It is not in a prison drear Where all around is gloom, That I would end life's wild career, And sink into the tomb,…
Owen Suffolk was a 19th century Australian poet who arrived on Australia’s shores in 1847 having been transported from his home in England because of serious criminal activities. Here continued his criminal ways and took to the life of the “bushranger”, effectively hiding from authority wherever he could and resorting to stealing from passing travellers just to get by. In between times though he found the time to be a prolific writer of poetry and he is famous for an autobiographical account of his criminal way of life called Days of Crime and Years of Suffering, published in 1867, although this book was started while he was actually in prison. He is remembered in the history of Australian literature as the “Convict Poet”, obviously because he spent so much of his life behind bars. He was born on the 4th April 1829 into relatively comfortable circumstances in the Middlesex town of Finchley. Unfortunately his father got into financial difficulties and Owen was sent away to serve aboard a ship while still quite young. This was not a happy experience and, when he returned, he found that his family home was not there any more and it was not long before he was serving his first period of detention, for stealing, at the age of fifteen. Other offences, including forgery, followed and at least two more prison sentences were served before the decision was taken, at the age of 18, to transport him to Australia for at least a seven year term. Suffolk soon took up a fairly colourful life in the state of Victoria and often found himself on the wrong side of the law. He was frequently incarcerated until, in the summer of 1866, he was granted parole, called at that time a “ticket of leave”. This basically gave him his freedom but this was conditional. He was obliged to board a ship bound for England and never return to Australia again. Thus, ironically, began a second period of transportation, back to where he had begun. While in prison he had been entrusted with some clerical work and, although the authorities were pleased with his work, once released it was discovered that he had interfered with other prisoners’ records. The story of his life that he had written a few years earlier appeared in a newspaper called The Australasian in 1867. It was received very well by the readers who enjoyed his racy, colourful style. It was almost Dickensian in the way it described hardships and misfortunes that inevitably led to a life of crime for a young man who found it impossible to forge an honest path in his life. He also produced a number of long poems, many of them lamenting his own situation that deprived him of his liberty so many times. Here are the first two verses of one of his poems, clearly written in prison, called The Dream of Freedom: Once Suffolk was back in England it did not take him long to fall into his old ways. He now added new crimes such as horse theft, swindling money from vulnerable women and marrying bigamously. He did not escape justice for long though and, for his latest crimes, he earned a sentence of 15 years penal servitude. He was in his early fifties when he was released from prison and he married again in London. His criminal past was not yet behind him though and it seems that he cheated the lady out of a substantial amount of money and then faked his own death (by drowning) to escape justice. He managed to get away and boarded a ship for the United States. The last known reference to the life of Owen Suffolk shows that he was living well in New York, perhaps carrying out yet more confidence tricks on the female population of that city! There is no record of the date of his death.
Owen Suffolk şiirleri
To me the sky looks bluer, And the green grass greener still, And earth's flowers seem more lovely As they bloom on heath and hill.…
Sing not to me a song of beauty bright, Nor festive scenes of dazzling light; Nor of gorgeous pageant in palace hall Begemmed with many a coronal;…
Up! and arm for life's struggle, We shall conquer in the fight, If we arm us for the battle With the weapons Truth and Right;…
'Twas night, and the moonbeams palely fell On the gloomy walls of a cheerless cell, Where a captive sought a brief repose From the bitter pangs of his waking woes.…
Hark to the bell of sorrow! - 'tis awak'ning up again Each broken spirit from its brief forgetfulness of pain. Its sad sound seems to me to be a deathwail from the past, An elegy f…
I feel I have - and who has not? An inner and outer life: The one may be a dreary lot, With sorrow and with suff'ring rife;…
I gladly would sing in a joyous strain, But my heart of its joy is bereft; For my young life there is nought but grief and pain, And a haunting memory left.…
I'm out in the world once more, And I mean to run the rig, For I've learned from the prison lore That the pauper fares worse than the prig.…
Nothing seems changed; here's the oaken chair, That every night I knelt beside, As I whispered to God the simple prayer I learned from my mother when I was her pride.…
Mother! Darling mother, you are seeking me I know, And I feel thy love will follow through the world where'er I go; But I cannot come, dear mother; I am sadly altered now: The once…
An exile captive, severed from his home, Torn from the friends he loved in life's sweet spring; Heart-broken toils, while still his sad thoughts roam Back to the past which now no…
I am so lonely, I am so sad, Speak one word only To make my heart glad,…
Fame surrounds us with a glory, Dazzling as the noon-day sun, And upon the page of story, Blazons deeds of greatness done.…
Thou sinless and sweet one - thy voice is a strain Which yields solace to sadness, and balm to my pain, From thy unsullied spirit it comes to me here, Like the music of Eden - soft…