10th of November 2009 Dark Night
Doolyaa-moornang nidja waariny,
kedalak.
Aali ngaarngk baal nookert ngoorndiny.
Nidja mai baalap nyarni waarngkiny,
kaadidjiny.
"Benang, ngientj kaabeny ngiyang nidja yiddiny,
ngiyang ngany waarngkiny...
Yey wilo-mai waaliny, kaadjaali
gorr-yuaarl-koorliny.
Baal bidiyaa mabarn waarl-koorliny,
ngiyang kwella waarngkiny?
Nyungaara baalap wayerniny,
kaalaa-ngat-boordak-ngat kokinyininy...
Kaadidjiny, kaadidjin-gaa kokinyininy...
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Monday, July 20, 2009
Nyungar; Noongar, noonaa Moort nganaarng!!
Kaalagap 3:21pm July 20th 2009
Nyungarra! Nyungarra! Windjee nidja Nyungaaraaa!!?
Bookadjaa baalap bookadjaa, kaala-ngat nyininy... mai waangkiny, djurrep-kaadidjiny! One day, when the sun is shining, perhaps in spring, perhaps we might meet again, to sing the songs and speak the words by that fire that we all hope we will one day find welcoming us to sit by.
You know that fire!?!
To play in the smoke, to warm your back, to drink your tea and eat those johnny cakes from the pan and dip those dampers into the juices of the yongka and bacon that sit dookeniny... yuret-ngat dookeniny, daartj noonook benaarnginy, djurrepiny, yep we all dream of that day...
Nyungarra! Nyungarra! Windjee nidja Nyungaaraaa!!?
Bookadjaa baalap bookadjaa, kaala-ngat nyininy... mai waangkiny, djurrep-kaadidjiny! One day, when the sun is shining, perhaps in spring, perhaps we might meet again, to sing the songs and speak the words by that fire that we all hope we will one day find welcoming us to sit by.
You know that fire!?!
To play in the smoke, to warm your back, to drink your tea and eat those johnny cakes from the pan and dip those dampers into the juices of the yongka and bacon that sit dookeniny... yuret-ngat dookeniny, daartj noonook benaarnginy, djurrepiny, yep we all dream of that day...
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Linguistic hooks iny nj
Continuing Verb ends iny nj, doublegee barbs on kangaroo skins.
The Noongar of old were tracked.
Observers watched them, from afar and up close.
The writer's hand of old moved across the page, and our eyes now follow the markings they made, our eyes follow their lines and make sense of their alphabets, sure, even now as aboriginal writers re-present themselves to the world we follow them too.
For the Aboriginal hand that leaves his tracks on the page has swapped one medium for another.
One such writer I regularly track.
He knows this, he knows I am tracking him, so he doesn't give too much away.
I track his linguistic baggage too, baggage that holds to his fur like doublegees attached to the skin of a kangaroo.
I see by the way he is hopping, he is burdened by what he carries.
The linguistic continuing verb endings hook iny nj into him as he goes careering across the page.
And in speech I am kaadidjiny not 'jenny' or 'jinny' not kaad-did-jinny but, I am kaad-did-jing more like him, than to the others I listen to stumbling upon the linguistic hook.
As I said I have seen these linguistic hooks that lie embedded in them, and hold them down, sharp hooks they fester in their flesh like the wooden barbs of the doublegee.
Now the old man who taught me, his lips danced and curled and his tongue was on fire, like kalamai waarngkiny... he would lick his words and send them on their way. How I wish I could speak like him, and track his talk along the tracks and laneways of his old pads of home.
I once wandered with him, we three his missus and me... we travelled to old haunts of his and her people.
Very often when not playing up for me, the anthropologist watching, I heard him whispering or voicing what the old one's used to say...
He was a Master of the linguistic iny nj, their hooks he'd have used as toothpicks, and doublegees had no hold on him.
And he didn't leave words on the page, he didn't have to.
The lands about him were his pages, and his tracks and those of the ancients lay connected.
His palimpsests and theirs lay about him, names, places and happenings and quick was his recall.
Belly laughs made him convulse, till coughing fits over took him...
The land as you know was read by him, read as text.
And his stories remain in his landscapes, his language remains to be awoken, but, I only hope, that his tracks are cleared of the doublegee and hooks that linguists will surely one day lay, hooks like fence snares for hungry kangaroos - hop beneath the wires if you dare
But then, who knows, across the page and onto the earth you will be seeing hearing 'kaadidjing' them bounding free to see-find their way and true form free from the hooks of the linguist inquistition and impaler...
