was quite a speech for such a little twig to make,
And he wondered for a moment if he’d made a bad mistake.

But the tree trunk quickly answered, “Little twig, I quite agree!
We both have different roles to play to make a healthy tree.
I am big and very strong, yet number only one,
Yet twigs are in their thousands as they reach towards the sun!

“So join me, twig, and I’ll join you, with branches in between.
Together we will make a tree that’s fit and bright and green.
I’ll pass the message to the roots. They play a vital part.
With twigs and trunk and roots as one, we’ll make a brand new start!”

© Stephen Whiteside   30.07.06

July 2nd, 2010  |  Posted in Chit-chat poems, In our street  |  No Comments »

The Tree and the Power Lines

Author: Stephen Whiteside

Back to the inanimate objects again. I spent years staring at trees whose canopies had been cloven in half to make the way for power lines before I finally got it out of my system by writing this poem!

The Tree and the Power Lines

The tree said to the power lines, “I’m really cross with you.
My canopy is always trimmed to let you guys pass through.
My leaves are slowly growing back, but then the council men
Arrive with shears and ladders and they trim me back again.

“I just look plain ridiculous. Perhaps you think it droll.
The spot wherein my crown should be is just a gaping hole!
You’ve compromised my canopy. You’ve robbed me of my cred.
Instead of one great leaf mass I’ve two little ones instead.”

“We do not think it’s funny, tree,” the power lines replied.
“And, yes, we fully understand the way we hurt your pride.
But people need us power lines for electricity.
It’s critically important that our path is always free.

“You might say, “Who needs people?” but you surely must remember
That people planted you, my friend, one warm and wet September.
We understand your sadness that you’re stunted and you’re small,
But if it weren’t for people you would not exist at all.”

“I hadn’t thought of it like that but, yes,” replied the tree.
“The logic of your argument now hits my forcibly.
I might not like my cloven shape, but still, I’m strong and fit.
I should accept my lot in life and make the best of it.

“I will not change a single thing, no matter how I curse.
My life is far from perfect, but it could be so much worse.
So, power lines, I bid you well. I’ll gladly part in two.
I welcome, too, the men with shears who help you travel through!”

© Stephen Whiteside   31.07.06

June 30th, 2010  |  Posted in Chit-chat poems, In our street  |  No Comments »

The Possum and the Spider

Author: Stephen Whiteside

They’re animate objects again this time.

The Possum and the Spider

A possum climbed into a hole inside an ancient tree.
A spider deep within cried out, “Hey! Don’t you step on me!
This is my home. Find yourself a hole that’s dark and dank.”
“I’m a possum. You’re a spider. Shift. I’m pulling rank.”

“I warn you, I will bite you, mate. Now, don’t you be like that.”
“Oh, please. You are so tiny. I could crush you like a gnat.”
The spider sprang into the fur. He’d stand no more abuse.
The possum tried to scratch him free. Alas, it was no use.

The spider bit. The possum flinched, then dashed for open ground,
But not before the spider’d jumped to safety in one bound.
The possum died soon after, and the spider gave a snigger.
The moral? Do not think you’ll win, just because you’re bigger!

© Stephen Whiteside   28.05.06

Sad poem, huh?

June 30th, 2010  |  Posted in Chit-chat poems, In our street  |  No Comments »

The Shower and the Bath

Author: Stephen Whiteside

Here’s a ‘chit-chat’ poem that is close to my heart!

The Shower and the Bath

Said the shower to the bath, “I am always piping hot.
Busy folk can have a shower, and scarcely break their trot.
I am perfect in the morning on the days kids go to school.
Every time you look at me, with envy you must drool.”

“Strangely, no,” the bath replied. “I see you have your place.
Like early in the mornings, as you say, when people race,
But what is more relaxing in the long day’s aftermath
Than to lie amongst the bubbles in a hot and steaming bath?

“The trouble with a shower, you see, is people have to stand,
But in a bath they lie down flat. There’s nothing quite so grand.
It’s true a decent bath will take a little time to fill,
But evenings there’s no hurry, and the waiting’s worth the thrill.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” the shower replied. “I guess you’re right.
A shower is best at morning, but a bath is best at night.”
“But not each night,” the bath joined in, “for that takes too much water.
Or if you do, just fill it up a third, or p’raps a quarter.

“Yet now and then allow yourself the wond’rous luxury
O filling it. You’ll feel so warm, so light, so calm, so free.”
“But not too full,” (this time the shower) “’cause, as I’m sure you know,
When someone clambers into it, it’s bound to overflow!”

© Stephen Whiteside   26.07.06

June 29th, 2010  |  Posted in Around the house, Chit-chat poems  |  No Comments »

The Rat and the Pigeon

Author: Stephen Whiteside

…and here’s another one. I read somewhere that pigeons are the ‘rats of the sky’. I’m not sure whether this is unfair to rats or pigeons – or both! – but it struck me as quite an interesting phrase.

The Rat and the Pigeon

The rat said to the pigeon, “You’re not popular, you know,
Amongst those who inhabit all these regions down below.
You might think you are clever, with those wings so you can fly.
Down here you’re simply known as rats. Rats of the sky.”

Said the pigeon to the rat, ‘You should show more self respect.
Besides, we both are very small, so what would you expect?
To us you’re very special folk. Your virtues, they abound,
We do not call you rats at all. You’re pigeons of the ground!”

© Stephen Whiteside   13.05.10

Turn the other cheek, eh?

June 29th, 2010  |  Posted in Around town, Chit-chat poems  |  No Comments »

The Broom and the Leaf-Blower

Author: Stephen Whiteside

Here’s another ‘chit-chat’ poem.

The Broom and the Leaf-Blower

The broom said to the leaf-blower, “You make a dreadful din.
So many people use you now, I think it is a sin.
You chew up heaps of petrol, and you spew out clouds of smoke.
People have forgotten me. It’s just a sorry joke.”

The blower waited calmly till the broom had had his say,
And when he spoke he gave no hint of anger or dismay.
“Not everyone can use a broom. Some have problem backs.
The twisting and the turning can bring pain in sharp attacks.”

“You speak the truth,” replied the broom. “I see you’re very wise,
But some folk who rely on you could use the exercise.
Although they find you handy, they’d be better off with me.”
The blower smiled and nodded, said most gently, “I agree.”

© Stephen Whiteside   30.05.06

June 29th, 2010  |  Posted in Around the house, Chit-chat poems  |  No Comments »