LFM and Tessa Tyger Ride Again

From far away Roland Country
Little Ford Man came to stay
With beloved Mother Fluffy Duck
For a week and a day, no more
Our enfant super-hero
Came to call the Blue Room home

Out and about in Hobart Town
Or shooting the river breeze
Our touristing Sheffield pair
Were having a festive ball
Life was bliss, and oh so fair.

But up on the Plateaux
Evil was a-stirring
Plans were being most foully hatched
Atrocious alliances were formed

And down they came a-thundering
The whole plurry, disgusting herd
Intent on creating mayhem and murder
Along Derwent Waters’ bullrushed banks

They joined their allies most loathsome
Slippery, slimy and most seething,
Being the utmost abhorrent of reptile
The odious, insidious estuary copperhead
Strewth! What a poisonous crew

From Blue Room slumber
Little Ford Man was jolted
Nanny Leigh-Leigh, Mother Duck
Was beside herself, apoplectic
‘LFM! LFM! Awake my little one
Those gnus
Those gnarlish, gnarlish gnus
Are out there, a sight most horrid
Just beyond your Blue Room window
They’re one hundred and one strong

And the snakes, the snakes
Those ugly, so ugly serpents
Are a-fanging and a-squishing
The cygnets, the ducklings
And baby pelicans too
And no! No! No! No!
Not my beloved turbo-chooks!

LFM! LFM! Rise up! Rise up!
You, and only you, know what to do’
And brave, brave Brynner arose
Espied the disturbing scene
Saw river grasses were a-shaking
The dust, the feathers, an awful racket
That rendered the air asunder

To father Keith of Kentish Lands
LFM’s first call was placed
‘Saddle him up. Saddle him up
And send him south to me’

Without panic, Daddy Keith
Knew what he must do
Summoned in the fursty flying ferret
And sent him on his way

At first Cyrano headed swiftly east, for
An important rendezvous was afoot
Unflappable LFM had been
Working the phone – and guess to whom?

Yes! Yes! Yes! For you see
He knew who else to call instantly
To that valiant, valiant braveheart
Staunchest of friends and valkyrie
Defender of the downtrodden
You now know who, don’t you?

‘Rob Roy Daddy Bear’ she cried
‘Go fetch my wooden sword, paper shield
And I will don the colander armour anew
And whistle up Old Whitebelly
I’ll need her before this is through’

In flew the majestic sea eagle
To lift up its precious fare
And together, off they set, to
Smote and to smite and smote once more
To defeat that unholy alliance most lousy

Above the windmill’s sails came
United the two behemoth carriers
And then our bravest of poppets
Did lower her gorgeous head
To whisper in her avian’s ear

The hoary, game old eagle
Let out an almighty screech
And around Lake Dulverton
She made an urgent sweep

And up from the forested floor
Arose a raptor host
A dozen warrior wedgies flew a-flapping
To join the righteous cause

Battle hardened and scarred
From many a noble battle
They were ready to serve
And pay back favours owed

Tessa Tyger raised her wooden sword
And pointed away to the south
And whilst she headed to Dromedary
She waved away the fearless Cyrano
To fetch his cargo, poste haste

With Tyger and the wedgies
Attacking from the rear
And cool, super calm Bryn
Coming from front on
Those gnarlish, gnarlish gnus
Simply had no where to go

Caught in a pincer movement
With ferocious birds clawing and a-nipping
They took to the water with alacrity,
Swam to the further shore, and
Once there, those revolting curs
They speedily hoofed it west
Whilst those sappy spineless asps
Well, they simply melted away

Cheering Nanny Mother Duck
With the fluffy one beside her
Yelled out to our victorious duo
‘Thank you. Thank you my special ones’
And waved farewell to a courageous mite
As she reined Old Whitebelly north

There was much sadness
At the loss of water fowl
But poo-cackers, swan and pelican
Would replenish, for that
They knew

Back to Blue Room
And to Tamar Lands
The two heroes went
Their separate way
And all know
Within their hearts
All that is good and just
Is there for now
And forever

And they are loved
So loved

Fern Frond

A Blue Room Book Review - A World of Other People – Steven Carroll

 

Sometimes I just hate books and book writers – I really do. Those who know me may be aghast at this confession of abhorrence given my track record as a reader, but matters will become clearer as you read on!

 Hell, I read the reviews in the weekend broadsheets and time and time again I encounter something right up my alley – then I remember that huge pile that sits awaiting beside my bed – not to mention the shelves full languishing back up north in Burnie. So I hate books when it means I have to think more than twice about adding another one to that pile.