Free from the hook, the nj that too few understand so that now their fur carries jinny-plenty of doublegees...
The Noongar of old were tracked.
Observers watched them, from afar and up close.
The writer's hand of old moved across the page, and our eyes now follow the markings they made, our eyes follow their lines and make sense of their alphabets, sure, even now as aboriginal writers re-present themselves to the world we follow them too.
For the Aboriginal hand that leaves his tracks on the page has swapped one medium for another.
One such writer I regularly track.
He knows this, he knows I am tracking him, so he doesn't give too much away.
I track his linguistic baggage too, baggage that holds to his fur like doublegees attached to the skin of a kangaroo.
I see by the way he is hopping, he is burdened by what he carries.
The linguistic continuing verb endings hook iny nj into him as he goes careering across the page.
And in speech I am kaadidjiny not 'jenny' or 'jinny' not kaad-did-jinny but, I am kaad-did-jing more like him, than to the others I listen to stumbling upon the linguistic hook.
As I said I have seen these linguistic hooks that lie embedded in them, and hold them down, sharp hooks they fester in their flesh like the wooden barbs of the doublegee.
Now the old man who taught me, his lips danced and curled and his tongue was on fire, like kalamai waarngkiny... he would lick his words and send them on their way. How I wish I could speak like him, and track his talk along the tracks and laneways of his old pads of home.
I once wandered with him, we three his missus and me... we travelled to old haunts of his and her people.
Very often when not playing up for me, the anthropologist watching, I heard him whispering or voicing what the old one's used to say...
He was a Master of the linguistic iny nj, their hooks he'd have used as toothpicks, and doublegees had no hold on him.
And he didn't leave words on the page, he didn't have to.
The lands about him were his pages, and his tracks and those of the ancients lay connected.
His palimpsests and theirs lay about him, names, places and happenings and quick was his recall.
Belly laughs made him convulse, till coughing fits over took him...
The land as you know was read by him, read as text.
And his stories remain in his landscapes, his language remains to be awoken, but, I only hope, that his tracks are cleared of the doublegee and hooks that linguists will surely one day lay, hooks like fence snares for hungry kangaroos - hop beneath the wires if you dare
But then, who knows, across the page and onto the earth you will be seeing hearing 'kaadidjing' them bounding free to see-find their way and true form free from the hooks of the linguist inquistition and impaler...
Free from the hook, the nj that too few understand so that now their fur carries jinny-plenty of doublegees...
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Native Title policies
Native Title policy is offal thrown to a legion of lawyers... 22nd March 2009
We want to believe that Indigenous Land Councils offer benefits to Indigenous peoples.
We want to believe that the right of negotiation might bring Indigenous peoples more than simply access to their land, but some kind of economic return from another's want of use...
A while ago I was asked about Native Title, about its policies... and I sat thinking, as I was surrounded by a lawyer and anthropologist, what answer they were expecting...
Are there any right answers here??!
Prior to this meeting I had sat thinking about what Native Title had given to many of Australia's Indigenous peoples... and besides thinking the obvious, the SFA - 'sweet f... all' I had thought whilst sitting there, that Native Title had given Indigenous peoples legions of lawyers and anthropologists... legal and anthropological/historical litigation dressed up as 'benefits' and 'hope' for people, a people, for many, entrenched in poverty.
Yeah right, what kind of benefits are those...??
The right to negotiate when a mining company is breathing down your neck...what kind of negotiations might that be - when rushed into thinking what commercial anthropologists are thinking - when under pressure from lawyers, who are, in turn, under pressure from Mining companies and government administrators...waving fingers and demanding outcomes...
Yep, Native Title has given Indigenous people legions of lawyers.
And what are the policies... ??
The policies are that anthropologists/archaeologists/historians, given limited time, and under pressure, should come up with the 'Indigenous goods' the evidence and the indigenous will to agree and all their hidden memories after an hour or several days of yarning... so their talk can then be thrown into the arena or shark pool where lawyers might feed (read prosper).
I remember having been represented in court by lawyers' Johnston and MacIntyre... when I had climbed a crane at the old Swan Brewery in 1989.
These two lawyers, the latter who later represented Eddie Mabo, spent hours arguing points of law.
Sure, these two weren't what I'd call sharks... they were, more 'givers than takers,' but the Noongar never got an inch of their lands at their site of Goonininup aka 'the old Swan Brewery'.
