I was over at Whispering Gums's site, where she's writing about place names, with special emphasis on Australian ones. In that context, I thought I'd point her in the direction of this poem, which I thought I'd already posted. I can't find it anywhere among my posts, so apologies if in fact I have:
Country Places by AD Hope
I glean them from signposts in these country places,
Weird names, some beautiful, more that make me laugh.
Driving to fat-lamb sales or to picnic races,
I pass their worshippers of the golden calf
And, in the dust of their Cadillacs, a latter-day Habbakuk
Rises in me to preach comic sermons of doom,
Crying: 'Woe unto Tocumwal, Teddywaddy, Tooleybuc!'
And: 'Wicked Wallumburrawang, your hour has come!'
But when the Four Horsemen ride their final muster
And my sinful country sinks in the fiery rain
One name shall survive the doom and the disaster
That fell on the foolish cities of the plain.
Like the three holy children or the salamander
One place shall sing and flourish in the fire:
It is Sweet Water Creek at Mullengandra
And there at the Last Day I shall retire.
When Numbugga shrieks to Burrumbuttock:
'The curse of Sodom comes upon us all!;
When Tumbarumba calls for spade and mattock
And they bury Hell and Hay in Booligal;
When the wrath of God is loosed upon Gilgandra
And Gyulargamobone burns red agains the west,
To Sweet Water Creek at Mullengandra
I shall rise and flee away and be at rest.
When from Goonoo Goonoo, Underbool and Grong Grong
And Suggan Buggan there goes up the cry,
From Titty bong, Drik Drik and Drung Drung,
'Help, Lord, help us, or we die!'
I shall lie beside a willow-cool meander, or
Cut myself a fly-whisk in the shade,
And from Sweet Water Creek at Mullengandra
Fill my cup and whet my whistle unafraid
When Boinka lies in ruins (more's the pity!),
And a heavenly trump proclaims the End of Grace,
With: 'Wombat is fallen, is fallen, that great city!'
Adding: 'Bunyip is in little better case',
When from Puckapunyal and from Yackandandah
The cry goes up: 'How long, O Lord, how long?'
I shall hear the she-oaks sough at Mullengandra
And the Sweet Waters ripple into song:
Oh, there's little to be hoped for Grabben Gullen
And Tumbulgum shrinks and shudders at its fate;
Folks at Wantabadgery and Cullen Bullen
Have Buckley's chance of reaching Heaven's gate;
It's all up with Cootamundra and Kiandra
And at Collarenebri they know they're through;
But at Sweet Water Creek at Mullengandra
You may pitch your camp and sleep the whole night through.
God shall punish Cargellico, Come-by-Chance, Chinkapook;
They shall dance no more at Merrijig nor drink at Gentleman's Halt;
The sin of Moombooldool He shall in no wise overlook;
Wee Jasper and Little Jilliby, He shall not condone their fault;
But though I preach down Nap Nap and annihilate Narrandera,
One place shall yet be saved, this I declare:
Sweet Water Creek at Mullengandra
For its name and for my sake the Lord shall spare.
Coda
Alas! my beautiful, my prosperous, my careless country,
She destroys herself: the Lord will come too late!
They have cut down even their only tree at One Tree;
Dust has choked Honey Bugle and drifts over Creeper Gate;
The fires we lit ourselves on Mt Boothegandra
Have made more ruin than Heaven's consuming flame;
Even Sweet Water Creek at Mullengandra,
If I went there now, would it live up to its name?
Wednesday, 8 December 2010
Tuesday, 7 December 2010
Resisting Temptation
It's my birthday (thanks, but really, there's no need), and among the many presents (or votive offerings, as I like to describe them) that I've received is "Letters from London and Europe", a collection of letters by Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa, author of The Leopard.
The Leopard was the first book that I ever read in Italian - and, rather in the same way that that first camera shot you take often turns out to be the best one, it is probably also the best book I have ever read in Italian (although, of course, there was Dante, which I saw someone describing somewhere the other day as 'not as good as Shakespeare', which I thought a meaningless comparison, [and I also liked Christ Stopped at Eboli and at first I liked Calvino but now I only really like the one about being in the resistance that he wrote early on - but I digress {how unusual}]).
