Category: Blog

Song

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Ali Cobby Eckermann The air sound from under a parrot’s wing is quite different from other birds. It seems to contain magical bells, just out of earshot. It reminds me of waking in the early dawn, in the villa at Taman Bebek, when I attended the Ubud Writers & Readers Festival in Bali last year. I love birds, or ‘tjulpu’ in my language. Every bird offers a relationship. We are lucky at Koolunga, to have birds and bird song all day long, without industry noise or traffic gossip in the background. It is a peaceful town, filled with amusing and peaceful people. Angry noises caught my…

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Wind

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Ali Cobby Eckermann The weather changed rapidly overnight, and I woke to a warm wild windy sunrise. The avenue of old gum trees in the main street of Koolunga were shaking with fatigue already. No galahs or parrots were resting on those trembling tree limbs this morning. My cat Mavis and I watched the ever-moving horizon of trees through the kitchen window. Only after my second cuppa did I venture outside. The apricot tree beside the outside bathroom offerred some respite from the wind. Wheelbarrows full of sour sop weeds were filled and carted to the trailer. Shovel loads of…

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Dusk

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Ali Cobby Eckermann With all this wonderful springtime sunshine, it has been a gradual return to the internet, after four wonderful weeks spent recently in the Northern Territory, days spent out bush at Kalkarinji and Daguragu, Jilkminggan, Acacia and Mandorah! Oh to sit on country, amidst traditional Aboriginal people and language! This simple recipe fills my heart, and slows my wrinkles ha ha! I have grown to realise that life away from this is an exceptional life, often filled with potholes. I realise that separation from my cultural family cannot be sustained for too long a time. My safety net is my culture. Here…

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Baby Shoes

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A.S. Patrić There are nights when my wife moans like a dog. There’s no story in that, the Yankee tells me, so he ignores it. He asks again about the baby shoes hanging from a nail on the wall. I like this black iron nail hammered through the concrete. You must have used a big hammer to get that nail in so deep, he says. Give me another cigarette, I tell him. No really, I’m interested in those shoes. Why do they hang on a blank wall? A big picture would obscure some of these cracks. They make your house seem…

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The Instrument

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A.S. Patrić This story has been buried for a long time. Years have gone by, but I know it occasionally writhes six feet under, and I’m sure I’ve boxed something that wants to breathe. This is how it begins: Shubert Wilkes walks along Mitford Street. He’s crossing from Elwood into St Kilda. His hands plunge in and out of his pockets as if he can’t remember what he’s carrying and doesn’t trust his sense of touch. He pats himself down; can’t find what he’s looking for. Wilkes doesn’t alter his pace and his face is pushed forward. The traffic passes him…

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The Sea of Tranquillity

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A.S. Patrić The library in St Albans was what you might expect to find in the Western Suburbs of Melbourne. Dreary. Limited hours. One and a half rooms and a three book limit. The librarians weren’t particularly helpful. They stamped the little slip inside the front cover and slid the three books over the counter, never making a comment or recommendation. They let me wander the aisles looking for books with Saturn on their spines. The one and a half rooms were enough. They weren’t insignificant when I was a kid and the librarians didn’t need to do anything more for…

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Poetry of the Mother Tongue

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A.S. Patrić I was born in Belgrade, Serbia; in a part of the city called Zemun—right at the confluence of the rivers Danube and Sava. There was one small room for the three of us to sleep in. My mother, father and I watched the world turn white. Winter got through the windows, past the heating and penetrated the blankets. My parents were still driven by new love and talked for months about a long journey that would take us far from our two rivers. Their voices were the only sounds in the room some evenings. I dozed within an old…

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Necessity

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A.S. Patrić Almost everyone in the room was a writer. All were masquerading as nothing more assuming than avid readers, eager to hear David Malouf read from a new collection of stories. I don’t remember which piece he read, but I recall being bored. That calm voice evoked a gentle appreciation of literature. The audience nodded their heads in subtle degrees of comprehension and pleasure. The voice I’d heard when reading his work was more urgent. It was a voice of strength, subtlety and integrity. At its best, it was a fervent whisper, as relentless as it was crucial. The public…

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Guidelines for commenting

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Although we say these are guidelines, they are, in fact, more like rules. Please adhere to them, or your comments will not be posted. We encourage discussion and robust criticism, however: We will not tolerate personal attacks on the blogger, or on the editors of Southerly. We will not tolerate personal attacks on other people who have commented. Comments must discuss the blog post, and the blog post only. You must not link to sites of a sexual or illegal nature. You must not use our blog for advertisement or promotion. Links to the commenters blog site is allowed, but…

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Got a shovel?

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Chris Raja There is nothing I like more than shovelling pooh. I remember the first time I did it. I was with my friend Ben and we went to Marcus’s place on Ilparpa Road to get some manure for my raised vegetable garden. Ben took his ute and together we drove out to see Marcus. Marcus’s place is past through the Gap and fifteen minutes out of Alice Springs. We arrive unannounced and knock on the camel man’s door. Marcus is in his forties and he is a little gruff. His face is unshaven and stubbly and he isn’t one…

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Running with the ball

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Chris Raja On a recent visit to Melbourne my three year old daughter and I visited Ann Mancini whom I have always loved for, among other things, her ability to combine affection with frankness. Over tea and biscuits we talked about family, art and then football. I told her about living in Alice Springs and playing a game of Aussie Rules for The Yuendumu Magpies, Liam Jurrah’s old team. I said I enjoyed watching Australian Rules Football and writing about it as much as I enjoyed going to art exhibitions and writing about art. For me both were the same.…

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Stick-nest rat

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Chris Raja We are nestled in a valley deep in spinifex country underneath breakaway rock looking for the nest of an extinct rat. Roger, Ben and I are on a rocky track not far from Ewaninga some forty minutes South of Alice Springs off the old South Road that runs to Maryvale and then all the way to Adelaide. This road once connected the centre of Australia with the rest of the country. Along here the telegraph line was built. Even though I’ve been living in Alice for some time it is not normal for me or many other people…

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