Mabel Forrest

Rating: 4.33
Rating: 4.33

Mabel Forrest Poems

WHERE the ironbarks are hanging leaves disconsolate and pale,
Where the wild vines o’er the ranges their spilt cream of blossom trail,
By the door of the bark humpey, by the rotting blood-wood gates,
On the river-bound selection, there a lonely woman waits,
...

I was a Pirate once,
A blustering fellow with scarlet sash,
A ready cutlass and language rash;
From a ship with a rum-filled water-tank
...

Mabel Forrest Biography

Mabel Forrest (6 March 1872 – 18 March 1935) was an Australian writer and journalist. Helena Mabel Forrest was born near Yandilla, Queensland, daughter of James Checkley Mills and his wife Margaret Nelson, née Haxell. Mabel began writing at an early age but did not publish her first book, The Rose of Forgiveness and other Stories, until 1904. She became well-known as a writer of verse following the publication of her first volume of poems, Alpha Centauri, which appeared in Melbourne in 1909. Her first novel A Bachelor's Wife, was included in the Bookstall series in 1914. The Green Harper (prose and verse) followed in 1915, and Streets and Gardens, a small collection of verse, in 1922. In 1924 The Wild Moth, a novel, was published in London, and was followed by four other novels, Gaming Gods (1926), Hibiscus Heart (1927), Reaping Roses (1928), and White Witches (1929). Poems by M. Forrest, a collection of her verse contributions to Australian English and American magazines, was published at Sydney in 1927. Forrest died in Brisbane of pneumonia after a long illness on 18 March 1935. Mrs Forrest was twice married and was survived by a daughter. Gaming Gods was dedicated to the memory of her second husband, John Forrest. In addition to her work in book form, for the last 30 years of her life Mrs Forrest poured out a constant stream of verse and short stories for newspapers and magazines. Probably no other woman in Australia ever maintained herself so long by freelance journalism. Her verse is represented in several anthologies. Her novels were perhaps little more than stories written to fulfil the demands of the circulating libraries, but Mrs Forrest was an admirable journalist who lived a life that had many misfortunes with great industry, ability and courage.)

The Best Poem Of Mabel Forrest

The Lonely Woman

WHERE the ironbarks are hanging leaves disconsolate and pale,
Where the wild vines o’er the ranges their spilt cream of blossom trail,
By the door of the bark humpey, by the rotting blood-wood gates,
On the river-bound selection, there a lonely woman waits,
Waits and watches gilded sunrise glow behind the mountain peak,
Hears the water hens’ shrill piping, in the rushes by the creek,
And by the sullen stormy sunsets, when the anxious cattle call,
Sees the everlasting gum-trees closing round her like a wall.
With the hunger of her bosom notes the wild birds seek their mates,
All alone and heavy-hearted, there the lonely woman waits.

Where the tall brown city buildings loom against a cloud-flecked sky,
Where along the curving tramlines brightly varnished cars rush by,
Where the call of petty traders echoes down the dusty street,
And forever comes the beating of the many passing feet,
Where the bamboo reeds are whispering by the green park’s iron gates,
By the muslin-curtained window, there a lonely woman waits.

Where the white caps lash the sea-wall, and the great waves thunder by,
Where the grey rains sweep the beaches underneath a sodden sky,
Where the swift-winged gull flies landward, and the fisher bides at home,
When the long Pacific reaches are a seething stretch of foam,
Where the empty boat drifts seawards, by the ocean’s sand-flanked gates,
In the weather-boarded cottage, there a lonely woman waits.

Where the river boats are calling, where the railway engine shrieks,
Or where only wild bird liltings echo from the reedy creeks,
Where the grey waves grieve to landward, and a wet wind beats the seas,
Or where pearl-white moths flit slowly through the dropping wattle-trees,
By the high verandah pillars, by the rotting bloodwood gates,
Crowded town or dreary seaboard, everywhere some woman waits!

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