And whilst the 'Mabo/MacIntyre' case recognised Native Title in the islands off QLD, it didn't translate into something similar on the mainland...or did it???
I mean, Native Title has meant what, exactly??
Has it come to mean the same thing as freehold title??
Can it be sold off by Indigenous 'owners'??
Or can it only be fished from, camped upon, utilised...
And the lawyers... where are they...??
Their business and livelihoods remain the same, there connections will never end.
They have what one might call 'a perpetual lease of association' tied to something that few of us can grasp or understand.
Whilst there are legal questions, the dominant law of the land will always find legal definitions and points of law to contest, resolve and question.
But what and where for for the Indigenous landholder... the land connected... land knower?? (or is that land owner??)
They will always have the right to negotiate... it seems, but only if they are accompanied by a LAWYER...
We want to believe that Indigenous Land Councils offer benefits to Indigenous peoples.
We want to believe that the right of negotiation might bring Indigenous peoples more than simply access to their land, but some kind of economic return from another's want of use...
A while ago I was asked about Native Title, about its policies... and I sat thinking, as I was surrounded by a lawyer and anthropologist, what answer they were expecting...
Are there any right answers here??!
Prior to this meeting I had sat thinking about what Native Title had given to many of Australia's Indigenous peoples... and besides thinking the obvious, the SFA - 'sweet f... all' I had thought whilst sitting there, that Native Title had given Indigenous peoples legions of lawyers and anthropologists... legal and anthropological/historical litigation dressed up as 'benefits' and 'hope' for people, a people, for many, entrenched in poverty.
Yeah right, what kind of benefits are those...??
The right to negotiate when a mining company is breathing down your neck...what kind of negotiations might that be - when rushed into thinking what commercial anthropologists are thinking - when under pressure from lawyers, who are, in turn, under pressure from Mining companies and government administrators...waving fingers and demanding outcomes...
Yep, Native Title has given Indigenous people legions of lawyers.
And what are the policies... ??
The policies are that anthropologists/archaeologists/historians, given limited time, and under pressure, should come up with the 'Indigenous goods' the evidence and the indigenous will to agree and all their hidden memories after an hour or several days of yarning... so their talk can then be thrown into the arena or shark pool where lawyers might feed (read prosper).
I remember having been represented in court by lawyers' Johnston and MacIntyre... when I had climbed a crane at the old Swan Brewery in 1989.
These two lawyers, the latter who later represented Eddie Mabo, spent hours arguing points of law.
Sure, these two weren't what I'd call sharks... they were, more 'givers than takers,' but the Noongar never got an inch of their lands at their site of Goonininup aka 'the old Swan Brewery'.
And whilst the 'Mabo/MacIntyre' case recognised Native Title in the islands off QLD, it didn't translate into something similar on the mainland...or did it???
I mean, Native Title has meant what, exactly??
Has it come to mean the same thing as freehold title??
Can it be sold off by Indigenous 'owners'??
Or can it only be fished from, camped upon, utilised...
And the lawyers... where are they...??
Their business and livelihoods remain the same, there connections will never end.
They have what one might call 'a perpetual lease of association' tied to something that few of us can grasp or understand.
Whilst there are legal questions, the dominant law of the land will always find legal definitions and points of law to contest, resolve and question.
But what and where for for the Indigenous landholder... the land connected... land knower?? (or is that land owner??)
They will always have the right to negotiate... it seems, but only if they are accompanied by a LAWYER...
Monday, February 23, 2009
Kellerberrin Kangaroo and the Moon and SaltLake
Kellerberrin Kangaroo writers of the pan. 23-02-09
Where I lived in Kellerberrin, I often went walking over salt lakes.
Sure, many a time, when the water upon them was low enough, in the company of the older Humphries I scraped salt.
We sold it by the bag or trailer load to farmers.
It was said to improve the condition of their sheep's wool or to do something for their pigs... except I was never quite sure what that was, thinking, perhaps, it went someway to preserving their meat before they met their end.
Anyhow, sometimes I wandered across the lakes by myself, and at other times I travelled with my friend the Kwolyin Noongar and artist, Lindsay Harris.
This one time we travelled to the Humphries lake edge, where several salt pans feed small streamlines that run towards Kwellaliny 'Mt Stirling' in the south.
This one day I noticed a kangaroo track that went out across the middle of the lake, deeply gorging the ground as it went.
