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.

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!!

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?