E Edward Dyson

Edward Dyson

21 şiir · 1865 — 1931

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Edward Dyson was an Australian poet and freelance journalist, He also produced short stories and plays and was one of three talented brothers, the other two being illustrators. He was born Edward George Dyson on the 4th March 1865 at Morrisons Diggings which is close to Ballarat in the state of Victoria. His parents had emigrated from England in 1852 and his father, who had been a coal miner, became a mining engineer. The family moved around quite a bit during Edward’s childhood, thus disrupting his education, although the boys were fortunate to have a woman of refinement in their mother who encouraged their artistic talents constantly. School was not a pleasurable experience though, not surprisingly and it was said that Edward “…recoiled from formal education with bewilderment and loathing”. He was a great observer of life going on around him though, being more or less at liberty to explore wherever he chose. There were a lot of disused gold mines near his home and these were a source of wonder and excitement, along with the characters that he found there and in the town. Many of them were remembered in his future stories of miners and mining. One of his childhood haunts, a town called Alfredton, became “Waddy” in his stories and poems. Dyson started work at the age of 12 and filled a number of positions, including drapery and mining, before settling down to be a writer and journalist from around 1884 onwards. His first collection of poems soon came out under the title Rhymes from the Mines and then, two years later, he released a collection of short stories called Below and On Top reflecting the lives of men who spent their working lives either underground or on the surface. One of his poems, Worked-out Mine, is full of powerful and haunting imagery of long-abandoned workings and the ghostly presence of miners, either dead down below or long gone to other mines. Here are the opening verses to this poem: Dyson first came to the attention of the reading public with a number of pieces submitted to various publications such as Australian Tit-bits and the Melbourne Punch, usually under the pen-name “Silas Snell”. However he really came to prominence when he had a short story called A Golden Shanty published in the Sydney Bulletin in their Christmas 1889 issue. He later turned this story into a play and it was staged during August 1913 at a Sydney theatre. He was encouraged by his successes and produced a great deal of freelance journalistic work for many newspapers and periodicals while still continuing with his literary output. He kept a careful eye on his earnings and, by 1901, was doing so well that he felt able to turn down a permanent position on the staff of the Bulletin which would have earned him a generous £10 per week. His relentless output of articles, humorous pieces, stories and plays was described as ‘machine-like productiveness’ and he drove himself on with hardly a pause for breath. His experiences of the gold fields were a rich source of material but he also wrote about other industrial processes, an example being Fact’ry ‘ands, published in 1906, which told of his life working in factories when younger. Just when it seemed that he would live out his life as a bachelor he got married, in 1914, to a music teacher and they had one child together. He looked forward to ending his days in domestic contentment and financial security but, alas, he suffered along with many others from the influenza pandemic of 1919 which severely affected his health, leaving him debilitated with encephalitis. He never properly recovered from it and the years of intense work and strain took their toll. Edward Dyson died on the 22nd August 1931 at the age of 66.

Edward Dyson şiirleri

Arama yardımı

We were challenged by The Dingoes -- they're the pride of Squatter's Gap-- To a friendly game of football on the flat by Devil's Trap. And we went along on horses, sworn to triumph…

The first one with conviction penned: “This conflict in seven weeks will end.” Another, later in the war,…

There’s a wind up that licks like a flame, And the sun is a porthole of hell. Now evanish prim notions of shame, And the craving to look rather well –…

İngilizce

When the horse has been unharnessed and we've flushed the old machine, And the water o'er the sluice is running evenly and clean; When there's thirty load before us, and the sun is…

In politics there’s room for jest; With frequent gibes are speeches met, And measures which are of the best Are themes for caustic humor yet.…

The boarder in the bar-room rose, A pale gaunt man who lodged with Hann, “I bear,” he said, “the worst of woes, And suffer torments no one knows,…

Men of all the lands Australian from the Gulf to Derwent River, From the Heads of Sydney Harbour to the waters of the West, There’s a spirit loudly calling where the saplings dip a…

İngilizce

I have a trim typewriter now, They tell me none is better; It makes a pleasing, rhythmic row, And neat is every letter.…

1

Simson settled in the timber when his arm was strong and true, And his form was straight and limber; and he wrought the long day through In a struggle, single-handed, and the trees…

İngilizce

Ben Unger’s wife was dark and small, With little, round, black eyes; Ben Unger started at her call, For Ben had been made wise.…

When Flo resolved to go to town from brothers three a yell went up, Predicting ruin and distress. Bill in his horror dropped a cup. “Gorstruth!” he said, “in Sydney there what is a…

İngilizce

"Who'll bid? Who'll bid?" the question rang Where throned Death was calling. I seemed to sense his charnel tang, Mephitic air appalling;…

We were living in a flat; it was number eighty-three. At eighty-four the Barleys lived, a fearsome man was he. He had a wife and numerous kids. We heard then rip and cuss, Some thr…

He’s an old grey horse, with his head bowed sadly, And with dim old eyes and a queer roll aft, With the off-fore sprung and the hind screwed badly, And he bears all over the brands…

İngilizce

Brown passed away, and Mrs Brown, In weeds all smothered, went through town By Brown's neat grave to take her stand, And hold a metaphoric hand.…

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