This lake bed was a page, and the tracks of the kangaroo - the yongka maam - was text.
I knelt down and read it.
What was it doing in the middle of this lake?
What act of desperation had pushed it from its cover to be here?
Sure enough, I also noted it wasn't alone.
Small, barely visible prints followed and flanked it.
There were its wives and offspring following behind.
In the middle of that lake its paws had gorged the wet mud, and now, ever desperate, its strides appeared laboured.
It was desperate to get away from something... the lake's surface indicated in braille the plans of the yongka family hopping upon its surface.
I suspect it happened at night, perhaps under the light of the moon, when the surface of the lake would have shined and the added glowing lamp-spotlight from the hunter's truck would have illuminated and virtually blinded the kangaroos that strove to make their getaway.
Looking at the prints and writings upon that pan read like the last words of the condemned.
The yongka-maam boomer, I read hopped with muscles straining, perspiring, frantic like a steam train puffing, leading his tribe into oblivion, as the hunter's gun locked his target and the farmer's finger moved, pulled the trigger.
The surface of that lake was not blood stained, there was no evidence that the bullets had found their target.
Nor was the lake bed superimposed by the gate of kangaroo dogs, so perhaps the Noongar weren't the hunters...
There was no evidence of bullets out in the lake save for the bright red cartridges that lay in the salt bush bordering the lake.
I want to believe that, that night, the yongka maam and his koolang yokang woolagat travelling behind him - his family - had made it to the cover of their pad.
I want to believe that the moon man looking down remembered his relationship and words to that yongka in ancient times - 'bones and dust you become, but me, I live forever.'
I want to believe that, that night, both the moon and the yongka family sat staring at one another.
That the moon looked down in praise of the man and his family, that they had made it.
And the yongka, similarly with great reverence, might have stared above in praise of the moon who had lit their path and guided them, safely home.
See the lake bed is a page and the tracks and markings are the words of the one who moves upon it.
Even the strange lines of waterflow communicate the words of storm and season past. With every downpour, with every rain laden storm-cloud, the pages and its slate of memories is washed away to lay in wait for when some other writer might leave a message for those who choose, or know, to read it.
Where I lived in Kellerberrin, I often went walking over salt lakes.
Sure, many a time, when the water upon them was low enough, in the company of the older Humphries I scraped salt.
We sold it by the bag or trailer load to farmers.
It was said to improve the condition of their sheep's wool or to do something for their pigs... except I was never quite sure what that was, thinking, perhaps, it went someway to preserving their meat before they met their end.
Anyhow, sometimes I wandered across the lakes by myself, and at other times I travelled with my friend the Kwolyin Noongar and artist, Lindsay Harris.
This one time we travelled to the Humphries lake edge, where several salt pans feed small streamlines that run towards Kwellaliny 'Mt Stirling' in the south.
This one day I noticed a kangaroo track that went out across the middle of the lake, deeply gorging the ground as it went.
This lake bed was a page, and the tracks of the kangaroo - the yongka maam - was text.
I knelt down and read it.
What was it doing in the middle of this lake?
What act of desperation had pushed it from its cover to be here?
Sure enough, I also noted it wasn't alone.
Small, barely visible prints followed and flanked it.
There were its wives and offspring following behind.
In the middle of that lake its paws had gorged the wet mud, and now, ever desperate, its strides appeared laboured.
It was desperate to get away from something... the lake's surface indicated in braille the plans of the yongka family hopping upon its surface.
I suspect it happened at night, perhaps under the light of the moon, when the surface of the lake would have shined and the added glowing lamp-spotlight from the hunter's truck would have illuminated and virtually blinded the kangaroos that strove to make their getaway.
Looking at the prints and writings upon that pan read like the last words of the condemned.
The yongka-maam boomer, I read hopped with muscles straining, perspiring, frantic like a steam train puffing, leading his tribe into oblivion, as the hunter's gun locked his target and the farmer's finger moved, pulled the trigger.
The surface of that lake was not blood stained, there was no evidence that the bullets had found their target.
Nor was the lake bed superimposed by the gate of kangaroo dogs, so perhaps the Noongar weren't the hunters...
There was no evidence of bullets out in the lake save for the bright red cartridges that lay in the salt bush bordering the lake.
I want to believe that, that night, the yongka maam and his koolang yokang woolagat travelling behind him - his family - had made it to the cover of their pad.
