tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29932304087884629772024-03-19T13:21:17.594-07:00Salvation Pains: Journal of an Australian Outback PilgrimageWayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.comBlogger101125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-20606191539319989872016-04-21T01:33:00.001-07:002016-04-21T01:33:21.297-07:00On A Red Sand Road To The Sky <br />
<br />
ON A RED SAND ROAD TO THE SKY<br />
<br />
<br />
Going out towards the wide white pans<br />
Where salt lakes spread like mirrors<br />
of the thirsts, the hungers of the sky.Wayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-75607724178354705592015-07-29T06:57:00.001-07:002015-07-29T06:57:04.953-07:00Both Barefoot Stereotypes<br />
<br />
BOTH BAREFOOT STEREOTYPES<br />
<br />
<br />
Remembering the thick hard shoe-like<br />
soles of lifelong discalced who<br />
callous up of barefoot experience<br />
I see before the very picture<br />
of kicked-off contradictions<br />
in presumption about <br />
<br />
For the last people in<br />
late entrants into athropology<br />
out of the Great Sandy Desert<br />
the Bindubi come from that sand<br />
into the gibber and cut-stone country<br />
make for their long sand-softened<br />
feet sandals for a season or more<br />
woven on to their feet from<br />
the string-long bark strips<br />
torn form a duneside bush<br />
<br />
<br />
Wayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-87806224631077623982015-07-27T06:44:00.002-07:002015-07-27T16:16:40.367-07:00Pandanus<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb0_uSGhhMfdI0YIE5Ph85vIVCcB0OYJSy7923R7IvCgbhMzft7z2fGSfa3dPCgn3yx3KVp426N00XE_oFSLt-XdJ1I36uMaF3XcHfwQxUDYMBmuZDu0ftEvWyvrdHV0gNvGyxDnCrgvg/s1600/pandanus..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb0_uSGhhMfdI0YIE5Ph85vIVCcB0OYJSy7923R7IvCgbhMzft7z2fGSfa3dPCgn3yx3KVp426N00XE_oFSLt-XdJ1I36uMaF3XcHfwQxUDYMBmuZDu0ftEvWyvrdHV0gNvGyxDnCrgvg/s640/pandanus..jpg" /></a></div><br />
PANDANUS <br />
<br />
Usually perched oasis-like on <br />
the very brink, taking their big drink,<br />
edging along a long bar of open water<br />
<br />
Pandanus spiralis, on elbows, its palms<br />
of long leaves lean up off slouching stalks <br />
in twisted waves of air-swimming hands <br />
<br />
unwashed, untidy, shambolic as any bushie<br />
they lounge across all the best places<br />
sticking the place up with gun-spines<br />
<br />
that hide the water's edge, that cover<br />
up the small paths down, the wallaby tracks<br />
or pirate haven carnivore-eyed drinking places<br />
<br />
beside the lagoon, billabong, water-hole<br />
where crocodiles might be if water-roads<br />
channel them in, like palm-skin relatives<br />
<br />
of the ancient orders of life, reptile<br />
and palm, old allies of the primordial<br />
times now relic under jet-trailed skies<br />
<br />
where pineapple-like clusters of pandan fruit <br />
attract flying foxes, those night-fruit bats<br />
that drug-sniff them out orange-red and ripe. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZaDIKLX31Qnj49ZIEFwaXD1WgakP8zDGKGALJsA-F4fzndpPt6jreSRcxQDrVXK2mRHp_W-Nw5eSj6qQi5S2CceQ8ys9v4Bbhxyzwk1xMqC8CwQpdb1aMqsQws4vHzCRHw2FH8ScuAQQ/s1600/Pandanus-Palm-0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZaDIKLX31Qnj49ZIEFwaXD1WgakP8zDGKGALJsA-F4fzndpPt6jreSRcxQDrVXK2mRHp_W-Nw5eSj6qQi5S2CceQ8ys9v4Bbhxyzwk1xMqC8CwQpdb1aMqsQws4vHzCRHw2FH8ScuAQQ/s640/Pandanus-Palm-0.jpg" /></a></div>Wayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-29989168268613203392015-07-27T03:43:00.001-07:002015-07-27T03:43:14.830-07:00Live As We Go<br />
<br />
LIVE AS WE GO<br />
<br />
Watching the road,<br />
watching the wide road<br />
a picture rolls out to us<br />
a pavement goes under us<br />
right and left brushes the sides;<br />
better than movies,<br />
bigger than TV;<br />
a never-ending unscripted<br />
picture-show coming live<br />
as we go,<br />
<br />
Watching the wide <br />
wide roads, world's slow<br />
to a stop and go past us,<br />
country gets over us<br />
and by us, we're pilgrims <br />
watching the road to find <br />
which way to go, where<br />
to go for a way to be, <br />
for a place to belong, or<br />
a new direction to turn.<br />
<br />
Watching the road<br />
wide of the atlas<br />
looking for a map of <br />
the heart; discovering <br />
the directory of the soul,<br />
poring over side tracks,<br />
and possibilities, possible<br />
ways through the pathlessness,<br />
searching for the next bend,<br />
the right way, for a call<br />
which echoes home.<br />
<br />
Watching the uncharted<br />
road, and going there<br />
where we're watching,<br />
off maps of roads already<br />
travelled, or beneath them,<br />
on a journey to the outer-<br />
most step, at the stockgrid<br />
of heaven, for the next<br />
never-ending picture show<br />
coming live as we go,<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
P.S.<br />
<br />
Watching the deep<br />
road, walking over<br />
the graves of the past <br />
to find the back story of here<br />
where we might find how<br />
it all came to this, how<br />
the end might be, or could be<br />
as what might have been, but<br />
was not, can be seen again to<br />
inspire with the example of<br />
the congregation of saints<br />
and then caution of the sinners<br />
we travel over in time...<br />
<br />
All the time wondering if <br />
we do in eternity. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
- written on the Mataranka Road, after heading north off the Stuart Highway. With thanks to my younger son who wrote this down as I dictated from the driver's seat. For a song lyricWayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-84041541912759702842015-07-24T21:34:00.003-07:002015-07-26T21:40:26.696-07:00Tin Badge Of Health<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwm8oufzDP6Q_AmyX5ju2hTWFMCVtOo02TZl_Uca9drGGZLBKQcAopT-yXmRZhKlivJiQHXsKvIlMIKiy9wlyh8YQiPG6RbfzwEEEo4tnrpqccBzzu4QqEhKwhEVtVyownwt4pEXPKYn8/s1600/elsey+%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwm8oufzDP6Q_AmyX5ju2hTWFMCVtOo02TZl_Uca9drGGZLBKQcAopT-yXmRZhKlivJiQHXsKvIlMIKiy9wlyh8YQiPG6RbfzwEEEo4tnrpqccBzzu4QqEhKwhEVtVyownwt4pEXPKYn8/s640/elsey+%25282%2529.jpg" /></a></div><br />
TIN BADGE OF HEALTH *<br />
<br />
<br />
No crown but<br />
a thing put around the neck<br />
only not so much like say pearls<br />
of royalty, or diamonds on a silver chain <br />
or even of gold, <br />
neither in a gold or silver<br />
clasp but more like that other <br />
more unspeakable neck-worn thing<br />
only made of tin<br />
<br />
on an iron chain<br />
else on a knotted rope-string<br />
by 1885 and afterwards this badge<br />
of health was what kept<br />
them the tin badge-makers<br />
branded 'niggers' from being<br />
unhealthy on sight if they <br />
so much as dared to cross that, <br />
tin-decreed dividing river.<br />
<br />
Tin like them new rooves of Elsey<br />
for thunder heavy rains of the Never Never<br />
