The Fremantle Press Anthology of Western Australian Poetry
Page 10
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