I want to believe that the moon man looking down remembered his relationship and words to that yongka in ancient times - 'bones and dust you become, but me, I live forever.'
I want to believe that, that night, both the moon and the yongka family sat staring at one another.
That the moon looked down in praise of the man and his family, that they had made it.
And the yongka, similarly with great reverence, might have stared above in praise of the moon who had lit their path and guided them, safely home.
See the lake bed is a page and the tracks and markings are the words of the one who moves upon it.
Even the strange lines of waterflow communicate the words of storm and season past. With every downpour, with every rain laden storm-cloud, the pages and its slate of memories is washed away to lay in wait for when some other writer might leave a message for those who choose, or know, to read it.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Sovereignty and the word Kaalagap
Sovereignty 22-02-09
Sovereignty, some Noongar mention this word, and I think, it is used by them to argue for what they believe is their perpetual absolute unquestionable right.
But, to me, this word sounds like a word dripping with the perforated intestines of colonialism.
Surely, surely the word: 'Kaalagup' is the better word for the Noongar to use.
One's birthright, the place of one's birth meant everything to the Noongar of old. The country of your mother, tied through your bily, your umbilical chord like the river through the land connects you to places.
Old Cliff's mother was born in Beverley, and that river that runs by Beverley, the same one that runs through York weaves its way right between the hills of Mt Stirling and to the north of Kellerberrin.
Cliff's father was born in Quairading and, his grandfathers in York and Beverley... His kaalagup was part of the track that led through his mother's and father's lands. His children, many of them born in Kellerberrin and Pingelly, the land of their mother, have ties to lands of their kaalagap, and ties that endure to this day.
Sovereignty, some Noongar mention this word, and I think, it is used by them to argue for what they believe is their perpetual absolute unquestionable right.
But, to me, this word sounds like a word dripping with the perforated intestines of colonialism.
Surely, surely the word: 'Kaalagup' is the better word for the Noongar to use.
One's birthright, the place of one's birth meant everything to the Noongar of old. The country of your mother, tied through your bily, your umbilical chord like the river through the land connects you to places.
Old Cliff's mother was born in Beverley, and that river that runs by Beverley, the same one that runs through York weaves its way right between the hills of Mt Stirling and to the north of Kellerberrin.
Cliff's father was born in Quairading and, his grandfathers in York and Beverley... His kaalagup was part of the track that led through his mother's and father's lands. His children, many of them born in Kellerberrin and Pingelly, the land of their mother, have ties to lands of their kaalagap, and ties that endure to this day.
He stole the moon
He stole the moon 22-02=09
Kooraar, kaadjali - far, far away, long ago, such a long time ago!
Yey baal kaadjali bardlanginy, nidja minang Noongar... he was travelling far from his lands.
Yey baal djinaanginy, waam mai kaadidjiny, baalap meeak waangalanginy, they were talking about the moon, these fellas.
Yep, these Noongar of long ago were talking about the moon, sacred business.
And this stranger heard them, talking, in whispers.
He got the part about the moon in the finger nail, baal mai borl baranginy, meeak-mai borl baranginy, borl-worl-koorliny, he crept with this story dtaa-waam donniny, put it upon the lips of another.
This is the way stories are spread, I guess.
Baal meeak baal borl-wort baranginy, upon the lips of another he put him there, a story that never belonged to him, but he took him, that moon.
Yey baal waaliny kaarangabiny - you could hear him crying, calling out from the text on that page: "What am I doing here, I don't belong here, why has he put me in the mouth of another?"
And then that moon whispered from that page: "That Noongar done a lot of things wrong, sure he even stole a song..." "...put that song, like me, upon the lips of another, planted the tree of tradition or, rather, dug it, lifted it from it's native soil and stole from another from what was not his toil..."
The moon kept going...on that page, telling me things, told me to follow that Noongar's textual tracks - like old Chuditch whose wife had an affair with Mr Possum.
Old Wedj recieved gifts of ochre and old Chuditj saw these gifts when he returned to his camp.
Seeing these gifts on the ground, little bits here and there, the textual tracks were clear as day, and he knew with no ounce of a doubt that his wife had a lover. He went away one day and hid himself and he caught them, his wife and her lover... So now I am watching... the desk lamp has replaced the moon lamp.
I follow the moon's advice and I track them.
Like old Noongar did with cleared ground, kept track of strangers to their camp, men of ill intent... looked for their tracks, now I watch for them upon the page...