in rifled south-eastern Arnhem Land,<br />
on the tropic gun-range grasslands of the River Roper<br />
was the rule at Elsey Station, same as Hodgson Downs,<br />
as it was elsewhere then, a conquerer's rule<br />
come in at Florida station up north Arnhem Land <br />
in cross-cultural communication the natives were <br />
gun-commanded into understanding<br />
the reloaded orders about how <br />
not to cross the river<br />
<br />
for the good of their health,<br />
the same, although on the Roper, <br />
the good whitefellas made exceptions,<br />
and so gave presents of tinplate badges, <br />
on a chain or a string, as a necessary,<br />
like passports back into a conquered martial land,<br />
real badges of health like government policy<br />
to be worn if one came across that <br />
styx, that river and wanted <br />
to remain alive<br />
<br />
the river of a tin-made border <br />
that sprung out of the barrels of guns<br />
that bubbled out with the stream of life<br />
chosen as the whiteman's cattle were <br />
only without their own long-faithed<br />
white husbandry-music in ancient cowbells,<br />
animals with no tethers, <br />
without yokes <br />
or chains <br />
<br />
or fences, <br />
watched by health-conscious <br />
animal riders <br />
the cattle went about <br />
like game <br />
into blackfella's river crossing places<br />
where the tinplate<br />
badge wearers went, or else came <br />
like banded lepers. <br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
Image: Elsey Station, c.1908<br />
<br />
<br />
* 1. Florida Station on the Goyder River 1885: "The niggers of this part of the coast had a particularly bad name. At the station, Florida by name, twenty miles up the river, the aborigines were never allowed on the same side of the river as the settlement. It was a case of shooting at sight if they did venture across." - [pp.185 - A. Searcy "In The Australian Tropics" -George Robertson & Co, London & Melbourne, 1907]<br />
<br />
2. West of Roper Bar 1885: "I was informed that [the Aborigines] were not allowed across without permission, and when given this, had to wear a tin plate slung around the neck. It was bad for the health of one crossing without a badge." -[ pp.113 - A. Searcy "In The Australian Tropics" -George Robertson & Co, London & Melbourne, 1907]<br />
Wayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-34249814491129453272015-07-23T02:21:00.001-07:002015-07-29T05:41:51.712-07:00Mataranka<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp-qo5A-qA_vvHQYQytPSABzi56cN3j-phigdnzSMCiIPTdlH9ZQ0j1Vf4uu41G1at-Woms8a8MvG9rta5s5t4FW8Jz61p8dni04zZOygbEpYM6sQixflRv14Uj64hsrWHC4TFaHi8VD4/s1600/mataranka-hero.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp-qo5A-qA_vvHQYQytPSABzi56cN3j-phigdnzSMCiIPTdlH9ZQ0j1Vf4uu41G1at-Woms8a8MvG9rta5s5t4FW8Jz61p8dni04zZOygbEpYM6sQixflRv14Uj64hsrWHC4TFaHi8VD4/s400/mataranka-hero.jpg" /></a></div><br />
MATARANKA<br />
<br />
<br />
Swim-water after<br />
the dry desert dust<br />
was such a joy, and is.<br />
Mataranka quenches with <br />
graced relief,<br />
<br />
a pandanus-lined<br />
palm frond shaded<br />
stream of blue water<br />
running like a spa<br />
of fresh-cleansing<br />
<br />
And yet the comfort<br />
of the beautiful oasis<br />
rankles when you learn <br />
of how the lukewarm<br />
water once ran red<br />
<br />
with the saveless life-<br />
water let of native veins,<br />
cut gracelessly and stifled <br />
of their country's springs,<br />
their hearts.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMTbbYY2qd-W3ngTJbhE_UCzZAyrR4CM2WzCRzAmyioDXNLTElia_sHOVbQplC_ZkC7cMVQqKzCjebdOPYpPyiHvzNZvpIr1U7CWijN1EFZFlkccfzkLuwuvxPsunc91FSF4VNG88iYf8/s1600/mataranka+fish03sep11butterspringMataranka+%2528135%2529v.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMTbbYY2qd-W3ngTJbhE_UCzZAyrR4CM2WzCRzAmyioDXNLTElia_sHOVbQplC_ZkC7cMVQqKzCjebdOPYpPyiHvzNZvpIr1U7CWijN1EFZFlkccfzkLuwuvxPsunc91FSF4VNG88iYf8/s640/mataranka+fish03sep11butterspringMataranka+%2528135%2529v.jpg" /></a></div>Wayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-54792855511103199042015-07-20T19:22:00.003-07:002015-07-22T22:18:37.387-07:00Mirlinbarrwarr : Refuge On the Roper<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHFluVUjmxGpTz6l0YXu36jStnuGlnSFubbz9jr696XPpL64hGW7DpoboOmmQwzZ0kuOBAVTuaXc4GBA9TW-ueIXUDcCsU_jHMue-17OsSbQVTCA4ItG121WatkroEkiG2xtiFkhn3pyU/s1600/Roper+river+darlala_slider03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHFluVUjmxGpTz6l0YXu36jStnuGlnSFubbz9jr696XPpL64hGW7DpoboOmmQwzZ0kuOBAVTuaXc4GBA9TW-ueIXUDcCsU_jHMue-17OsSbQVTCA4ItG121WatkroEkiG2xtiFkhn3pyU/s640/Roper+river+darlala_slider03.jpg" /></a></div><br />
MIRLINBARRWARR: REFUGE ON THE ROPER<br />
<br />
Below Mataranka<br />
seventy miles from the Gulf<br />
in lands ridden to the bone<br />
with spilt blood<br />
by the years of the white rider<br />
of the shareholder dreaming,<br />
of the meat freezer dreaming<br />
where human meanness lifts<br />
its truth from beneath its masks<br />
with dreams of wealth and power<br />
whatever else the dastardry<br />
from big-houses of Melbourne<br />
ordered, its fields to fire,<br />
with frontages to be added,<br />
with appearances to meet, <br />
with reputations to forge<br />
to be seen as if they were<br />
better men...<br />
<br />
as if into the maelstrom<br />
three down-south whitemen<br />
came as Christ's missionaries <br />
from another Melbourne, one <br />
of heart and risk in longing<br />
for those black yet verily made <br />
like them in their Father's image<br />
as if for those most put upon, <br />
those most ravaged by their own, <br />
those called savage to be hunted <br />
like vermin by the veiled savages<br />
among their very own<br />
<br />
into the blood never-never<br />
they came like quiet birds<br />
to a song for the ever-ever<br />
with three native missionaries <br />
from Yarrabah by the lugger<br />
'Francis Pitt' west into the <br />
Gulf of Carpentaria and another,<br />
and were well met by Gajiyuma<br />
of the Mara, and guided up the <br />
Roper river to Mirlinbarrwarr<br />
in 1908 to work together<br />
in the breach, the breach<br />
<br />
needing bridging, the gulf<br />
which the freezer riders<br />
had ensured was emptied,<br />
putting hands to plough<br />
for the greater pastoral,<br />
providing a haven where<br />
the hunted and despised<br />
of God's outcasts could<br />
sit down alive of ear<br />
and be heard of him.Wayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-15505648822117065362015-07-18T22:29:00.002-07:002016-05-29T17:59:39.331-07:00White Riders of The Crocodile<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1CKMe370XAJpqukAxbh7trXsD215QOWqh4ow4oS3OMsubuuXumI0JETYQtngCXUJBXzSXAhS9eJ3X8p4mlKQxT2wLZwj4N9vqldzZGj3I3Opnwh8MT3gTTXGwFJHMAdD3CppY2d_lCO4/s1600/overla462_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1CKMe370XAJpqukAxbh7trXsD215QOWqh4ow4oS3OMsubuuXumI0JETYQtngCXUJBXzSXAhS9eJ3X8p4mlKQxT2wLZwj4N9vqldzZGj3I3Opnwh8MT3gTTXGwFJHMAdD3CppY2d_lCO4/s400/overla462_.jpg" /></a></div><br />
