The theme of “reading” overlayed on “Anzac Day” works well. (Particularly poetry.)
The Poetic Factoid poem kinda explains the rationale behind today’s main poem.

*****

The Boy From Eden Valley 
by g.r. “ukelele” jones

There was stillness in the trenches, for the word had passed along 
That the call to take Lone Pine had been made,
And even though they’d tried before & all knew it to be wrong
Orders from the top couldn’t be belayed.
All the tired mud-coated soldiers from units near and far
Had gathered one by one across the line,
For though the boys would much prefer to stay where they are,
No body was willing to be left behind.

There was old Harrison, now a long way from a pup,
An old man with white snow dusting all his hair;
But few could fight beside him when his blood was fairly up
He would go wherever his countrymen would dare.
Clancy of the Overflow too had volunteered to serve,
No better rifleman ever held a gun;
For no man would ever say that Clancy had no nerve,
He learnt to shoot under the hot Australian sun.

And one was there, a youngster who’d lied about his age,
He was scrawny like a chicken undersized,
But oftentimes there’s a touch of angry eagle – impossible to gauge
And as such unexpected heroes are disguised.
He was hard and tough and wiry – just the sort that won’t say die
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so young and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the captain said, “Sorry, son you’ll never do
For a dash cross no man’s land, you’d better stop away,
That wasteland is far too dangerous for you.”
So he waited sad and wistful – only Clancy stood his friend
“I think we ought to let him come,” he said;
“I warrant he’ll be there with us when we all reach the end,
For he is from the hills and is Barossa bred.

“He hails from Eden Valley, up by Kaiserstuhl’s side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse’s hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own there is more good enough.
And the Eden Valley cobber is a special kind of tough,
Where the dry creek runs those granite hills between;
Outwardly gruff maybe, but inside the right sort of stuff,
And nowhere yet such comrades have I seen.”

Although he did not understand the reason for this tussle, 
World politics was low priority back on the North Rhine, 
The boy from Eden Valley stood stock still not moving a muscle – 
Thinking: I intend to make the Lonesome Pine mine. 
Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground, 
Up the hillside at a furious pace he went; 
Promising not to lower his rifle till he arrived safe and sound, 
Working his way up that tricky ascent.

He was right among his mates as they pushed up the sloping hill, 
While bodies all around dropped like flies, 
A blind fierce fever overcame him propelling his legs still,
He wanted none to see the terror in his eyes. 
Then they lost him for a moment, where two gullies met 
While he was ten thousand miles away remembering  
Dim distant hillsides where the vines would not be budding yet, 
Where all in Eden Valley were waiting for spring.

A season he would never see again, nor turn his head for home
Alone and unassisted he’d not be coming back. 
For two bullets pierced his chest, the holes gaped with bloody foam. 
And like a wounded bull he fell upon the track, 
And the bugles all did blare retreat, not that many heard, 
Blood and bone from man & boy covered now the spur; 
Dead and wounded strew the ground, cries for help were slurred, 
And in the dust his vision began to blur.

Now down by Gallipoli, where the pine-clad ridges rise 
Their torn and rugged battlements on high, 
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white sun burns your eyes 
At grey dawn in the cold and frosty sky, 
And below The Nek where the Aegean does sweep and sway 
From Homer’s winedark sea the miles are far and wide, 
The man from Eden Valley is a household name today, 
But we still lament that damned stupidity, the reason that he died.

*****

Day 25 Factoid — Banjo was a soldier & a poet

poet soldiers

i.
Banjo was a popular poet
who for twenty years prior
romanticised bush life
representing those
“outback” as tough
independent  heroic
yet  laconic underdogs
qualities many soldiers 
wanted to reflect

A&R published his poems 
in pocket editions designed 
to fit in Anzac tunic pockets
the perfect gift for 1917s 
cultured ‘man in the trench’
poems like Mulga Bill’s Bicycle 
The Man From Snowy River 
were read &/or recited 
by the diggers to sustain 
their spirits with “feelgood” 
humorous yarns from home

ii.
i don’t buy the bullshit 
WWI & those who fought 
forged our modern Aussie DNA
on those fabled battlefields
but i wholeheartedly believe 
they gave their naivety
& their innocence 
                                      for country
some gave their bodies, 
some their minds; many their lives; 
but all had their optimism 
their gungho patriotism 
brutally crushed by tanks
blown apart by artillery 
ripped into shreds by shrapnel 
strafed by machinegun fire
choked by poison gas
decimated & dismayed 
by the scale of carnage
inhuman conditions & 
idiotic leadership 
from too many 
in positions of power

& as such deserve our care
& eternal compassion