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The Fremantle Press Anthology of Western Australian Poetry

Page 10

by John Kinsella

At Blackboy Hill in ’17

  And Myalup in ’32.

  Old Tumbler (Yanmi aka Walaburu) (b.1890 d.1962)

  Racecourse Wharlu (Water Snake)

  Jawi in Yindjibarndi

  maya galinba ngunu warnda yundu mayalangu

  bunggana yardawarninguna birridan manguna

  maya galinba ngunu

  gurrarngurrarn mirrayangu birridan (manguna)

  Yirramagardula ngarri

  bawa yardawarninguna

  Coming back, rain, he singing:

  maya galinba ngunu

  gurrarngurrarn yarna malula

  birridan manguna

  maya galinba ngunu

  gurrarngurrarn yarna malula

  birridan manguna

  warnda yundu mayalangu

  gurrarngurrarn yarna malula

  *

  people are yelling

  ‘it’s coming back towards the houses’

  rainstorm smashing up the trees, the houses over there

  rain getting stronger

  storm wind making the leaves fly

  breaking everything up

  mulga parrot is calling out

  (that bird belonging to the sea snake)

  is bringing the storm winds

  the flood is getting stronger, rising higher

  Roebourne lying under water

  Coming back, rain, he singing:

  storm coming back towards the houses

  mulga parrot calling it back

  storm wind making things fly

  breaking everything up

  coming back towards the houses

  mulga parrot coming back

  storm wind making things fly

  breaking everything up

  storm smashing up the trees, the houses

  mulga parrot coming back

  Yintilypirna Kaalyamarra (d. early 1940s)

  Rows and Rows of Rain Clouds

  Cloudbank, rain, cloudbank,

  row upon row of them.

  The big upper-layer clouds are rising.

  As a result of the host of little clouds

  multiplying the country is heating up.

  In the constant thunder it talks,

  telling us it’s coming.

  The downpour is drenching the countryside.

  In the open country the raindrops are causing a soft

  roaring sound,

  as the swathe of the downpour passes.

  Lightning is striking at the front,

  the storm is causing the dust to swirl around.

  Sudden silence! Splashing of falling raindrops.

  Karnkulypangu was the cause of this!1

  1 Rain was Karnkulypangu’s kalyartu (totem): he was therefore in charge of its increase, and so is considered to be the one responsible for this downpour.

  Yirra, Kuji, Yirra, Karti Ngayirrmani

  Yirra, kuji, yirra, karti ngayirrmani.

  Purntura ngarra maninyu.

  Kapalya kurru marnanyurulu

  ngurra parlangkarna-parlangkarna kamarnu.

  Ngurntika wangka yulayinyu.

  Ngurra kunti marnu ngurlungkangulu.

  Parlkarranguraya kuji muurrkarra, jinyjirrarangka.

  Ngarri para pungarnu,

  kurlurlu karti ngampurrjarli marnu ngurntijartulu.

  Jamukarra! Warlpa warninyu.

  Karnkulypangungu.

  The Coastline Looks Strange to Me From Out Here

  The bow wave is rippling,

  the long sides of the boat rock slowly from side to side.

  Out on the deep water I’m easing the mainsail.

  There is the long stretch of curved inlets

  and sandy white beaches at Karlkajarranya.

  With a beeline we’ll bypass those inlets of Karlkajarranya.

  It looks like a different country to me from out on the open sea.

  Maybe that really high sand dune is Walal-Mulyanya Point.

  We’ll follow the wind, with the bow pointing east,

  as the boat heels perfectly to match the change of course.

  We cut the spray and turn it to tiny droplets,

  the timber of the boat shakes

  from the successive pounding of the waves.

  He is holding the jibsheet firmly

  while the boat is being jerked from side to side.1

  The mainsheet rope rattles through the sheaves

  of the blocks linked together in series.

  The wind strains to pull the boat offcourse,

  but I’m holding the rope firmly and confidently,

  the long bow rushing over the deep open sea.

  1 The boat is now cutting through the waves diagonally, and each wave tries to thrust the bow of the boat a bit to one side.

  Ngurra Parta Ngayinyu Ngajapa Wangkurrungura Kapungurala

  Yirra wirli-wirli,

  kanji mungkarra kanji jaruntarri-jaruntarrimara.

  Papa warrungura minjilpa jangku para.

  Jurnti ngarurr pirnkurrpa Karlkajarranya

  ngurra yumpa mirtarri.

  Jurnti ngarurrpa Karlkajarranya jinarralu wanyjanpila.

  Ngurra parta ngayinyu ngajapa

  wangkurrungura kapungurala.

  Ngunyi yila panyja wirtingarra pala

  payinta Walal-Mulyanya.

  Jurta yanganpila mulya yijungku

  ngarlinymarra kanji ngurrpungkalula.

  Yilyirri pangka jurrkarnu,

  yartingara jananmani-jananmanikapu

  warnta yangka-yangkayinyu.