Anyway, the book I've been given is wonderful. In fact, I have had to have a short sharp talk with myself; I have had to tell myself firmly that I cannot transform this blog entirely into an altar to Lampedusa's letters; I have agreed with myself - actually, I have given myself a firm commitment - that I will not quote from it in every blog post from now on but merely slip in the odd bit or piece occasionally, among other topics. Otherwise, it might get a bit like reading aloud your favourite bits to unwilling listeners.
I don't really believe anyone could be unwilling to discover this delightful material, but I have been forced to accept that it's possible. In exchange for my agreement to be moderate, I have given myself permission to include a nice slab from Francesco da Mosto's foreword today (well, fair's fair - it is, as I mentioned, my birthday):
'My mother was born in Palermo, and she lived there until she got married. So every year, for Christmas, we went down to visit the grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins and the whole extended family. All of them belonged to the Bellini Club, just like Lampedusa and his cousins, the Piccolos, to whom most of these letters are addressed.
My grandfather remembered Lampedusa from his times at the Bellini and the various balls, where he often leant against the door jamb, like a spectator rather than an actor in that magical comedy, together with Roberto Lucchesi Palli, Duca della Grazia. As a result, the pair received the nickname of "The Pillars of Hercules".
At the time, it was common for the Sicilian aristocracy to travel regularly to France and England. In Paris, the ladies would get fitted from head to toe, while the men went to London to get custom-made shirts and shoes, and stopped in Paris for the gibus, the collapsible top hat. We used my grandfather's as an accordion or - walking with a bone-topped cane in arm - lowered it over our eyes to imitate him.
Among the "travelling" Bellini members, my grandfather Ciccio sent his shirts to London to be laundered. Another member, Cicciuzzo, the "Demented", from the landowning family of the Cupane barons, was extremely intelligent and had an almost maniacal taste for paradox. He would come out of the library with his clothes all crumpled, exclaming: "I went on the most marvellous trip - I've just come back from China" - and asking the Maestro di Casa, before leaving the Club, to send home a telegram with instructions to wake him up the next morning. Slovenly and always with unkempt hair and beard, he was very different from his cousin Cicciuzzo, the "Lackey", who always looked like a true gentleman, perfectly turned out and well dressed.
Other members of my Sicilian family travelled too, also in very eccentric ways. One of my uncle's ancestors had vowed to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land if he survived a cholera epidemic, but since he didn't have enough money to embark on such a long journey, he decided to replicate the expedition through his garden and inside his own house. So, on a Monday night, he set off for the "Holy Land" with his butler: one day they would camp near the fish pond, where the papyrus plants would brush against the fabric of the tent; another day in the flower bed under the orange-tree blossoms; one day in the stables, and the next in the ballroom or the music room, covering the whole distance until they finally reached their destination. To celebrate their arrival, a mass was held in the house chapel, after which my uncle's ancestor turned to the butler and said: "And now let's get ready for the journey home." To which the butler is said to have replied, in a deferential tone, "M'Lord, if you don't mind, I'd rather stay here, in the Holy Land."'
The Leopard was the first book that I ever read in Italian - and, rather in the same way that that first camera shot you take often turns out to be the best one, it is probably also the best book I have ever read in Italian (although, of course, there was Dante, which I saw someone describing somewhere the other day as 'not as good as Shakespeare', which I thought a meaningless comparison, [and I also liked Christ Stopped at Eboli and at first I liked Calvino but now I only really like the one about being in the resistance that he wrote early on - but I digress {how unusual}]).
Anyway, the book I've been given is wonderful. In fact, I have had to have a short sharp talk with myself; I have had to tell myself firmly that I cannot transform this blog entirely into an altar to Lampedusa's letters; I have agreed with myself - actually, I have given myself a firm commitment - that I will not quote from it in every blog post from now on but merely slip in the odd bit or piece occasionally, among other topics. Otherwise, it might get a bit like reading aloud your favourite bits to unwilling listeners.
