Singing Fisherman of Ghana

Extracts from Collett Barker's King George Sound Journal

29th April 1830

Mills reported this evening he had been attacked by a shark at the harbours mouth. It was larger than the jolly boat , came up astern with 2 others & on his trying to strike it with the gaff, it had made a rush at the boat, striking it  first with his head & then with the tail. It afterwards came alongside, the fin was higher than the gunnel. They threw fish to it to amuse it until they got into shallow water. 

Extracts from Collett Barker's King George Sound Journal

22 April 1830

...... In a pretty good haul of the seine some mullet were taken. Mokare said that was it not for the present state of affairs, which made it unsafe, he should spear plenty of them by night by making a fire on the beach. Cannot spear them by day.
Told me this evening that Moken had commenced, which he knew by the situation of the black Magellanic cloud near the cross (Whitepepoy). They have some story which i could not clearly make out, of it being an Emu & laying eggs.........

The night being very fine got 3 good stars for the Lat[itude]. The mean of which, two of the cross & Arcturus) made it 35˚ 2' 35"[south].....

the sound of a horse passing

the sound of a horse passing 

an elsewhere sound of night long past  

childhood night too bright and still to sleep 

itching, datura scented, open window awake  

with stiff bedsheets drawn tight over restless legs

a brace of angel's trumpets calling them hither  

hot green breath snorts over distant footfall 

the arabian prince and his queen approach 

bolt upright in bed, peering owl eyed 

curtain fingered lightly open, i wait

they pass unaware, me quieter than a bat click 

the mare leads, maiden tressed, head held low 

he follows, all quivering rump, fat belly and black eyed moon 

mare tail swish, straw broom on leather chair 

a low whiny at swinging hip, footfall breaking 

Atropos calls, ears prick and then they are gone 

thundering summer stubble clod, away, away, away 

towards the white moon skeletons on the salt pan 

the sound of a horse passing  

an elsewhere sound of night long past 

now in brick tin black tar, sheet tossed, inner city night 

hot green breath snorts over metallic footfall 

bolt upright in bed, peering owl eyed i wait

they pass unaware, me quieter than a bat click

the mare leads, all quivering rump, fat belly and black eyed moon

the dogs follow, one three legged, jinkering tree to tree 

mare tail swish, greatcoat on leather saddle 

a voice, head held low by maiden tressed neck, footfall breaking

Zeus calls, ears prick and then they are gone 

sparking the summer bluemetal tar, away, away, away 

towards the white moon skeletons on the river pan

a brace of angel's trumpets calling them yonder

an ode to bob in a manner as messy as i

for the editor

'I Give You This Story'

I give you  this story,
this proper, true story,
People can listen.
I'm telling this while you've got time,
time for you to make something,
you know,
history
book.

I was thinking.
No history written for us.
when white European start here,
only few words written.
Should be more than that.

Should be written way Aborigine was live.
That floodplain.
My father, my mother, my grandfather
all used to hunt there, use ironwood spear.
No clothes then.

When I was growing up
good mob of people all around then.
Now people bit wicked.
My time never do little bit wrong,
otherwise get spear straight away.
Now, little bit cheeky mob.
Old time they would all be dead now.
Old people were hard.
I was frightened when young.
Only few people now,
But it easy for this mob.

Anyway, got to be made that book.
There's still time.
No man can growl at me for telling this story,
because it will be too late.
I'll be dead.

Bill Neidjie  c. 1920 – 23 May 2002

the place that dreamed the emu into being

           

   they say there are no emus there now

 but he is still there 

 if you know where to look