  Jiipu jirti ngungku karra marna kanji-kanjinyjangu.

  Miin jirtila nyirr marnu purlakangura yirtinykarra.

  Wira purrintangurala palkarta yakula palu,

  mulya mungkarralula yali wangkurru jurrkarnu.

  Peter Hopegood (b.1891 d.1967)

  On Ninety-Mile Beach

  (Between Broome and Port Hedland)

  I saw three crosses in the dunes

  Of driftwood, rough and brown,

  And one leaned East and one leaned West,

  And one had tumbled down.

  One had a name cut with a knife,

  The other two were bare;

  Unless that name were written false,

  No lies at all were there —

  No virtues posthumously hewed,

  Though hitherto ignored;

  Stark humble as the Holy Rood

  Was each unlettered board;

  No promises to meet again,

  Nor hints of future bliss —

  Yet, as I set them plumb, I thought,

  ‘There’s not much now amiss!’

  Wimia King (Wimiya) (b. c.1893 d.1979)

  Tjanginara the Plane

  Tabi in Jindjiparndi

  kandilindili waarrarrii nuurrai meenumarna

  warrandala tardu punga tiuarrurrii

  Tanginarra jindii manarra jirgirdinba

  tina karrii nuurrangaalaa walalana

  Right around the wind mark

  on the east-side lands the plane, dust blowing.

  Tjanginara comes down in the wind with the engine clanging

  And the wheels standing on the ground still trembling.

  Olive Pell (b.1903 d.2002)

  Monte Bello

  The silence of the islands lay

  like peace,

  like breath,

  on the resurgent sea.

  The breath of bandicoots and wrens,

  lizards, insects, iridescent fish, tight

  in the circuit of their life.

  Far as stars,

  as unknown stars are we

  in the unseen season of their days,

  shooting stars of ships

  and meteors of men

  on land, barren as the moon?

  Potential as the sun?

  These hot, cool lights shall see

  the cataclysmic flash,

  the dead night,

  the cessation …

  and on the fringe

  the annihilated form,

  the dr
ead resurrection,

  the explosive activation of the dwarf

  in flesh and fish and fowl.

  The silence of the islands lay,

  like peace,

  like death,

  on the resurgent sea.

  My Patriarchal Table Nest

  Three bears are in my room

  nesting as tables.

  Do bears nest?

  Father, mother, child

  exactly disciplined

  line under line

  curve under curve

  As Victorian head

  keeps mother in her place

  who sees the child

  is quite unseen

  below.

  My guests are their release

  The child comes first

  spaced to hold an ashtray

  with innocent sophistication

  Mother as mothers do

  serves as table to a pair

  August Father with conventional hypocrisy

  needs must accept

  glasses, divers savoury dishes

  which undoubtedly he covets

  With guests’ departure goes

  the liberty of hospitality.

  Tidy hands remove the ashtrays

  glasses, empty plates

  DISCIPLINE’S MAINTAINED

  Each is fitted close

  child under mother

  under Pa’s

  implacable protection

  to bear their situation

  as they should

  a neat space-saving unit

  Paul Hasluck (b.1905 d.1993)

  At the Aquarium

  Immobilised in the midst of affairs,

  Unable to move forward or backward,

  Stranded from doing,

  I visited the Aquarium.

  The axolotl lay, expanding in a shrinking world,

  Doomed to outgrow his tepid mud.

  Carp gaped beneath two-sided sea,

  Mouthed air and glass, testing reality

  In the above and the beyond,

  Nibbling the silvery roof of watery existence,

  Butting soft-nosed the barrier of death.

  My mind struggled to the surface,

  My thought swam to the dim reflection,

  And slowly sank, the lazily moving body

  Seeking the warm caresses of an artificial tide.

  Jack Sorensen (b.1907 d.1949)

  My River

  My river very seldom flows,

  It slumbers till the seasons change;

  It is not fed by melting snows,

  It rises in the barren range.

  High on its bank where flood gums grow,

  Where native creepers climb and twine,

  I built my house long years ago,

  When first I fenced this run of mine.

  Beneath the clear Nor’-Western skies —

  Below the trees that clothe its brink,

  A crystal pool of water lies,

  And here the wild bush creatures drink.

  Here countless birds hold revelry,

  And day by day through all the year,

  Each passing cloud, each shrub and tree,

  Is mirrored on its surface clear.

  But when the long dry seasons change,

  My river rises in its might,

  To sweep sea-seeking from the range,

  To swirl foam-crested through the night.

  And then once more the streams run low,

  And again a chain of pools it lies,

  And had I power to make it flow,

  I would not have it otherwise.

  The Dead Don’t Care

  Oh sad, bewildered world: you have the reaping

  Of that which you have sown throughout the years

  And you have garnered all your hellish harvest

  Of blood and tears.

  There shall be spring clad days of dream contentment,

  And halcyon nights that merge with hopeful dawn;

  And there will come the solace of sad memories,

  To those who mourn.