WHITE RIDERS OF THE CROCODILE<br />
<br />
She wanted<br />
no more white riders<br />
of the crocodile <br />
and she saw <br />
that her granddaughters<br />
at the CMS Mission School <br />
would hopefully never know <br />
the fearful times as she'd had <br />
in times of the white riders<br />
at the Roper River,<br />
<br />
she a small girl<br />
when a man on a horse<br />
was the monster,<br />
a thing animal of a man,<br />
fused as if misbegotten <br />
from a womb of earth<br />
come to the Roper then<br />
where life was <br />
falling down to the water<br />
like meat <br />
taken for far worse <br />
and she'd been hid <br />
like a shame under the leafy vines<br />
from any sight<br />
of the white riders<br />
<br />
for a first sight that <br />
would be the last<br />
of the white riders<br />
saved from going<br />
after her older sister and brothers <br />
whose little lives ran out <br />
chased by white riders <br />
in a big crocodile of horses <br />
till their young brains <br />
had been knocked out <br />
against the rocks<br />
<br />
and their victim <br />
bodies taken <br />
to the pandanas-edged <br />
billabong where <br />
the crocodiles were<br />
crocodiles she heard<br />
had ever since<br />
thought of as callers of<br />
aiders and abbetters <br />
of the terror <br />
disposers of the bodies<br />
left them <br />
by the white riders<br />
<br />
Old Gajiyuma knew <br />
of one little boy <br />
grandson of his brother-in-law.<br />
who had been similarly sunk<br />
in hungry waters as <br />
a victim body<br />
after he had been flogged <br />
to death for running<br />
away from the angry hooves,<br />
the unintelligible shouting mouths<br />
of the white riders of the crocodiles.<br />
<br />
The White Riders who<br />
came as tall mounted servants <br />
of the older deeper crocodiles<br />
so fearfilled<br />
that they rode out<br />
armed to the teeth<br />
in the gun-toting heat<br />
with their sharp sun-heated knives<br />
wielding them.<br />
<br />
White Riders who came<br />
on a Sunday, <br />
like a ceremony,<br />
or on other day the crocodiles<br />
were hungry<br />
<br />
White Riders <br />
like crocodiles running <br />
with watching eyes and snorting<br />
snouts of anger<br />
as if they might just <br />
be going to shoot<br />
everyone down dead <br />
<br />
to kill them all<br />
like fish in dried up water<br />
kill and take them<br />
take the bodies down<br />
to where they sunk under <br />
what could be seen<br />
where the the White Riders<br />
took them to the crocodiles<br />
so they all swam away<br />
into the white <br />
of the crocodile's eye <br />
whence White Riders come.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Wayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-32362537106238208342015-07-18T05:11:00.003-07:002015-07-18T05:11:42.722-07:00The Hungers of The Sky<br />
<br />
<br />
THE HUNGERS OF THE SKY<br />
<br />
<br />
Out toward <br />
the wide white pans<br />
Where salt lakes <br />
spread like mirrors<br />
of the thirst, <br />
the hungers of the sky.Wayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-28936748598948035562015-07-17T22:19:00.000-07:002015-07-18T01:45:39.532-07:00Hallowed Name<br />
<br />
<br />
HALLOWED NAME<br />
<br />
<br />
Translating is the ask<br />
for that which is held in another<br />
speech, something not yet said,<br />
<br />
or understood which needs to be <br />
the yet to-be said which hangs like <br />
a wound waiting for the healing word<br />
<br />
a meaning yet which might often be<br />
refreshed as a new tongue discovers<br />
the most hallowed sense, like that elusive<br />
<br />
for the very same word in the Lord's Prayer <br />
which had stuttered missionary Len Harris into silent <br />
pause, after war time, on Groote Eylandt<br />
<br />
till his Nunggubuyu language aid,<br />
Grace Yimambu, who'd just given birth <br />
to a baby boy, brought him to the mission<br />
<br />
to be baptised, and she asked Len Harris<br />
to annoint her child with the name<br />
Winston. Surprised, he asked her why.<br />
<br />
'Because you told about in the war'<br />
Grace said, "What Winston Churchill<br />
said, that made people strong. So,<br />
<br />
I want to name my baby after<br />
an important man." When Harris asked<br />
'If you wanted someone important.'<br />
<br />
'Why didn't you call him Jesus?' <br />
Grace was astonished. So much she declared:<br />
"That name belong Jesus all by himself."<br />
<br />
"Ah," said Harris, in glowing relief<br />
"Now how do you say 'that' <br />
in Nunggubuyu?"<br />
<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
- based on as an anecdote by Len Harris and shared and recorded in May 1978 by his son to John Harris who relates it in his great history: "One Blood: 200 years of Aboriginal Encounters with Christianity, A Story of Hope' (1990) Albatross Books -[pp.816 - a book I bought in Alice Springs in July 1995 and which I begun to read on our travels and which I am still re-reading. Wayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-53884307592331972582015-07-16T08:34:00.004-07:002015-07-23T01:32:53.697-07:00The Eastern and African Cold Storage Company of London Go Hunting at Roper River <i>a work in progress<br />
<br />
</i><br />
<br />
<i>The Eastern and African Cold Storage Company of London and Melbourne goes hunting at Roper River <br />
<br />
<br />
The Roper River watershed produced<br />
a rich sustenence for a large populace,<br />
so eight tribes lived as neighbours<br />
speaking eight distinct languages...<br />
<br />
<blockquote>There was Nunggunbuyu and Mara, <br />
the Warndarang and Rembarringa;<br />
the Ngalakan and the Ngandi, <br />
the Mangarayi and the Alawa.</blockquote><br />
At Roper Bar by 1988 there was not one speaker<br />
of Warndarang or of Ngandi, there were hardly any<br />
left to speak Mara, or Ngalakan, nor in Alawa,<br />
thanks to the Eastern and African Cold Storage Company<br />
<br />
for those closer Roper River people's countries <br />
were the hunting grounds for the great Company's <br />
gangs, those hunting parties sent to shoot-clear <br />
the lands for cattle, the cows and bulls and steers<br />
<br />
of the all-important Eastern & African Cold Storage Company<br />
while the more distant Rembarringa, the Ngalakan country, <br />
and the Mangarayi retreated to rocky hills of Arnhem land<br />
to hide quiet-quiet by day, stayed away from blooded sand.<br />
<br />
<blockquote>There was Nunggunbuyu and Mara, <br />
the Warndarang and Rembarringa;<br />
the Ngalakan and the Ngandi, <br />
the Mangarayi and the Alawa.<br />
.</blockquote><br />