I know the tracks of my teacher and his family, and I know too the tracks of strangers, carrying off what is not theirs to take...
Kooraar, kaadjali - far, far away, long ago, such a long time ago!
Yey baal kaadjali bardlanginy, nidja minang Noongar... he was travelling far from his lands.
Yey baal djinaanginy, waam mai kaadidjiny, baalap meeak waangalanginy, they were talking about the moon, these fellas.
Yep, these Noongar of long ago were talking about the moon, sacred business.
And this stranger heard them, talking, in whispers.
He got the part about the moon in the finger nail, baal mai borl baranginy, meeak-mai borl baranginy, borl-worl-koorliny, he crept with this story dtaa-waam donniny, put it upon the lips of another.
This is the way stories are spread, I guess.
Baal meeak baal borl-wort baranginy, upon the lips of another he put him there, a story that never belonged to him, but he took him, that moon.
Yey baal waaliny kaarangabiny - you could hear him crying, calling out from the text on that page: "What am I doing here, I don't belong here, why has he put me in the mouth of another?"
And then that moon whispered from that page: "That Noongar done a lot of things wrong, sure he even stole a song..." "...put that song, like me, upon the lips of another, planted the tree of tradition or, rather, dug it, lifted it from it's native soil and stole from another from what was not his toil..."
The moon kept going...on that page, telling me things, told me to follow that Noongar's textual tracks - like old Chuditch whose wife had an affair with Mr Possum.
Old Wedj recieved gifts of ochre and old Chuditj saw these gifts when he returned to his camp.
Seeing these gifts on the ground, little bits here and there, the textual tracks were clear as day, and he knew with no ounce of a doubt that his wife had a lover. He went away one day and hid himself and he caught them, his wife and her lover... So now I am watching... the desk lamp has replaced the moon lamp.
I follow the moon's advice and I track them.
Like old Noongar did with cleared ground, kept track of strangers to their camp, men of ill intent... looked for their tracks, now I watch for them upon the page...
I know the tracks of my teacher and his family, and I know too the tracks of strangers, carrying off what is not theirs to take...
Monday, February 2, 2009
A Kellerberrin Horse
A Kellerberrin Horse 2nd Feb 2009
In my last blog I mentioned a tree, a giant, ancient, grey barked, blue leafed, buttress rooted being, that held sway in my temporary past part of this world.
I did mention horses, but I gave no names.
One was a trotting horse that was a foal trained in these here parts.
Its name was Chico and in the late 1930s, it became the property of my grandfather's brothers.
It was a horse that could not be beaten and such was the West Australian angst of certain, nameless mobsters, my grandfather's brothers had the horse moved interstate.
Now mentioning this horse, I have done so because of the Noongar tales that were once told about the maned legends of the hoof...
Old Noongar called them ngort.
Imagine that, the old horse was a ngort!
And the Noongar word for the fly was a nort, now ain't the two of them similar...??!
But then so too is the Noongar word for stink - nurrt!
Perhaps the horse, so beloved by the Noongar were noted for their smell - and not just to the Noongar, but to the fly who followed the ngort wherever he travelled. Cliff told the yarn about a Noongar who caught a horse called Nellie.
I cannot tell you this whole yarn, but it was a special one of the old man and related to a story and series of songs that happened near Kellerberrin.
Anyway, I guess what I can tell you is that the Noongar rider atop the horse becomes an eagle...
And Cliff's words... vivid in their description, laden with imagery, onomatopoeia and rhythm, Noongar words of the mai - the talk - almost word for word feature in someone else's tale, about one who becomes a hawk when riding a horse!
That 'someone else's tale' was none other than William Shakespeare.
As I said, I cannot tell the whole yarn here.
If I did, other's would surely grab it, and thrust it into the mouths of some other - as some have already done... and share nothing in common with the horse or the fly but only the stink - the nurrt - left behind...
So watch this space, and all will be revealed.
Old man Humphries had a gift, and his story and singing of the horse was one gift of the many he wanted his people to know... and they will, but better it is referenced coming from his mouth than from an imagined other...
Beneath this tree, giant arboreal being there were horses tethered and hobbled... Beneath such a tree was such imagery born...
In my last blog I mentioned a tree, a giant, ancient, grey barked, blue leafed, buttress rooted being, that held sway in my temporary past part of this world.
I did mention horses, but I gave no names.
One was a trotting horse that was a foal trained in these here parts.