I hate books when I meander innocently into one of my favourite bookshops – say Fullers, the State Cinema or, when in Melbourne, the St Kilda/Carlton Readings. Usually within five minutes I espy half a dozen or so tomes that would certainly be worth the dough to buy and read – that is, until I remember, yes, that pile beside the bed. The other day, just inside the door of the first establishment listed, I spotted a copy of ‘Flappers: Six Women of a Dangerous Generation’ by Judith Mackrell and it immediately piqued my interest. Of course that gilded age is all the rage at the minute because of a certain film doing the rounds, and though I was sorely tempted I – you guessed it – remembered that pile. As it is, I am currently reading of one of those dangerous women, Scott Fitzgerald’s missus in ‘Zelda’, a fictionalized account by Therese Anne Fowler. Another of the Jazz Age six is the subject of a novel that sits near the top of said pile – ‘The Last Nude’ (Ellis Avery) on the life and times of the remarkable artist Tamara de Lempicka. So the volume was placed back in its spot and I wandered deeper into the emporium of books to see what else would tempt me – plenty, as it turns out, but I refrained.

Now the main reason for those piles, up north and down by the river, was because, in my final year of teaching, I stockpiled. I was fearful that my years of retirement would be chastened by impecuniousness, thus I’d need a goodly number of tomes to be ‘going on with’. It has since turned out that life post sixty isn’t as straightened as initially feared, but that doesn’t diminish the pile.

After reading Steven Carroll’s ‘A World of Other People’ there is another title that I now wished I had chased up and purchased - Lara Feigel’s ‘The Love-charm of Bombs: Restless Lives in the Second World War’. You see this tome is a factual account of the lives of prominent literary figures during the London Blitz. Amongst those luminaries was TS Eliot – he of ‘The Wasteland’ and ‘Cats’ fame. I remember studying the former during my matriculation years, understanding very little of it, but still feeling it was ‘awesome’ - the work of a far superior mind to that of a callow provincial youth. And it is the one and same great man who features in ‘The World of Other People’. He is at first no literary behemoth, merely a roof-top warden, spotting fires around war torn Covent Garden. Carroll’s publication is loosely based around a poem from his celebrated ‘Four Quartets’ – his ‘flaming phoenix’ now taking the form of a crash landed Wellington bomber. Eliot’s fellow spotter is an ‘engaged’ young woman, Iris. In a state of co-incidence she later encounters the pilot of that plane, a clearly disturbed Australian airman, in a London park. Despite his damaged persona, she commits to a very truncated affair – truncated (spoiler alert) due to his sad and early demise. His is not the sort of death usually associated with Bomber Command.

It is a pretty simple tale really, and there’s the rub. Pared back to its bare bones, there is not much more than a short story in it – a novella at most. And now comes the reason I hate writers – or, at least, writers of Carroll’s calibre.

Despite the joy I receive from producing my own scribblings, I could not possibly, even with enough years given back to me, match the expertise of wordsmithery that Carroll produces in this resonating publication. Out from a very simple storyline he has crafted a work of rare class; one where beauty lies within his expertise with language rather than the narrative alone. He is able to layer and layer to weave a luminous, gossamer web of delight – heartbreakingly poignant in its depiction of the waste that is war.


The short time the two lovers have together is intensely handled. He also fills Iris’ decision to reluctantly part with the Aussie pilot to the brim with a sense of the waste of it all. There’s that word again – ‘waste’. They have but one window of time for reconciliation, but that is so gut-wrenchingly taken from them by something so simple, but so cruel, that any reader with a modicum of soul knows she/he is under the spell of a master.
Despite the comparison, I fully intend to plod on with my ruminations and attempts at fiction with the wonderful encouragement of a cherished daughter and partner. Besides, it keeps me out of mischief. If I wrote less that pile of books would diminish with some alacrity, allowing me to further indulge in binges of book buying. But writing for me brings equal joy to the reading – so my conundrum will remain.

 I really do hate books. I really do hate writers.

                                                                         Steven Carroll

Understorey

An IWB and Balanda kids

‘Every Aboriginal person that is born is musical. It is our lifestyle. You grow up learning music, and dance. It teaches you to be courageous.’ Dr Yunupingu

I walked into the room
Didn’t say a word
Fired up the IWB*
Cued up the YouTube
Dispersed the hardcopies
Up loud went the volume
Clicked start
Didn’t say a word

My class on that day
Too young to remember
But not too young to know
Quietened
Then fell silent
To the pulsating beat
The clap sticks
And the didgeridoo
‘Treaty’
Had roared into life

Like myself
He was a teacher
Of the young
And that day
He reached out
To Balanda** kids
Taught them
To understand
With a song and a plea
Reached out to them
From alien, far away
Yirrkala
To my Yolla
Whitebread cherubs

