From Naked Nell (Barellan) to Moombooldool

From Naked Nell (Barellan) to Moombooldool

Another retro post of a poem written some years back on other towns in my part of the world.  Naked Nell is the nickname of Barellan.  The Wiggles refers to bright coloured Police Highway Patrol cars.

From Naked Nell (Barellan) to Moombooldool

From Naked Nell to Moombooldool

Is not many speedo clicks,

As you traverse Burley Griffin Way

Dodging the ‘Wiggles’ tricks.
And Moombooldool noted late

Some of their sporting pride,

As you drive through Burnley’s Village

A plaque’s fitted by the roadside.
On a great plinth of granite stone 

A plaque sits there attached,

For traveling onlookers to cast their eye

On others who’ve been dispatched.
Dispatched persons who from times back then

When footy, tennis and cricket

Fielded sides from Moombooldool

And held their own on the wicket.
Good on the people of Erin Village

As Moombooldool once was known,

For remembering those who shaped their history

And the humble pride they’d shown.
So when you dash from Naked Nell

Towards the Kamarah straight,

Pause a moment in Moombooldool

The history is worth your wait.
Simon C.J. Falk

9 April 2013.

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Heaney’s ‘The Forge’ and Barellan’s Good Old Times Festival

Heaney’s ‘The Forge’ and Barellan’s Good Old Times Festival

This blog is usually for words composed by me, which, may resemble something vaguely like poetry.  Having attended Barellan’s ‘Good Old Times Festival‘ yesterday, and having seen a blacksmith at his forge, I was delighted to come upon the late Seamus Heaney’s poem of the same name.  Thanks to Genius for providing an online text for us.  More information can be found on Seamus Heaney on his page at the Poetry Foundation.

The Forge by Seamus Heaney

All I know is a door into the dark.
Outside, old axles and iron hoops rusting;
Inside, the hammered anvil’s short-pitched ring,
The unpredictable fantail of sparks
Or hiss when a new shoe toughens in water.
The anvil must be somewhere in the centre,
Horned as a unicorn, at one end and square,
Set there immoveable: an altar
Where he expends himself in shape and music.
Sometimes, leather-aproned, hairs in his nose,
He leans out on the jamb, recalls a clatter
Of hoofs where traffic is flashing in rows;
Then grunts and goes in, with a slam and flick
To beat real iron out, to work the bellows.

Poem text by Seamus Heaney sourced from genius.com