  But you, and you, who gave yourselves to slaughter,

  What matters it that other days be fair;

  That ships of State, star-guided, find a haven?

  The dead don’t care.

  Breakaways

  The red Nor-Western breakaways,

  So rugged and so grand:

  Those mighty hills of other days,

  That overlooked the land:

  But now are crumbled to decay,

  All strewn across the plain;

  And who can build a breakaway

  Into a hill again?

  I’ve gazed upon the breakaways

  When first the orb of light,

  In golden splendour, sends its rays,

  To crown each crumbled height:

  And from them watched the amber sky

  To deeper ember change,

  When evening breezes softly sigh

  Across the rugged range.

  I love the lonely breakaways,

  Where ne’er a song bird sings,

  Because their ruined grandeur sways

  My mind to greater things.

  And ever in this world of strife,

  Like men they seem to me:

  For who can build a broken life

  To what it used to be?

  Coppin Dale (Garargeman or Yinbal)

  (b. c.1908 d.1993)

  Gold Fever

  marayunu nyinda

  marayunu ‘thula-gunjimuna’

  marayunu nyinda

  marayunnu ‘thula-gunjimuna’

  marayunu nyinda

  marayunu ‘thula-gunjimuna’

  marayunu nyinda

  marayunu ‘thula-gunjimuna’

  marayunu nyinda

  marayunu ‘thula-gunjimuna’

  marayunu nyinda

  marayunu ‘thula-gunjimuna’

  thulhu warnda nawuna

  thulhu warnda warnda wandurala

  thulhu warnda nawuna

  thulhu warnda warnda wandurala

  thulhu warnda nawuna

  thulhu warnda warnda wandurala

  marayunu nyinda birringula warnina

  marayunu nyinda birringula warnina

  marayunu nyinda birringula warnina

  marayunu nyinda

  marayunu ‘thula-gunjimuna’ banganana garri wirndurana

  marayunu nyinda

  marayunu ‘thula-gunjimuna’ banganana garri wirndurana

  marayunu nyinda

  marayunu ‘thula-gunjimuna’

  marayunu nyinda

  marayunu ‘thula-gunjimuna’

  *

  you poor man

  poor man on your own

  like a single tree bent over

  fossicking through the scrub

  trees everywhere!

  fossicking all by himself

  poor man, alone

  you poor man

  not knowing which way to go

  standing in one place

  Jawi in Yindjibarndi. ‘I made a song about old people looking for them gold out in alluvial country.’

  Baaburgurt (Bulyen, George Elliot) (n.d.)

  Exile’s Lament

  Boojera! boojera! naang injal?

  Boojera kwala naang?

  Nganya dwongga burt, naang-i-murnongul

  Marriba yukain kooroo weeri weeriba.

  My country! my country! Where is it?

  What name this country? I know it not.

  I look for my country and cannot find it.

  I am moving and standing here, but far away is my country.

  From songs of the Bibbulmun as translated and recorded by Daisy Bates.

  Wirrkaru Jingkiri (d.1960s)

  Doctor’s Day1

  Let’s all wait anxiously. (What else can we do?)

  What’s happening? Is the doctor coming?

  It’s time for him.

  ‘Get in a line!’ He stabbed the arm, it’s numb. />
  ‘Fold up your arm!2 Off you go!’

  1 At the Lock Hospital.

  2 To hold the cotton swab in place until the spot stopped bleeding.

  Maparnkarra

  Miru-miru nyinila. Wanyja?

  Waayi milpayan maparnkarra?

  Nyayi parnunga tayimu.

  ‘Layinapu yirra nyiniya!’

  Jirli yajirnu, jaamanyjakarra.

  ‘Jirlikurnu! Yarra!’

  William Hart-Smith (b.1911 d.1990)

  Cormorants, Trigg Island

  Fourteen white-fronted shags

  like bits of Chinese ideograms

  are perched on a jagged lump of limestone rock

  above me as I turn the seaweed over for shells

  brushing the flies away

  and the sand-hoppers.

  I like the way they accept the fact

  I’m about some business of my own

  that neither concerns them nor threatens.

  We live as live-and-let-live things.

  I gather shells.

  They dry their wings.

  Galahs

  There are about fifty of them

  on the stony ground,

  some standing still,

  some moving about.

  Nothing much of pink

  breast or lighter-hued crest

  shows in the twilight

  among the stones.

  They are standing about

  like little grey-coated aldermen

  talking in undertones.

  Razor Fish

  If you were

  to draw

  lightly

  a straight line

  right

  down

  the margin

  of this

  sheet of

  paper

  with your pen

  it wouldn’t be

  as thin

  as a

  Razor Fish

  seen

  edge

  ways

  on.

  If you were

  to cut

  the shape

  of a

  fish

  out of transparent

  cellophane

  with a

  tiny

  tail fin

  and a mouth,

  as long

  and sharp

  as

  a

  pin

  and let it drift

  tail up

  head down

 

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