Biography of Rex Ingamells
Rex Ingamells was a poet and the founder of the Jindyworobak movement. He was born in Ororoo, South Australia. He gained his education at the University of Adelaide, prior to becoming a high school teacher. He also worked as a journalist and publisher’s representative. In 1951 he lectured in Australian Literature at the Melbourne Technical College.
Ingamells wrote his prose manifesto ‘Conditional Culture’ (1938), and founded the Jindyworobak movement in that year, in response to L.F. Giblin’s urging that poets in Australia should portray Australian nature and people as they are in Australia, not with the ‘European’ gaze, an article in the Age concerning Australian Literature (February 16, 1935) by G.H. Cowling, and The Foundations of Culture in Australia by P.R. Stephenson. Ingamells was named as a judge of the Commonwealth Jubilee Literary competition in 1951.
Ingamells is the recipient of the 1945 Grace Levin Prize for Poetry.
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Rex Ingamells Poems
Glint of gumtrees in the dawn, so million coloured: bush wind-borne magpie-music, rising, falling; and voices of the stockmen calling.
Macquarie Harbour jailers lock the sullen gates no more..... but lash-strokes sound in every shock of ocean on the dismal rocks
The Camp Fires Of The Past
A thousand, thousand camp fires every night, in ages gone, would twinkle to the dark from crest and valley in the rolling bush, from mulga scrub and mallee scrub, from dunes
This piece of hardwood, cunningly shaped, was curved so evenly while piccaninnies gaped at a Warrior who chipped at it with pieces of flint, and formed it by meticulous dint upon dint.
News Of The Sun
The noon is on the cattle-track; the air is void of sound, except where crows, poised burning-black, cry to the dusty ground.
Ship From The Thames
Stay, ship from Thames with fettered sails in Sydney Cove, this ebb of tide; your gear untangled from the gales, imprisoned at your anchor ride.
Captain William Bligh
Look for an iron soul to bear the piled anathema of time, to take, without abjectness, scorn of every human rout,
News Of The Sun
The noon is on the cattle-track;
the air is void of sound,
except where crows, poised burning-black,
cry to the dusty ground.
Through mulga and mirage go none
but brazen Boolee now,
scorning the mercy of the sun
beneath the niggard bough.