I don't really believe anyone could be unwilling to discover this delightful material, but I have been forced to accept that it's possible. In exchange for my agreement to be moderate, I have given myself permission to include a nice slab from Francesco da Mosto's foreword today (well, fair's fair - it is, as I mentioned, my birthday):
'My mother was born in Palermo, and she lived there until she got married. So every year, for Christmas, we went down to visit the grandparents, aunts and uncles, cousins and the whole extended family. All of them belonged to the Bellini Club, just like Lampedusa and his cousins, the Piccolos, to whom most of these letters are addressed.
My grandfather remembered Lampedusa from his times at the Bellini and the various balls, where he often leant against the door jamb, like a spectator rather than an actor in that magical comedy, together with Roberto Lucchesi Palli, Duca della Grazia. As a result, the pair received the nickname of "The Pillars of Hercules".
At the time, it was common for the Sicilian aristocracy to travel regularly to France and England. In Paris, the ladies would get fitted from head to toe, while the men went to London to get custom-made shirts and shoes, and stopped in Paris for the gibus, the collapsible top hat. We used my grandfather's as an accordion or - walking with a bone-topped cane in arm - lowered it over our eyes to imitate him.
Among the "travelling" Bellini members, my grandfather Ciccio sent his shirts to London to be laundered. Another member, Cicciuzzo, the "Demented", from the landowning family of the Cupane barons, was extremely intelligent and had an almost maniacal taste for paradox. He would come out of the library with his clothes all crumpled, exclaming: "I went on the most marvellous trip - I've just come back from China" - and asking the Maestro di Casa, before leaving the Club, to send home a telegram with instructions to wake him up the next morning. Slovenly and always with unkempt hair and beard, he was very different from his cousin Cicciuzzo, the "Lackey", who always looked like a true gentleman, perfectly turned out and well dressed.
Other members of my Sicilian family travelled too, also in very eccentric ways. One of my uncle's ancestors had vowed to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land if he survived a cholera epidemic, but since he didn't have enough money to embark on such a long journey, he decided to replicate the expedition through his garden and inside his own house. So, on a Monday night, he set off for the "Holy Land" with his butler: one day they would camp near the fish pond, where the papyrus plants would brush against the fabric of the tent; another day in the flower bed under the orange-tree blossoms; one day in the stables, and the next in the ballroom or the music room, covering the whole distance until they finally reached their destination. To celebrate their arrival, a mass was held in the house chapel, after which my uncle's ancestor turned to the butler and said: "And now let's get ready for the journey home." To which the butler is said to have replied, in a deferential tone, "M'Lord, if you don't mind, I'd rather stay here, in the Holy Land."'
False Friends
Penguin Australia announced yesterday that the world's first Encyclopedia Britannica was published on 6th December, 1768. This reminded me that I'd seen an exhibition about encyclopedias at the State Library of Victoria last time I was there. On display was Diderot's encyclopedia, (not the one he had, but the one he made, clever fellow.) Apparently, Diderot described it as an attempt to collect together all the knowledge then available, so that people could consult it easily. As the exhibition helpfully pointed out, this is now called the internet, which means that encyclopedias are due for extinction round about - ooh, look, they're gone.
And the disappearance of encyclopedias, it seems to me, can only be a good thing. In my limited experience, they bring nothing but grief and misery into a household. This certainly was what happened when my brother was about five years old.
It all began a few weeks before Christmas, when my parents asked my brother what he wanted as a Christmas gift. Without hesitation he answered: 'An encyclopedia, please, mummy and daddy.' 'Are you sure?' they asked him, dazzled by his precocity. 'Oh yes,' he piped up confidently, 'and, if you could get rid of that rat-like infant who you say is my sister, that would be jolly nice as well.' (I just added that last bit in to get audience sympathy, to be honest.)
My parents, already intoxicated by the way the little chap had breezed through the whole learning-to-read thing, rushed off to the bookshop and bought the biggest and best encyclopedia they could find. They wrapped it up in bright shiny paper and on the big day they handed it over, anticipation and pleasure sparkling in their eyes.