They sang along
That day, to
Those plaintive, vibrant
Songlines
Words on white paper
He connected
He really did
Then they cried out
In unison
Play it again, Mr L
Play it again

And now, this day
We weep
Along with Peter and Paulx2
Archie, Troy, Kev and Dan
For he too
Has now passed on
To that Dreamtime in the sky
Beyond the Rainbow Serpent
But the song
His music
Will keep
The R spirit close

His name
To his people
Means ‘rock –
A rock that
Will stand against
Anything’

And with that courage
He did
With that voice
He sang
That teacher

This land was never given up
This land was never bought and sold
The planting of the Union Jack
Never changed our law at all

Now two rivers run their course
Separated for so long
I'm dreaming of a brighter day
When the waters will be one

* Interactive White Board
** Non-indigenous Australians

'Treaty' = http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S7cbkxn4G8U

Peace 10 - Bruny Island

Not a One Horse Race

Back in February I was entranced by one of the first films I viewed for the year – ‘Silver Linings Playbook’. I then made the rash statement that it was ‘lay down misère’ – that SLP would be at the top of the list on the Blue Room’s Best Films of 2013. I naively felt that there certainly couldn’t be a better film this year than that perfect gem, could there? In Melbourne, shortly after, I watched the remarkable ‘Amour’. It was a masterpiece, but its draining sadness still had SLP in first place. Later came ‘A Song for Marion’, the upside of ‘Amour’, but the oldies in that, as glorious and as heartfelt as they were, were still no match for Jennifer Lawrence’s star turn. The lead actor in ‘Rust and Bone’, Matthias Schoenaerts, took my breath away, with Mads Mikkelsen being almost as impressive in the Danish drama ‘The Hunt’. And then there was Daniel Day Lewis in ‘Lincoln!’

Despite all those incredible movies and acting performances (throwing in ‘Life of Pi’, which absorbed me just before SLP), the David O Russell directed opus still remained top of my list. It had moved just about every emotion in this hoary sixty plus year old body of mine. But, hell, along comes my latest viewing ‘A Place for Me’, and that has given me some serious thinking to do – and we’re not even half way through the year! Does that movie do the trick? Does it overtake SLP? Maybe, maybe not – but gee, it was good!

I suppose its sucker punch was its subject matter – dysfunction within a writerly family. The father, William Borgens (Greg Kinnear in surely one of his better roles) is an established scribbler, currently suffering writer’s block due to the break-up of his marriage to Erica (a Jennifer Connelly hardly being stretched). The shining lights of the movie, though, were the younger Borgens. Lily Collins (daughter of famed drummer Phil) is not quite Jennifer Lawrence – yet. She truly shone, however, along the same lines as the feisty Samantha. She has just followed in her screen dad’s footsteps and published her first novel. Initially trailing in her wake is Rusty, the nerdy sensitive son, oh so engagingly played by Nat Wolf. Logan Lerman, as Samantha’s love interest Lou, is an on screen charmer of the first order as well. It really is a sublime feat of casting to get a youthful brigade together that would all seemingly have the chops to go the distance in the industry. Only Liana Liberato, as Rusty’s troubled girlfriend, seemed somewhat underdone. As well as all this there was the icing of a Stephern King cameo (of sorts) towards the end.

The sound track can often make or break a film. With this film’s I must admit it did become a distraction for me, but in a good way. The disparate voices presented were all so appealing I found myself reaching into the recesses of my mind to try and identify the artists. Being unsuccessful I then waited for the credits to roll through to the list of tracks. I found that all, bar a few, were unknown to me. But I’ll be hunting out the soundtrack CD, now knowing I will need to search under the movie’s US appellation – ‘Stuck in Love’. Why change a perfectly apt name for Aussie release?????
This is the first directorial assignment for Josh Boone, and methinks we’ll be hearing (and watching) much more from him. He is next slated to produce a visual version of John Green’s stunning fourth YA novel ‘The Fault in Our Stars’. He wasn’t quite brave enough to steer this vehicle away from what I must admit was a somewhat cheesy Hollywood ending, but I nonetheless left the cinema with a smile on my face and a spring in my step. If only all life’s problems could come together so neatly in the end!
My years of retirement allow me unfettered time for movie going and so far in 2013 I have been blessed with some cinematic gold. Will APFM pip SLP for Blue Room supremacy – that still requires much rumination. For that, dear reader, you’ll be required to wait in undoubted anticipation for year’s end. By then, who knows what else may have emerged – but I have been chastened. I will not rush into rash predictions so prematurely again!

Stuck in Love/A Place For Me Website = http://stuckinlovemovie.com/