Its name was Chico and in the late 1930s, it became the property of my grandfather's brothers.
It was a horse that could not be beaten and such was the West Australian angst of certain, nameless mobsters, my grandfather's brothers had the horse moved interstate.
Now mentioning this horse, I have done so because of the Noongar tales that were once told about the maned legends of the hoof...
Old Noongar called them ngort.
Imagine that, the old horse was a ngort!
And the Noongar word for the fly was a nort, now ain't the two of them similar...??!
But then so too is the Noongar word for stink - nurrt!
Perhaps the horse, so beloved by the Noongar were noted for their smell - and not just to the Noongar, but to the fly who followed the ngort wherever he travelled. Cliff told the yarn about a Noongar who caught a horse called Nellie.
I cannot tell you this whole yarn, but it was a special one of the old man and related to a story and series of songs that happened near Kellerberrin.
Anyway, I guess what I can tell you is that the Noongar rider atop the horse becomes an eagle...
And Cliff's words... vivid in their description, laden with imagery, onomatopoeia and rhythm, Noongar words of the mai - the talk - almost word for word feature in someone else's tale, about one who becomes a hawk when riding a horse!
That 'someone else's tale' was none other than William Shakespeare.
As I said, I cannot tell the whole yarn here.
If I did, other's would surely grab it, and thrust it into the mouths of some other - as some have already done... and share nothing in common with the horse or the fly but only the stink - the nurrt - left behind...
So watch this space, and all will be revealed.
Old man Humphries had a gift, and his story and singing of the horse was one gift of the many he wanted his people to know... and they will, but better it is referenced coming from his mouth than from an imagined other...
Beneath this tree, giant arboreal being there were horses tethered and hobbled... Beneath such a tree was such imagery born...
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Old Man Tuart
Old Man Tuart 29th Jan 2009
Where I live was once an old Tuart, he was just a stump when I first came here.
His size was huge, and when alive he must have shaded the wild horses in the district.
I reckon he must have been very old, he might even have been in the vicinity of 800 years.
As I come to think about it now, to the Noongar he was probably a favourite, they probably climbed into his branches for eggs and possum.
Maybe they just rested beneath his branches when hunting duck and djilgies in the nearby lakes.
Imagine that!?
Imagine when Perth was a placename in Scotland.
When Perth belonged to the Picts and this region belonged to the Noongar - Booroo - place of lakes and swamps full with tortoise, kweyaar boolaarr with plenty of frogs, and women folk, whose naked bodies glistened red from oily ochre... and kids laughing, screaming in joy... bitten by a djilgie, thrusting arms into their burrows in the stream banks to pull them out, and duck and lizards hanging limp in the men's noolburn belts - men scraping their spears by their smokey fires, watching for the smoke of others beyond, signals on the horizon... and the shadows getting longer, the sun sinking and in the silence an old man singing!
Imagine when Perth was a place in Scotland!
And this boodjaa smelt of the doolyaar-kaalanginy, the scent from burning leaves. Yep, this old Tuart must have heard any number of sounds - Noongar singing by their fires, warm and snug in their bell hut mias - a far cry from the noise that is now...
And to think, that everywhere in all directions this was true... all sand holds the memory of such fires and old trees, fires that were cooked over, sung over and old trees that shaded the many, now memories in the soil, bone and charcoal beneath the houses of the residents of Perth.
Where I live was once an old Tuart, he was just a stump when I first came here.
His size was huge, and when alive he must have shaded the wild horses in the district.
I reckon he must have been very old, he might even have been in the vicinity of 800 years.
As I come to think about it now, to the Noongar he was probably a favourite, they probably climbed into his branches for eggs and possum.
Maybe they just rested beneath his branches when hunting duck and djilgies in the nearby lakes.
Imagine that!?
Imagine when Perth was a placename in Scotland.
When Perth belonged to the Picts and this region belonged to the Noongar - Booroo - place of lakes and swamps full with tortoise, kweyaar boolaarr with plenty of frogs, and women folk, whose naked bodies glistened red from oily ochre... and kids laughing, screaming in joy... bitten by a djilgie, thrusting arms into their burrows in the stream banks to pull them out, and duck and lizards hanging limp in the men's noolburn belts - men scraping their spears by their smokey fires, watching for the smoke of others beyond, signals on the horizon... and the shadows getting longer, the sun sinking and in the silence an old man singing!
Imagine when Perth was a place in Scotland!