</i>Wayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-1068796850673742352015-07-16T02:52:00.004-07:002015-07-20T18:46:21.935-07:00Volatile Spearwood <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1-Cd6mYfiWwzdsUirBQMyHAiNAGDlAiRUSkltXW42r8Bf3p3lh2vYYFLjSiONlkfwtP_uxIFHbSoI1F6M0BAe1sGuoqH7yWYjwaI1jNkoWDTPDVnGtji50jZKDKa3phXg5HJ_KfLBc0k/s1600/Spearwood+Pandorea-doratoxylon-MF-2674-large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1-Cd6mYfiWwzdsUirBQMyHAiNAGDlAiRUSkltXW42r8Bf3p3lh2vYYFLjSiONlkfwtP_uxIFHbSoI1F6M0BAe1sGuoqH7yWYjwaI1jNkoWDTPDVnGtji50jZKDKa3phXg5HJ_KfLBc0k/s400/Spearwood+Pandorea-doratoxylon-MF-2674-large.jpg" /></a></div><br />
VOLATILE SPEARWOOD <br />
<br />
<br />
A weapon vine?<br />
a bendy spring<br />
of a thing <br />
that trails<br />
across red rock's stone rooves<br />
with viney roots below <br />
crevasse and rock cavern<br />
growing up and up with passive<br />
long and bending yet woody <br />
lithe laterals of<br />
creeper canes<br />
<br />
as if just <br />
an isolated<br />
another species<br />
of the Wonga Vine <br />
like that which flowers <br />
in the southern spring<br />
as does the Tecoma <br />
back home<br />
<br />
but this <br />
is the true desert form, <br />
"Pandorea doratoxylon"<br />
and there's a secret weapon<br />
in the name, a secret<br />
which comes out <br />
as from Pandora's box<br />
with its surprise <br />
in volatile weaponry<br />
<br />
for such<br />
vine-long <br />
woody canes <br />
will dry <br />
strong and hard<br />
and springy <br />
and can be<br />
straightened <br />
well before <br />
they set <br />
so long <br />
so hard<br />
so dry<br />
<br />
straightened<br />
over the heat <br />
of fires<br />
of desert-wood <br />
hot coals<br />
<br />
straighten <br />
like a long <br />
vertibrae<br />
a backbone<br />
ready for<br />
its flight<br />
<br />
its deadly<br />
flight, with<br />
the hard-won<br />
much-practised<br />
skill of a<br />
good hunter<br />
who brings<br />
home a kill<br />
<br />
manufacture-<br />
added with <br />
a woomera's <br />
dimple-notch <br />
at launch-end<br />
<br />
fitted with <br />
the spearhead: <br />
a hard sharp end<br />
with a needle point,<br />
and barbs,<br />
<br />
whether shovel-nosed<br />
or knife-ended<br />
<br />
a hunting spear<br />
strong enough <br />
to kill<br />
light enough <br />
to fly far<br />
and straight <br />
enough to<br />
bullseye in<br />
on a vital place..<br />
<br />
A spear is<br />
a man's long arm<br />
his longer arm<br />
<br />
Spearwood<br />
becomes his<br />
lethal reach;<br />
his volatile arm<br />
of unbent <br />
purpose.<br />
<br />
* <br />
<br />
In Yundum<br />
As Darby called<br />
Yuendumu, I found<br />
such a spear...<br />
<br />
a long held<br />
warrior-made weapon, <br />
which they said was <br />
not to be sold<br />
<br />
but Darby insisted<br />
like a desert lord<br />
and the spear<br />
came off the shelf<br />
and I paid.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
I carried it through<br />
Yuendumu like <br />
a scud missile <br />
<br />
a little embarrassed <br />
to be caught <br />
holding such nuclear-manufactured treasure<br />
such a volatile warrior-piece<br />
<br />
feeling it came <br />
to me from legends<br />
where the vine grew<br />
in canny wisdom<br />
and faith to the hunt<br />
in living courage. <br />
<br />
Since a boy<br />
I have been<br />
a hunter with <br />
traps and guns<br />
<br />
But us boys <br />
often played <br />
at being<br />
Aborigines with<br />
spears, as <br />
if respecting<br />
the call for<br />
eye contact<br />
with a quarry<br />
or an enemy<br />
which a spear<br />
respects <br />
and never<br />
over-reaches.<br />
<br />
So I have<br />
it still.<br />
Although I no<br />
longer hunt,<br />
but I have it<br />
like I have a gun:<br />
for the true regard.<br />
<br />
For ownership<br />
of a spear<br />
calls up a<br />
hunting eye,<br />
a wary watch,<br />
knowledge of grim<br />
necessities <br />
of the blood,<br />
it upkeeps <br />
a man's ear<br />
for hunger's larger cure<br />
and the weaponed man<br />
understands why it <br />
is God worked<br />
up the grandeur<br />
of carnivores<br />
of keener ears<br />
of sharper sight<br />
of tooth and claw<br />
that will defend<br />
their own against<br />
small regard<br />
against petty<br />
lives.<br />
<br />
And yet I feel <br />
a bit of a fraud<br />
for my lack<br />
of spearwood skill,<br />
<br />
for a blossoming kill<br />
is the spearwood's<br />
volatile skill<br />
<br />
the provision<br />
that capped a man <br />
as bringer of meat<br />
to a cooking fire.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGY1bsKsINZdhw483Xwu99vdGdaGrjmpw-C4ToNvnNW64Wh_8v7gDtNb8sjEeDPlNAJllsImZ4O1fnQoFmGpRQFaJuTVybM8hN0hh9ijSyZVQsHzLzBmVdJGSKtEfh44DaayCckGLJ_kI/s1600/Spearwood+Pandorea+doratoxylon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGY1bsKsINZdhw483Xwu99vdGdaGrjmpw-C4ToNvnNW64Wh_8v7gDtNb8sjEeDPlNAJllsImZ4O1fnQoFmGpRQFaJuTVybM8hN0hh9ijSyZVQsHzLzBmVdJGSKtEfh44DaayCckGLJ_kI/s640/Spearwood+Pandorea+doratoxylon.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEich0ny5vvaHo4EkRONNQO7JrY1CEHyoVg2Iu9J-vEiVgDT8h-vntAS4uRyFqJX2kMVBHpgc7a1ChoOkAE-cCjeBFuVWTTagr4lcrMCZpn_vD-a_wmb_5YOHgDrXuD7GnFNukfPnpfcPPE/s1600/Spearwood+flower+Pandorea+doratoxylon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEich0ny5vvaHo4EkRONNQO7JrY1CEHyoVg2Iu9J-vEiVgDT8h-vntAS4uRyFqJX2kMVBHpgc7a1ChoOkAE-cCjeBFuVWTTagr4lcrMCZpn_vD-a_wmb_5YOHgDrXuD7GnFNukfPnpfcPPE/s640/Spearwood+flower+Pandorea+doratoxylon.jpg" /></a></div>Wayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-22127521107017381112015-07-15T17:52:00.001-07:002015-07-15T23:37:58.045-07:00Resurrection Fern <br />
<br />
RESURRECTION FERN <br />
<br />
Found after the new wine of rains<br />
Woolly fern will be a healing flush<br />
A whitish-green fronded message<br />
In a flourish below rocks of pulpit hills<br />
A soft-seeming leaf of green balm<br />
Which blunts the edges of savagery<br />
Like a fruitful oasis trill in a desert<br />
Waving fronds as if Hosanna palms.<br />
<br />
But stoke it with hard-spirited thirst<br />
Mock it with elemental mean rejection<br />
Scourge it with many canes of the sun<br />
And the whips of red-hot angry winds <br />
Condemn it to your parched rejection<br />
Expose it to the want of human mobs<br />
Nail it with annihilation and crucify it <br />
Under the crack of thorns, and it dies.<br />
<br />
Or seems so very completely to die.<br />
Withering into hollow tombs of stone<br />
Its limpness shrivels to a rigor mortis,<br />
Curling up its toes its fingers its fronds<br />
And rolling over on its back like a bird<br />
Of dried up feather, a crackling corpse<br />
Of what it was, a dried-up skeleton<br />
A thing inconsequential to quick life.<br />
<br />
And then a night of wet season rains<br />
Soaking rains, continuous dampening<br />
Rains. A dead bird begins a slouching,<br />
Roll over, and the furled-up tendrils<br />
Unfurl slowly, unfurl again like growth,<br />
A growth already grown and then lost.<br />
The dead woolly fern comes up green again <br />
A Resurrection Fern returned to life. <br />
Wayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-17317801758591455312015-07-15T07:36:00.001-07:002015-07-16T01:33:58.200-07:00Driving The Spoon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Ny7hklIkgDgZbwEB_3B44L6Q5JiAwmRSwVnXlcNk2z-0PDVoC95S2rVzTaKHhlxVS4MzkHr6-JojXlXEB6ER33VRYas4Xj-9WIvUNZ3FFU-Czk8k6t5od9RCduuPLB-imuGMwvLxzRA/s1600/tanami-track5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-Ny7hklIkgDgZbwEB_3B44L6Q5JiAwmRSwVnXlcNk2z-0PDVoC95S2rVzTaKHhlxVS4MzkHr6-JojXlXEB6ER33VRYas4Xj-9WIvUNZ3FFU-Czk8k6t5od9RCduuPLB-imuGMwvLxzRA/s640/tanami-track5.jpg" /></a></div><br />
DRIVING THE SPOON<br />
<br />
<br />
On the track<br />
that goes off-road<br />
where the smooth-graded<br />
<br />
shifting sand <br />
of the travel surface<br />
has long since become<br />
<br />
corrugated and coruscating, <br />
corrugation-ridged by hard-driven,<br />
far-riven, impatient, skim-tall speed-tyres,<br />
<br />
so much that your slow-travel there<br />
immediately becomes a torrid endurance test<br />
you fail - as long yet as you don't break<br />
<br />
until you or something will do, in a slow<br />
but continuous corrugation-fed earth tremor<br />
of shuddering undoing<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
your conventional<br />
even and small-tyred on-road<br />
vehicle (at odds with it)<br />
<br />
even where your proud wheels<br />
rest softly on half-inflated <br />
light truck tyres, can and will<br />
<br />
find a far smoother path if<br />
you have the audacity of humility, <br />
a quixotic braw beyond any afraid-to-be-seen conceit, <br />
<br />
to the wisdom of foolery,<br />
to get off that proudly-wrinkled corrugated crown<br />
and so to drive down along <br />
<br />
and keep on in the sided track-wide<br />
and nearly eternally sidelong <br />
spoons of well-graded drain.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
Though, keep <br />
a driven watch out<br />
<br />
for bent star-pickets <br />
hid in the sand.<br />
<br />
<br />
* * * <br />
- 1995 - after the Tanami Track <br />
Wayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-23772909666520026542015-07-15T07:35:00.002-07:002015-07-15T07:35:34.699-07:00Euro Jumps and Dry Waterholes<br />
<br />
EURO JUMPS AND DRY WATERHOLESWayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-54710753300491133492015-07-15T04:18:00.002-07:002015-07-15T17:35:50.963-07:00I, The Aboriginal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVsgVjcY-8RGH5_REGf-V7NvUAJAvoTKqKQnltP04rOHv_L45NpDhsKUvW4axRFxZMpcxk_5hD4d_m_4pnGws5ReqOUF3eptIvnjLOTw9fz7MUHObcic4RZ06_9nFqryB7g9WgLf8Nglo/s1600/I%252C+The+Aboriginal.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVsgVjcY-8RGH5_REGf-V7NvUAJAvoTKqKQnltP04rOHv_L45NpDhsKUvW4axRFxZMpcxk_5hD4d_m_4pnGws5ReqOUF3eptIvnjLOTw9fz7MUHObcic4RZ06_9nFqryB7g9WgLf8Nglo/s640/I%252C+The+Aboriginal.JPG" /></a></div><br />
* * * <br />
<br />
<blockquote><b>I, THE ABORIGINAL </b><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Ghost written, without a too obvious<br />
Admission. Ghost whispered, ghost ridden?<br />
Maybe! The narrative take which renowned <br />
Journalist Douglas Lockwood gives voice <br />
To, is that of a two-way Roper River man,<br />
A mission-educated, worthy, independent<br />
Mechanic, a bright most-employable paramedic<br />
Who tells his blackfella story in dignity<br />
And pride even if that unnerving ghost was <br />
A sympathetic whitefella in the foreground<br />
For his blackfella surely was and is a man <br />
Worth looking at, one worth listening to, who<br />
Spoke his piece in a channeled disguise, well <br />
Before an age that likes to hate and deride<br />
Sovereign works of understanding like this<br />
Is, an age featuring Indigenous writers who<br />
Write often yet with whitefellas hid behind<br />
<br />
in the background.<br />
<br />
</blockquote><br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
<b>I, THE ABORIGINAL <br />
- by Douglas Lockwood<br />
Pub. Rigby Ltd, 1962, Adelaide, SA </b>e<br />
<br />
<br />
My name is Waipuldanya or Wadjiri-Wadjiri. (If these twist your tongue too much, call me Philip Roberts: that's my white-feller name. ) I am a full-blood aboriginal of the Alawa tribe in the Northern Territory'<br />
<br />
The autobiography of Waipuldanya, a full-blood Aboriginal of the Alawa tribe at Roper River in Australia's Northern Territory, as told to Douglas Lockwood. <br />
<br />
In his youth, Waipuldanya was taught to track and hunt wild animals, to live off the land, to provide for his family with the aide only of his spears and woomeras. This is the gripping story of his boyhood and youth, and how he trained as a skilled medical assistant, to become a citizen of both the Aboriginal and whitefella worlds. <br />
<br />
<br />
* * * <br />
<br />
<br />
<b>A REVIEW, 1963 - from "AMERICAN ANTHROPOLOGIST" [VOL 65, 1963] </b><br />
<br />
I, the Aboriginal. Douglas LOCKWOOD. <br />
Adelaide, Australia: Rigby limited, 1962. 240<br />
<br />
<b>Reviewed by ARNOLD R. PILLING, Wayne State University, (USA)</b><br />
<br />
I have never before encountered a book which has caused me to write an unsolicited review. However, I found after reading 'I, the Aboriginal' that I wanted to call the attention of my colleagues to this volume produced for the popular audience in Australia, and, therefore, not very likely to gain review in anthropological journals in the United States and Europe.<br />
<br />
Douglas Lockwood, the author, has been a resident of Darwin in the Northern Territory of Australia for over 15 years. During the past decade, I have read nearly every major news dispatch originating from that vicinity, and have often been struck by the outstanding anthropological orientation of both Lockwood and his local competitor, Lionel Hogg. The exposure of both these men to Aborigines has been extensive, causing me to see their journalistic writings as parallel to those of such an early reporter of the American Southwest as Charles F. Lummis, journalist and founder of the Southwest Museum.<br />
<br />
'I, The Aboriginal' is, however, not outstanding solely because of its author’s knowledge of his topic; it is also noteworthy because of its topic. The book is the autobiography of a Roper River native, named Phillip Roberts, edited and re-written somewhat, by Lockwood. Phillip, a member of the Alawa tribelet, just south of Arnhem Land, describes his life-in the first person -from birth in the bush, through childhood, mission elementary school, initiation into age-grade after age-grade, instruction in bushcraft, the skill of horsebreaking and life as a stockman, instruction as a mechanic at the Roper River Mission, to his introduction into the skills of a medical technician and medical aide among the Aborigines. In 1960, Phillip, with his wife and children, were granted Australian citizenship, although he still has not relinquished his major post in the Khnapipi ceremony on the Roper River.<br />
<br />
