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James Martin Devaney
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James Martin Devaney poems, quotations and biography on James Martin Devaney poet page. Read all poems of James Martin Devaney and infos about James Martin Devaney.
James Martin Devaney, poet, novelist, journalist and teacher, was born on 31 May 1890 at Sandhurst, Victoria, fourth child of Patrick Devaney, a labourer from Ireland, and his native-born wife Mary, née Conroy. Educated at Bendigo and at St Joseph's College, Hunters Hill, Sydney, in 1904 James entered the college's Marist Brothers' juniorate. In 1915 he made his final vows and took the religious name Fabian Joseph. Trained as a teacher, from 1911 he successively served in schools in Sydney, South Australia and New Zealand. Brother Fabian contracted severe tuberculosis and returned to Sydney in 1919 to teach at Darlinghurst. His Superior so relentlessly opposed adequate medical treatment ... more »
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James Martin Devaney Poems
The Frog Pool
Week after week it shrank and shrank
as the fierce drought fiend drank and drank,
till on the bone-dry bed revealed
the mud peeled;... more »
The Bunyip
Oh, came you up by the place of dread
(west red, and the moon low down)
where no winds blow and the birds have fled... more »
Winter Westerlies
Leaning against the wind across the paddock ways
comes Dan home with forward stoop like a man bent and old,... more »
Dirrawan The Song-Maker
Dirrawan went into the bush to spear waat,
but he forgot about waat the red wallaby.
he thought about dirridirri the small bird and deereeree the wagtail
he thought about wonning the lightning and ...... more »
A Dedication
Because I went the lone ways
Among the tall trees,
Because I loved the blue days,
The bird melodies... more »
Outlines
The tufted gums along the rise
Stand black against the evening skies.
And in the red west sombreing
As daylight dies,... more »
Dark Road
I will be your stay
When the feet falter.
I will be your stay
When the tears blind.... more »
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Winter Westerlies
Leaning against the wind across the paddock ways
comes Dan home with forward stoop like a man bent and old,
clashes the door in haste as one pursued: 'By Christ, it's cold!'
and crooks his fingers to the blaze.
We do not live these days, but each exhausting day
unnerved we numbly wait return of life, and must abide
the wind, the still beleaguering wind; all voices else outside
imperioulsy it has blown away.
Over the bronze-brown paddocks the grass is bowed flat down;
along the birdless creek a cold malevolence has passed;
a forlorn sparrow clings on the ...
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