New South Wales
I am not certain that I am eligible for your competition, but please bear with me. You see, I am the sister of Ernest. I feel compelled to point out a grave error in your information. You see, Ern had no children – at least, not as far as I know. Although Goodness knows what he got up to with Lex Banning and all those Bohemian friends who led him astray. There was a nice quiet lass back in Melbourne, but they broke it off. I blame the Poetry.
But I digress. Please excuse my candour. There has been a dreadful amount of mis-information on the subject of my brother. It has even been suggested that both my brother and myself are a hoax!
Losing Ern at such a young age to the Graves was a shock. I am sure the life he led would not of helped. (Between you, me and the fence-post, Ernie drank too much with his arty-farty friends (please ecscuse the French). He also smoked them Reefer smokes which made him very ecsitable one minute, then nervy the next. He had been under the Doctor for a considderable period of time.
I did not approve of his lifestyle and told him so many times. It isn't easy trying to bring up a boy by yourself. Our father died back Home and mum passed away when Ern was fifteen.
I've never really understood what all the fuss was about with the poetry. Most of it was just Modern mumbo-jumbo as far as I'm concerned. Some was quite rude – certainly not suitable for decent churchgoing women and children – “exploding pelvises” and the like. However nobody wants to hear my opinion. I've been described as “artless” and a “bourgeois philistine” just because I believe in maintaining Decency and Standards, like.
After Ernest's cremation at Rookwood, I moved into a bungalow in Burwood and changed my name to get away from them people from the Paper.
It may supprise you that I should of written a poem. I am not against Poetry per say.
Only the Modern rubbish.
I have written a Sonnet, like the Great William Shakespeare, although modesty compells me to say it's not verry good..
It is my first poem, and probably, last.
The poem is complete.
Every note and revision has been destroyed.
(Miss) Ethel Malley.