The reader will find in citizen Roberts’ autobiography extensive discussion of Alawa economic patterns, kinship practices, religious beliefs, sorcery, and curing. Roberts’ attitudes about his role as an Aborigine living as a white man are also made explicit, as well as his unresolved confusion concerning the relationship between Christianity and traditional Alawa values and beliefs.<br />
<br />
In one respect I cannot view 'I, the Aboriginal' objectively. In 1953, it was Phillip Roberts who, though not of the Tiwi group, first exposed me to the fallacy of seeing ‘Tiwi, or any Aboriginal kinship system, primarily in genealogical terms. It was through his suggestions mouthed by his mentor Dr. “Spike” Langsford that I began to realize that the genealogical method did not explain Australian kinship practices as soundly as the linguistic framework in which one asked how each kinship term is defined by its usage in the speech community. <br />
<br />
I believe that even in this autobiography Roberts gets over to Lockwood’s reader the distinction between the limited number of genealogically related kin and the great class of individuals whom an Aboriginal such as Phillip Roberts addresses by one or another kinship term.<br />
<br />
I would place 'I, the Aboriginal' in that small group of books which, like Roy Barton’s 'The Half-Way Sun' and Theodora Kroeber’s 'Ishi', any anthropologist may recommend to a non-anthropologist acquaintance who wishes a painless and fascinating introduction to our field. However, as is the case with most other books from the popular press, the professional anthropologist will find himself frustrated by the lack of an index, or even meaningful titles for chapters. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
* ** Wayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-56607626607621433302015-07-14T20:52:00.001-07:002015-07-15T05:54:03.566-07:00Thoughts of Anna Creek<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGyPz7-BNM4fFqzpM1T2FWF71HlBElDCbcH0_1ph-a8l3qI1L8NSHgh6GbvcwhLidX_O3rz_3oRMIiOu77EwidjwRGJKMXJkWyB5oyfzgFqdHi7zN_KxjkNaeqjxRUt3ZKVvqaLTDqRnY/s1600/anna+creek.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGyPz7-BNM4fFqzpM1T2FWF71HlBElDCbcH0_1ph-a8l3qI1L8NSHgh6GbvcwhLidX_O3rz_3oRMIiOu77EwidjwRGJKMXJkWyB5oyfzgFqdHi7zN_KxjkNaeqjxRUt3ZKVvqaLTDqRnY/s640/anna+creek.png" /></a></div><br />
THOUGHTS OF ANNA CREEK<br />
<br />
<br />
In days when the biggest landholding<br />
in the world: Anna Creek Cattle station<br />
is up for sale and Nicole Kidman pictured again<br />
In some play acted role of image in fantasyland<br />
<br />
My thoughts go to dry cuttings of Anna Creek banks<br />
Which was for a week playing place for our children<br />
below the famous run and homestead where Sir Sidney Kidman<br />
centred his outback South Australian hopes and plans.<br />
<br />
But is she, was that ephemeral king in his grass castles<br />
any more or less rich for the outworking of their dreams;<br />
than our kids were in their production of Anna Creek sand castles<br />
In set-built roads and towns, imagining lives on terraced walls? <br />
<br />
* * *<br />
-July 2015 after June 1995, and our camp a mile of so from the Anna Creek Station Homestead, below the Anna Creek Crossing on the Coober Pedy Track, near William Creek, SA<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWfgqrny4HFhC8yZjdr-C2SGl18syRBwGs_YTa5Z8GWtjBfI-4Lyjy6mtEGG6zRdwRmKkzjU9uL9dD-Bo1RD2O0dRfnnFYmTsxsORgBKz3G0HPbgNDaaORwEQ9X2F-0tCkESbz0Hr6pSg/s1600/anna+creek.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWfgqrny4HFhC8yZjdr-C2SGl18syRBwGs_YTa5Z8GWtjBfI-4Lyjy6mtEGG6zRdwRmKkzjU9uL9dD-Bo1RD2O0dRfnnFYmTsxsORgBKz3G0HPbgNDaaORwEQ9X2F-0tCkESbz0Hr6pSg/s640/anna+creek.jpg" /></a></div>Wayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-10546139636851488772015-07-14T02:11:00.000-07:002015-07-16T01:48:08.987-07:00The Murranji <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ_M3mTQ1HR3CS4xJqKRhJhort6klnhrAc8qAti2mwrUAkOU0kkwgGJ7jAp3aozt62zVsMwa8yEcD_gOPqsO8FcDXX7p_Y9ZObqmKK1vTYP4tQgA2Za8IHzKOErk_9WoBy4fS-9eSH-K8/s1600/carpentaria+murranjitrack++by+Carol+McCormack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ_M3mTQ1HR3CS4xJqKRhJhort6klnhrAc8qAti2mwrUAkOU0kkwgGJ7jAp3aozt62zVsMwa8yEcD_gOPqsO8FcDXX7p_Y9ZObqmKK1vTYP4tQgA2Za8IHzKOErk_9WoBy4fS-9eSH-K8/s640/carpentaria+murranjitrack++by+Carol+McCormack.jpg" /></a></div><br />
THE MURRANJI <br />
<br />
<br />
The Murranji Stock Route disappears <br />
through bullwaddy and lancewood, strung on <br />
mythic Murranji waterholes mapped in legends <br />
of yesteryears tales as if lost off padways<br />
or mirage routes where the very absence <br />
of signposts telling the way was the way.<br />
<br />
Google Maps don't show it, not on Earth<br />
yet it went from old Newcastle Waters<br />
or Daly Waters, west into scrub-choked <br />
rangelands, toward big Cattle Stations <br />
in wilderness lands, like Top Springs,<br />
or right on to Victoria River Downs.<br />
<br />
For drovers and cattlemen came through <br />
here taking north-west starred paths <br />
through the vast and featureless plains<br />
all-covered in tall mulga with dense scrub <br />
of eremophila & dead-finish so that a vista <br />
was not, and still is hardly to be found.<br />
<br />
So they went like the Magi and navigated <br />
by the sun or by too-bright night-time stars<br />
staring down final hope beyond the dust<br />
off the wilted ears of a horse and across <br />
loud horns of slakeless cattle as if it was by <br />
way of a daily mulga-bushed miseternity<br />
<br />
unless your ways went to make wonders<br />
of the vegetated earth in colours<br />
entering the carols of the birds.<br />
<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
Images: paintings by Carol McCormack, Qld <br />
<br />
1. (above) The Murranji Track - by Carol McCormack, Qld <br />
<br />
Painter's note: 'Like the Yellow Brick Road, the Murranji Track appears to go on forever. I drive in comfort, thinking of the drovers who used to push their herds through this almost impenetrable Bullwaddy and Lancewood scrub.'<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
* * * <br />
2. (below) Murranji - Flight - by Carol McCormack, Qld <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEpfLavlcW7L8NKJxZPVzVRGsJaaeLcAqfcsnOL1a-BkZJFyr_xq4fAuJJ81W_Yyi_71m9gNFKTWOnpK1eNrryIilEOGqAadXg00IrQg-7lId6Vtx6rKwrlOqS0mCz987o3A5yoSpdQEU/s1600/carpentaria+Murranji+flight+by+Carl+McCormack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEpfLavlcW7L8NKJxZPVzVRGsJaaeLcAqfcsnOL1a-BkZJFyr_xq4fAuJJ81W_Yyi_71m9gNFKTWOnpK1eNrryIilEOGqAadXg00IrQg-7lId6Vtx6rKwrlOqS0mCz987o3A5yoSpdQEU/s640/carpentaria+Murranji+flight+by+Carl+McCormack.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Painter's note: 'As we drive the long track, parrots and lorikeets flash past, too swift to identify,<br />
their brilliant colours both blend and contrast with the surrounding scrub.'<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