Imagine their surprise then, when they watched my brother open the package and saw his chubby little face fall instead of breaking into a joyous grin. He turned the thing over and opened it and closed it. 'Thank you so much, mummy and daddy,' he managed to say, bravely, but they could see he was gulping back a deep and painful sense of disappointment. 'Is there a problem?', our mother asked him eventually, 'is the encyclopedia that we got you not the right kind?' 'No, mother, it's simply lovely," my brother answered, politely, 'it's only I was hoping for an encyclopedia that I could sit on.' 'An encyclopedia that you could sit on?' 'Yes, one I could sit on, with wheels and handlebars and a basket and, if possible, a really noisy bell.'
And the disappearance of encyclopedias, it seems to me, can only be a good thing. In my limited experience, they bring nothing but grief and misery into a household. This certainly was what happened when my brother was about five years old.
It all began a few weeks before Christmas, when my parents asked my brother what he wanted as a Christmas gift. Without hesitation he answered: 'An encyclopedia, please, mummy and daddy.' 'Are you sure?' they asked him, dazzled by his precocity. 'Oh yes,' he piped up confidently, 'and, if you could get rid of that rat-like infant who you say is my sister, that would be jolly nice as well.' (I just added that last bit in to get audience sympathy, to be honest.)
My parents, already intoxicated by the way the little chap had breezed through the whole learning-to-read thing, rushed off to the bookshop and bought the biggest and best encyclopedia they could find. They wrapped it up in bright shiny paper and on the big day they handed it over, anticipation and pleasure sparkling in their eyes.
Imagine their surprise then, when they watched my brother open the package and saw his chubby little face fall instead of breaking into a joyous grin. He turned the thing over and opened it and closed it. 'Thank you so much, mummy and daddy,' he managed to say, bravely, but they could see he was gulping back a deep and painful sense of disappointment. 'Is there a problem?', our mother asked him eventually, 'is the encyclopedia that we got you not the right kind?' 'No, mother, it's simply lovely," my brother answered, politely, 'it's only I was hoping for an encyclopedia that I could sit on.' 'An encyclopedia that you could sit on?' 'Yes, one I could sit on, with wheels and handlebars and a basket and, if possible, a really noisy bell.'
Monday, 6 December 2010
Obsession
Years ago I saw the very first winner of Big Brother being interviewed. He was a nice looking Dutchman who appeared to be very surprised at the excitement his success had generated. When asked what he had to say to all the shrieking fans waiting outside the studio for him, he paused and thought for a minute. 'I think that maybe they should get a life,' he said.
I remembered that man as I finished two hours of utterly pointless, pleasurable nitpicking. The results are here. I'm afraid it is an illness that I suffer from. I suspect, too, that, for me, it may be far too late for help
I remembered that man as I finished two hours of utterly pointless, pleasurable nitpicking. The results are here. I'm afraid it is an illness that I suffer from. I suspect, too, that, for me, it may be far too late for help
Sunday, 5 December 2010
Pleasures of Modern Life
This, I must admit, is a very small pleasure. All the same, I never get sick of it - that little noise, (it sounds like a deck of cards being expertly shuffled), that the computer makes when I empty my recycle bin.
Friday, 3 December 2010
Funnier and Shorter
Still banging on about television adaptations - but with jokes (Craig Brown's rather than my own feeble efforts) - I am over on the Dabbler today.
Freecycle
Christmas solved - hypnotise the entire family until it's over. (And get the husband to stop putting off all those jobs around the house at the same time - what could possibly go wrong?)
"Wanted - Hypnosis CDs
I've tried a stress one out lately and liked it, so I am looking for these for family members. (Would anyone have a procrastination one I could have? Or any others that you no longer need!) Will Freecycle them if I don't use them.
Thanks"
"Wanted - Hypnosis CDs
I've tried a stress one out lately and liked it, so I am looking for these for family members. (Would anyone have a procrastination one I could have? Or any others that you no longer need!) Will Freecycle them if I don't use them.
Thanks"
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