And this boodjaa smelt of the doolyaar-kaalanginy, the scent from burning leaves. Yep, this old Tuart must have heard any number of sounds - Noongar singing by their fires, warm and snug in their bell hut mias - a far cry from the noise that is now...
And to think, that everywhere in all directions this was true... all sand holds the memory of such fires and old trees, fires that were cooked over, sung over and old trees that shaded the many, now memories in the soil, bone and charcoal beneath the houses of the residents of Perth.
Maaman Yira
Maaman Yira 29th Jan 2009
Ngany Kongk, Cliff Humphries, baal waarngk, djurrep kaadidjiny, aalee Maaman yira nidja nyininy!!
Yey bidiyaa maar-yaaragat nyininy - Noongar bidiyaa!!
Baalaa nop, baalaa borong, baal Maaman-aa-maadarn Reverend, baal Maaman waarngk-djurrepiny ngaartamurnong!!
Yey nidja Maaman, ngiyan baal??
Baal Hebrew bidiyaa 'Yahweh' maar yaaragata kep-kurliny...
Noongar/Hebrew bidiyaa keny!
Maar moorn yaaragat!! Maaman bidiyaa djirilmari bwoorr waarngkiny, keniny!!
Kep yaaragat kurliny!!
Ngany Kongk, Cliff Humphries, baal waarngk, djurrep kaadidjiny, aalee Maaman yira nidja nyininy!!
Yey bidiyaa maar-yaaragat nyininy - Noongar bidiyaa!!
Baalaa nop, baalaa borong, baal Maaman-aa-maadarn Reverend, baal Maaman waarngk-djurrepiny ngaartamurnong!!
Yey nidja Maaman, ngiyan baal??
Baal Hebrew bidiyaa 'Yahweh' maar yaaragata kep-kurliny...
Noongar/Hebrew bidiyaa keny!
Maar moorn yaaragat!! Maaman bidiyaa djirilmari bwoorr waarngkiny, keniny!!
Kep yaaragat kurliny!!
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
Watching the box
Watching the box 6th Jan 2009
This is a tangled web. I cannot find work and with no money I am living on the edge. But I speak with some language, learnt from an old man and his wife. But I have no one to talk to and this language I have learnt is good for nothing.
I am sick of the conversations I have with myself.
We always talk about the same things.
Sometimes I talk to the crows, when I talk to the crows and the willy wagtail I wonder if they can understand me, because there ain't a Noongar in sight I can speak to.
Ngientj nidja keny-nyininy - windji noonagat - boolaarang baalap dwonkbert - woort koorliny, english mai waangkiny!!
What, for why, why, how could you let a language die.
You say the old people didn't want to reveal it - bullshit - nah, no one wanted to listen - that's the truth, no one was prepared to sit around the old kids fire to rest their head within their night-time mia - nahh - couldn't be bothered, nahh don't shit me with your lies...about how the old ones didn't want to reveal it before they died.
When I was shifting gas bottles and collecting wood, where were you?
When I was scraping salt and being torn to shreds where were you?
When I was eating flaps on the fire - where were you?
Yuaart! No you were somewhere inside watching the box.
How could you let a language die?? A disregard for the birds that are singing, a disinterest in all their wisdom bringing.
How could you let it go?
This is a tangled web. I cannot find work and with no money I am living on the edge. But I speak with some language, learnt from an old man and his wife. But I have no one to talk to and this language I have learnt is good for nothing.
I am sick of the conversations I have with myself.
We always talk about the same things.
Sometimes I talk to the crows, when I talk to the crows and the willy wagtail I wonder if they can understand me, because there ain't a Noongar in sight I can speak to.
Ngientj nidja keny-nyininy - windji noonagat - boolaarang baalap dwonkbert - woort koorliny, english mai waangkiny!!
What, for why, why, how could you let a language die.
You say the old people didn't want to reveal it - bullshit - nah, no one wanted to listen - that's the truth, no one was prepared to sit around the old kids fire to rest their head within their night-time mia - nahh - couldn't be bothered, nahh don't shit me with your lies...about how the old ones didn't want to reveal it before they died.
When I was shifting gas bottles and collecting wood, where were you?
When I was scraping salt and being torn to shreds where were you?
When I was eating flaps on the fire - where were you?
Yuaart! No you were somewhere inside watching the box.
How could you let a language die?? A disregard for the birds that are singing, a disinterest in all their wisdom bringing.
How could you let it go?
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