BOOKS - by cover<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO5PAqVCfma0-Ozx_NnLQ9K_KRKas8nymnO9H9OeivzzldHTvK2lVK2Hsfv_DJv5CVup_VB2Ittb3Fk9FuMujACb1svDekr_Zq6hTfQEhHWdSAU8e3kU6A0mmRBCPo_bWA5KBIFszOyo4/s1600/Murranji+fifteen-miles-down-the-murranji_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO5PAqVCfma0-Ozx_NnLQ9K_KRKas8nymnO9H9OeivzzldHTvK2lVK2Hsfv_DJv5CVup_VB2Ittb3Fk9FuMujACb1svDekr_Zq6hTfQEhHWdSAU8e3kU6A0mmRBCPo_bWA5KBIFszOyo4/s640/Murranji+fifteen-miles-down-the-murranji_2.jpg" /></a></div><br />
* * *<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyNx89zOMR0GGXhjdlHdFH3wtKxwnUltOR_JTcC2bW5wx69WVP4vWarNzXf7mY_AoAAS04biBbzKHv_VdibaDoLhi0wMVZEiP291riktwsO7Ik0Ra-GNfz-Jdmt7OUXXJEaR84GpU0nqk/s1600/Murranji+Track-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyNx89zOMR0GGXhjdlHdFH3wtKxwnUltOR_JTcC2bW5wx69WVP4vWarNzXf7mY_AoAAS04biBbzKHv_VdibaDoLhi0wMVZEiP291riktwsO7Ik0Ra-GNfz-Jdmt7OUXXJEaR84GpU0nqk/s640/Murranji+Track-1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
* * * Wayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-14237929665729995052015-07-14T01:50:00.003-07:002015-07-15T07:09:33.745-07:00Elsey & Mrs Aeneas 'Jennie' Gunn<br />
ELSEY & JENNIE GUNNWayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-26202722351696326562015-07-14T01:48:00.001-07:002015-07-15T00:39:07.601-07:00Spear and Stockwhip: A Tale of The Territory<br />
<br />
SPEAR AND STOCKWHIP: A TALE OF THE TERRITORY<br />
<br />
Ah, Daly Waters, what adventure, to be following in the tracks of those legendary Queensland boys; Snowy Jansen, Darkie Johnson & Tom Brinsley after boss drover Chikker Jackson suddenly up and died, riding Tiger, all their named horses, in trust of young saddles and quick-learnt knack with reins, to drove two thousand Herefords right out across Queensland, to camping out and hunting, to living under the sun and sleeping under the stars, in responsible trust and sense to lead and win, for the goal of the Laurance Estate way up north of the Roper River on that wild Territory side, in an outback journey of more than a thousand miles, in a mythic tale that should've been a young Australian classic.<br />
<br />
A great trek led by young lads on horseback right across the Barkly by Anthony's Lagoon. The author, an unknown Richard H Graves thrilled my younger soul with his action book, telling a tale set back in the times between the wars, with a villain like a Hitler in Scarface Gillespie, with cattle thieves, shootings, a stampede, making a friend of a bush Aborigine, in a story of hard-won success found after trials, having gone (like hobbits) all the way there and back again in a grand mettle-building tale.<br />
<br />
<br />
*** <br />
'SPEAR AND STOCKWHIP: A TALE OF THE TERRITORY<br />
by Richard H Groves was published in 1950<br />
by Dymocks Book Arcade Ltd, Sydney & London<br />
<br />
I still have my original hardback copy.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Wayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-45279243528295150222015-07-13T09:47:00.003-07:002015-07-14T22:40:41.271-07:00Smoking Ceremony Leaf<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg25wr7lkNCDT0U7mKIh4Yqpr84z9d8_gJDgvUWRK9V-jwbyNFlWIPtroi-lVpvS3goTU_uLMuasvRAQsSYiaPPZElgasjU5_4QpLVkvKR3MnmMxKzKr_cu7-ot0-lh3oJs11pChaeU3l0/s1600/cassinia+cough+bush.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg25wr7lkNCDT0U7mKIh4Yqpr84z9d8_gJDgvUWRK9V-jwbyNFlWIPtroi-lVpvS3goTU_uLMuasvRAQsSYiaPPZElgasjU5_4QpLVkvKR3MnmMxKzKr_cu7-ot0-lh3oJs11pChaeU3l0/s400/cassinia+cough+bush.jpg" /></a></div><br />
SMOKING CEREMONY LEAF<br />
<br />
<br />
I heard that she'd<br />
been out hours to find <br />
that most special leaf<br />
<br />
so when the smoking<br />
vessel came before me<br />
I sniffed it hard<br />
<br />
even bowed my head<br />
over its protrusions<br />
of burning green<br />
<br />
with a finger pinch<br />
that fell into my hands<br />
like raw smoke before the fire<br />
<br />
and immediately recognised<br />
its known aromatic face by the nose<br />
as a type of common dogwood <br />
<br />
scrub, or Cassinia, a bland-enough<br />
craggy old tree-daisy that regenerates <br />
on any abused or disturbed lands<br />
<br />
and does not live long, such<br />
as is most usually despised back home<br />
for its neglect, or lucklessness,<br />
<br />
like a settler's failure, or grief;<br />
and yet the smoke curled around<br />
our heads as if it was <br />
<br />
some great frankincense<br />
and a gift of previously-unmet mysterious Magi<br />
from even further east. <br />
<br />
<br />
* * * <br />
- Santa Teresa, Northern TerritoryWayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-27749247653304052462015-07-13T09:11:00.000-07:002015-07-13T11:15:56.797-07:00Poverty Bush<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidbLol3rhaOQWZe2_aXuqrTYhUhDEiS1tX-X8Yjj0_zbs1ZkLS2A-2epY3Clj70AcCb3isDm-vi3fv6ORCRYVji0CPbQeh08T6S-fSWTdPD7nQPIv9xLFgj4wtUCTP1XOa0kADKf01Bu4/s1600/POVERTY+BUSH+-+EREMOPHILA+ALTERNIFOLIA+X3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidbLol3rhaOQWZe2_aXuqrTYhUhDEiS1tX-X8Yjj0_zbs1ZkLS2A-2epY3Clj70AcCb3isDm-vi3fv6ORCRYVji0CPbQeh08T6S-fSWTdPD7nQPIv9xLFgj4wtUCTP1XOa0kADKf01Bu4/s640/POVERTY+BUSH+-+EREMOPHILA+ALTERNIFOLIA+X3.jpg" /></a></div><br />
POVERTY BUSH<br />
<br />
A classic Aussie<br />
An Outback battler<br />
Of a rough family<br />
Like yours or mine.<br />
<br />
Eremophila alternifolia<br />
An Emu Bush, Native <br />
Fuchsier of scrophulus family,<br />
Scrophulariaceae.<br />
<br />
Another Eremite<br />
Eremo for desert<br />
Phila for loving<br />
A mad Desert-lover.<br />
<br />
Alternifolia for<br />
Its see-saw marginal doors<br />
Of blanking alternate leaves<br />
For saving water space.<br />
<br />
It grows like anonymous,<br />
A scrub<br />
In margins of <br />
Poetic consciousness<br />
<br />
Where human attention <br />
Shifts to<br />
Flowers of a more <br />
Iconogenic rub<br />
<br />
Yet and yet, saving it <br />
As Tarrtjan<br />
Aborigines used it<br />
Well against<br />
<br />
Inflammation, and carried it <br />
For any case, if this<br />
Is not boring enough, <br />
As a soporific. <br />
<br />
<br />
* * * <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjC3Fx24MPPNSJHwBp2Y4tpDcjycmSU5RDBfJDa-1qSJAL50Ou46HuH23vdrknfutWQ6rSlsNUrZ8UD7ixxw4cFCw5vwjMfdHlTQNxXaz0YLdSwXa_6VjLoetGOe8zNo2cTgW0AbVEpg4/s1600/POVERTY+BUSH+EREMOPHILA+ALTERNIFOLIA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjC3Fx24MPPNSJHwBp2Y4tpDcjycmSU5RDBfJDa-1qSJAL50Ou46HuH23vdrknfutWQ6rSlsNUrZ8UD7ixxw4cFCw5vwjMfdHlTQNxXaz0YLdSwXa_6VjLoetGOe8zNo2cTgW0AbVEpg4/s640/POVERTY+BUSH+EREMOPHILA+ALTERNIFOLIA.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Wayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-40611735062625955052015-07-13T07:48:00.002-07:002015-07-15T22:16:35.253-07:00From Little Thefts Big Thefts Grow *<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipk5nbkhG0vvQT9KUCNoGUP70PLZKO5ANz1CYSyNFyy5lCqYCazQfp2GfQbnf_CC6NECNvlnRLuqtDf2-ewYqepscXkaMJxMXKqFR6A2wYbrvnKwER8DDcSHVAIrlPo0gkwLSZctVGwuI/s1600/Lingiari+Whitlam_Image_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipk5nbkhG0vvQT9KUCNoGUP70PLZKO5ANz1CYSyNFyy5lCqYCazQfp2GfQbnf_CC6NECNvlnRLuqtDf2-ewYqepscXkaMJxMXKqFR6A2wYbrvnKwER8DDcSHVAIrlPo0gkwLSZctVGwuI/s400/Lingiari+Whitlam_Image_3.jpg" /></a></div><br />
