Poetry

coolamon dreaming

colleen Poetry , , ,

‘Dadirri’ means ‘inner deep listening and quiet still awareness.’ It is a ‘tuning in’ to listen and wait. The waiting is important. And it is something we are not used to doing. My poetry collection called A Call to Listen was inspired by reading Miriam-Rose Ungunmerr-Baumann’s speech to the Australian people. nextwave.org.au/Dadirri-Inner-Deep-Listening M-R Ungunerr-Baumann
In the following poem I arrived at this place smug and full of ‘knowing’ the scientific . . .geological story . However being privileged to sit with a local Indigenous woman and listen to the Indigenous story inspired the following poem

coolamon* dreaming

desert night
a thousand stars drip
over our finke river camp in ormiston pound
dwarfed by walls of rock

heat sighs as it cools
gentle on our cheeks

now firelight flickers on our faces

smug in geological knowledge
that we are camped in a meteor crater
we lounge back
and listen
to the elder
weaves her dreamtime stories
into the tapestry of creation
her eyes dark as night
draw us in

the baby star fell
ancestors tell of a fierce light
its crash to this place

she points up

see the coolamon from where it fell
her finger curves the outline
of a black space in the sky

and still each day
its parents the morning and evening star
circle the earth in search
of their fallen child

i sleep the dreaming
breathe the ancient air
in awe feel connected
aware of the stars as my ancestors

i wake
to hues of mustard and ochre red
last curdles of smoke from the ashen fire
and watch the morning star
journey cobalt-blue sky

* Coolamon a basin-shaped wooden carry-dish made and used by some first peoples (Macquarie)

ormiston pound

colleen Poetry , , , , ,

The Vincent Lingiari Memorial Lecture for 2015 caught my attention recently. It is called ” Custodianship in the Twentieth-first Century given by Jeff McMullen. Most of you would realise it is in memory of the Wave Hill walk off in August 1966. It is a valuable read, can be found on line and it reminds us we still have a lot of work to do to be the Nation we can be proud to call ours. Anyway it begins with these words:
“The great power of the Vincent Lingiari story is that it teaches us how this land sings to us all, how it holds us and nurtures us. This is the common ground we all share.” And I thought wow. . . I did hear it sing that day out on the Larapinta Trail west of Alice Springs and here is the poem of that day. Enjoy

ormiston pound

we climb an ancient path
to the rattle of our tin mugs
and the chinkle of boots disturbing stones
as they shift awkwardly underfoot

quartzite
flanks each side
and summons up rough sharp spurs

serrated edges
like bread knives
cutting the sky
give direction

flints of mica catch the light
blinding and brooding black rocks watch
as menacing phantoms

at the top
we sit breathless
and hot
the wide expanse of ormiston pound
like an enormous bunker
lies below
air drifts with heat and layers of cool
we listen to white man’s story

while an acacia bush nearby
growing from a rocky outcrop
sings to me another story
on the dreaming wind

we are but travellers here

colleen Poetry , , , ,

This stellar autumnal morning reminds me of the walking and writing course I did for  a week along The Larapinta Trail out side Alice Springs.It was led by Jan Cornell and there were about 20 of us in the group. It was a rewarding experience and the following poem was written at a humbling moment along the way.
The quote “We are but travellers here”  is on a poster I had framed many years ago.It is claimed as a quote from the great Australian Josephite Sister,  Mary MacKillop.

It is a reminder we are finite beings.  Therefore live your life to the fullest now and secondly it is a  reminded we are but stewards not owners.

I love the thought in my poem the land is my teacher

we are but travellers here

in desert country
outside alice springs
richly red rock rusted fiery
bruised and brush-worked to indigo
shimmers through hot air

a track like an ancient song line
marks a way
frisks intruders

needle spinifex claw
roots of river-gums
bulbous siphons plunge defiantly
deep into dry river beds

we trudge heavily
sand shifts unevenly

bones picked clean
washed up caught against tree trunks
from the last big wet
a warning this land is merciless
nemesis
teacher

at the end of each day
a truck delivers swags
food water
reminding us we are but travellers here*

*we are but travellers here – Mary McKillop

milky way dreaming

colleen Poetry , , ,

This poem was written from a memory at Alice Springs after  meeting Norah Jurrah Nelson in 2006 and my cousin, seeing I had fallen in love with it buying me her painting of The Seven Sisters, a canvas spread out on the earth held down by four stones . I like to think it still has some red dirt on it. Now framed on my wall.

milky way dreaming

sun ablaze

dark skin

shines with sweat

her eyes look up   catch me

 

she sits on the earth

a red sandy space

at the edge of the alice springs mall

her canvas held down

by four small rocks

 

milky way dreaming

 

a sash of silver gossamer

arches across the black canvas

in a brilliance of stars

to the side seven dotted circles

she points

names the seven sisters

 

only desert eyes know this sky

paint this song of stars

didgeridoo dancing stars

brimming

fiery-white and deep

 

now on my wall

framed

darginyung 1st poem in A Call to Listen

colleen Poetry , , , ,

calltolisten

 

This is  the beginning poems in my Poetry collection. It refers to the traditional language of the first peoples and recognises them as first inhabitants of the area around The Entrance, Tuggerah Lakes where many of my poem are set. (Sometimes spelt darginjung)

darginyung

welcome to country drones
the didgeridoo its spirit
circles the hollowed wood

sings the darkness into dawn
and in its dancing rhythm
the dreaming drifts in