Tag: guest

Hair

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Ali Cobby Eckermann Head hair has important value in Aboriginal culture. In my language it is called mangka. In old family photos, many men and women wore dreadlocks.This would have resulted from living ‘close to the earth’, often a windswept landscape. Human hair was woven, as was dog fur, to make puturu, ‘hair string’, an effective type of rope. The hair was rolled on the thigh, to make strands.These strands were then plaited, to make a stronger rope. Sometimes the women utilised traditional methods of spinning; a hand held spindle was used. String belts would be used to carry bush…

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Bias

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  Ali Cobby Eckermann She had to suffer and survive a long painful journey, for the privilege to stand proud and tell people who her family was, and where they come from. The changes this brought to her life made it all worthwhile. Memories began to heal, and fade away like unimportant dreams. Or do they? She has one friend who tells everybody “I knew her when she was white.” (lots of smiles and laughter). She don’t care; he’s her friend and he has proven that over many years. But it upsets other friends of hers. “Why do you let him…

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Home

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Ali Cobby Eckermann The door slams. Someone’s here. I’ll just lie here and wait. Maybe it’s Audrey. I know a Nana shouldn’t have her favourites, but she is mine. Reminds me so much of myself when I was her age. But I never had the courage she has for her passions. Jeffro enters my bedroom. “How are you, Mum?” he asks. “Get me a cuppa tea,” I say as I begin the uncomfortable struggle out of bed. These winter mornings are getting worse! I hate the arthritis! Don’t reckon I deserve it, really. Never had a cigarette or a sip…

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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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Next Monthly Blogger – A.S. Patrić!

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Thank you, Chris Raja, for your fabulous posts. Next up, we have A.S. Patrić! Here’s his bio: A. S. Patrić writes in Melbourne and is a St Kilda bookseller. Patrić is co-editor of Verity La, an online journal that is archived by the National Library of Australia. He has taught Creative Writing at RMIT and was a judge in the Essence of St Kilda Word Prize 2010. His collection of poetry, Music For Broken Instruments, was published in 2010 by Black Rider Press. Patrić is featured in Best Australian Stories (2010), and his work has been widely published, appearing in Overland, The Lifted Brow, Wet Ink, Etchings, Quadrant, Going Down Swinging and other literary journals. The Rattler was Highly Commended in the Lord Mayor’s…

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