FROM LITTLE THEFTS BIG THEFTS GROW *<br />
<br />
<br />
Like it was in 1975<br />
By the Giles Creek<br />
At Kalkarung in Guringi <br />
Where Gough Whitlam poured<br />
Lifted Wave Hill sand<br />
Into Vincent Lingiari's hand<br />
For the full measure<br />
Of its repeat ideographic legal copy<br />
And high drama, <br />
Just as calculating economist Herbert Cole 'Nugget' Coombs <br />
Had remembered that it was done, and so<br />
Instructed Prime Minister Whitlam to do<br />
As if it was a big new thing to do, as if <br />
A brave, certainly an imaged-crowd pleasing, an applause-raising, if not a<br />
Novel act as<br />
An avowal in amity<br />
<br />
So it was in 1835<br />
Up the Merri Creek<br />
At Duttigalla in Bihrurang<br />
When John Batman grasped <br />
Dug up Yarra Valley soils<br />
From the hand of Billebellary<br />
And his Jaika Jaika kin and fellows<br />
As skin brothers by then by mutual consent<br />
After a smoke-signaled beckoning in hither<br />
In a new corroboree learnt<br />
Of the more-than antiquarian Law of Cession<br />
Just as classically-visionary attorney Joseph Tice Gellbrand <br />
Had instructed field-agent Batman to do <br />
As if it was an ancient, obviously rendered,<br />
Large, and well-understood act <br />
Of avowal in amity.<br />
<br />
*<br />
<br />
So why? What? Why did Paul Kelly <br />
Call something or other little?<br />
And how does the security of home <br />
Come to feel so belittled, so violated?<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
Note: for those catching up with Australian history, the title alludes to the lyric of the song by Paul Kelly on this subject 'From Little Things Big Things Grow'Wayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-43304626430177703262015-07-13T07:17:00.001-07:002015-07-18T06:39:56.410-07:00Coniston <br />
<br />
CONISTON<br />
<br />
<br />
The Lander River has <br />
many tributaries of red<br />
gumtree lined soakage sand;<br />
Star Creek, Warburton Creek,<br />
Tower Creek, Crown Creek, <br />
Spring Creek, Brookes Creek;<br />
even one red thin branch<br />
called Blackfellow Creek. <br />
<br />
Lending your women, a welcome, <br />
like a wooden spearthrower,<br />
and then, soon, expecting <br />
them back, even if it <br />
was culturally-enshrined, but<br />
long since abused, just what <br />
were they, just what was <br />
wild Bullfrog thinking?<br />
<br />
Borrowing one of <br />
their woman and then<br />
expecting to hold her, <br />
not give her back<br />
when any trespass of <br />
their law meant death<br />
in the old custom. What <br />
was Brookes thinking?<br />
<br />
As if human desire, <br />
and human emotions,<br />
were only plusses <br />
to be gratified<br />
that did not have <br />
their negative pole, <br />
that magnetic terminal <br />
impelling to the kill.<br />
<br />
The Lander River has <br />
many tributaries of red<br />
gumtree lined soakage sand;<br />
Star Creek, Warburton Creek,<br />
Tower Creek, Crown Creek, <br />
Spring Creek, Brookes Creek;<br />
even one red thin branch<br />
called Blackfellow Creek. <br />
Wayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2993230408788462977.post-56174291227405474122015-07-13T07:10:00.000-07:002015-07-15T02:25:15.782-07:00An Overland Telegraph Depot<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_6Zg-stDxA57d6tkrmEUasUmD0gXkkJdsXhOdKPnU9BTWOxMFQu0MVH9iqAWdav0b4UHwEVvJMOpr7e1Aw3ab1otKGIbhTngFj79YJq29VJaZ8L5z2tPDZ4FO7J7v1aXNeZJALh_0tdU/s1600/barrow-creek-telegraph-station.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_6Zg-stDxA57d6tkrmEUasUmD0gXkkJdsXhOdKPnU9BTWOxMFQu0MVH9iqAWdav0b4UHwEVvJMOpr7e1Aw3ab1otKGIbhTngFj79YJq29VJaZ8L5z2tPDZ4FO7J7v1aXNeZJALh_0tdU/s640/barrow-creek-telegraph-station.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
AN OVERLAND TELEGRAPH DEPOT<br />
<br />
<br />
Carefully selected-stone<br />
Walls still stand sentinel <br />
Like tombstones without a text<br />
Outside of dry Barrow Creek<br />
<br />
In 1874 an isolated group of buildings <br />
in the middle of vast nowhere. The sand <br />
of Barrow creek bed, crumbling dry hills, <br />
mopped up human voices like a padded world.<br />
<br />
As it was when the attack came just eight <br />
days after the wires began their singing. <br />
It came from the Katish, with whom less<br />
Care had been taken. They speared linesman<br />
<br />
John Franks and then Stationmaster <br />
James L Stapleton, but they did not show<br />
Any less hand for mercy to the domesticated<br />
Black Boy. They speared him three times.<br />
<br />
But retreated into pause. From the black and white<br />
Binary dot and dash of that Morses Code, the sent <br />
Telegraph read like an action script: <br />
'This station has been attacked <br />
<br />
by natives, Stapleton has been <br />
mortally wounded, one of the men, <br />
John Franks has died from wounds. <br />
Civilised Native Boy has had three <br />
<br />
spear wounds. Mr Flint, assistant <br />
operator, one spear wound in leg, <br />
not serious. Full details in morning." <br />
Imagine that remote machine going quiet.<br />
<br />
Too quiet. Quiet like its was before <br />
the noise. Later Mounted Constable <br />
Samuel Gason led a large police hunt, but <br />
Took no prisoners who might Telegraph.<br />
<br />
<br />
* * *<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixsdg_ZgwTQyVoNlQeMxukUFT0bSQbO5b_8SAd9anexqNHz14O2gvXokMzL62FQsJnq1kyESj-YcPPo0ftli-QdLWznEL0XUfTm8AGYVW69cQ-btmzEnuLh2ZLL_zk7PFOVH90HQU7Anw/s1600/Barrow+Creek+Stapleton%252B_Franks_Memorial-2073-80051.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixsdg_ZgwTQyVoNlQeMxukUFT0bSQbO5b_8SAd9anexqNHz14O2gvXokMzL62FQsJnq1kyESj-YcPPo0ftli-QdLWznEL0XUfTm8AGYVW69cQ-btmzEnuLh2ZLL_zk7PFOVH90HQU7Anw/s400/Barrow+Creek+Stapleton%252B_Franks_Memorial-2073-80051.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Dead silence, for death likely came <br />
Out there just of mere geography, <br />
like in 1883, November, when Mounted <br />
Constable John Shirley, stationed <br />
<br />
at Barrow Creek, led a party of 5 men <br />
and 18 horses out in search of missing <br />
pastoralist Readford and all perished <br />
from thirst near Brunette Downs.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjelGXbdVugox7WykbObKOkJJffgkXattPuqHoY5s-jeWmE3SEyOuHP_SRaJQoXF_ZeraUUjA0k_vqUGN4Gh5WG5UsoC9lulO0Nq1fOuzS17S98gPwbrgDofUmdF3zkKOb4LpLUtpDbwWA/s1600/barrow-creek.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjelGXbdVugox7WykbObKOkJJffgkXattPuqHoY5s-jeWmE3SEyOuHP_SRaJQoXF_ZeraUUjA0k_vqUGN4Gh5WG5UsoC9lulO0Nq1fOuzS17S98gPwbrgDofUmdF3zkKOb4LpLUtpDbwWA/s640/barrow-creek.jpg" /></a></div><br />
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Wayne D Knollhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03668022975795483457noreply@blogger.com0