Captain Cook.

James Cook, born Nov 7th 1728 died famously on a pacific island on his third great voyage of discovery in 1779.  Called at the time the “Sandwich Islands” now known as the U.S. State of Hawaii.

In his lifetime he charted Newfoundland, the St. Lawrence Seaway, Eastern Australia, New Zealand, much of Pacific Russia and North America and vast swathes of the Pacific ocean.

He converted the map of the world from this:

Pre-Cook

to this:

Post-Cook.jpg

During his voyages he worked assiduously to limit scurvy and sickness from his crew.  The sailors hated him for forcing them to eat ascorbics such as saurkraut to keep them healthy.

In fact the majority of deaths of his crew occured when they reached what they believed to be the “safe” harbour of Batavia, modern Jakartha in Indonesia.  Here, in the canals carved by the Dutch mosquitoes thrived and the crew were devastated by malaria.

His second voyage confirmed the absence of a “Great Australian Continent” in the South Pacific which was theorised at the time to act as a counterbalance to Europe.  Pure European Centrism!  However he never did succeed in finding Antarctica.

His third voyage was a search for the fabled North West Passage to permit entry to the Pacific Ocean from the North Atlantic.  His voyages mapped out much of the limits of the North Pacific and led sadly to his death on Hawaii.

Finally here is his chart of Newfoundland:

Nufie

 

From Apollo to Pavlova flieth the swan.

Cygnus

When Apollo entered the world, sacred swans circled the island seven times for it was the seventh day of the month. At once Zeus lavished many gifts upon his son including a golden miter, a chariot drawn by swans, and a lyre since legend has it at birth Apollo said, “Dear to me shall be the lyre and bow, and in oracles I shall reveal to men the inexorable will of Zeus.”

Apollo is the Greek God of music and poetry, arts and archery amongst other things.  Swans were held to be sacred to him.  The most common swan in Europe was the mute swan, not quite mute, but not a renowned singer.  But legend held it that at the moment of death the Swan, finding itself moving closer to an afterlife with Apollo, would erupt into a beautiful funeral song.

So it is that we give the term swan song to a final performance.  One last great moment before retiring to anonymity.

The wild swan’s death-hymn took the soul
Of that waste place with joy
Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear
The warble was low, and full and clear; …
But anon her awful jubilant voice,
With a music strange and manifold,
Flow’d forth on a carol free and bold;

The words of the Poet Laureate of Britain and Ireland, Alfed Lord Tennyson above inspired the French composer Camille Saint-Saëns to write Le cygne which is the central theme to the ballet, The Dying Swan which was performed by Anna Pavlova from 1905.  The Russian ballerina toured Australia and New Zealand in the 1920’s and sparked off a 90 year row between the two nations.  The argument was over which country invented the eponymous Pavlova dessert.  Oxford English Dictionary ruled in 2010 that based on analysis of cookbooks the dish originated in New Zealand.

And so to Gernald Stern, who celebrates his birthday today, sharing it with another great American poet; Edna St. Vincent Millay.

Swan Song; by Gerald Stern

A bunch of old snakeheads down by the pond
carrying on the swan tradition — hissing
inside their white bodies, raising and lowering their heads
like ostriches, regretting only the sad ritual
that forced them to waddle back into the water
after their life under the rocks, wishing they could lie again
in the sun

and dream of spreading their terrifying wings;
wishing, this time, they could sail through the sky like
horses,
their tails rigid, their white manes fluttering,
their mouths open, their sharp teeth flashing,
drops of mercy pouring from their eyes,
bolts of wisdom from their foreheads.

Superlatives

Stockdale

Jacob Stockdale scores the games only try, closely supported by Josh Van Der Flier

In the years to come I want to come back to this moment.  The second Irish defeat of the All Blacks, and the first on home soil.

A game of superlatives.  Two teams who left every inch of energy and commitment on the park.  A clash of giants, an epic battle, the stuff of legend.  If all that sounds too much, it is not.  In fact it will be very difficult in the years to come to express to people just how important his match was.

The Haka had a different character.  This intimidating tribal challenge and statement of intent was never expressed with greater intensity.  And yet, for the first time Ireland stood toe to toe with the All Blacks on equal terms.

As we begin preparation for the Rugby World Cup in 2019 this was a unique fixture.  The number 1 in the antipodes against the number 1 Northern Hemisphere team.  Ireland V New Zealand.  In the end the only difference between the sides was the try by Jacob Stockdale and the Sexton conversion.

Despite the loss New Zealand retain their number 1 position in world rankings.

Final score Ireland 16 – 9 New Zealand.

Man of the Match:  Peter O’Mahony

Kapa o pango

Let me become one with the land
This is our land that rumbles
And it’s my time! It’s my moment!
This defines us as the All Blacks
It’s my time! It’s my moment!
Our dominance
Our supremacy will triumph
And will be placed on high
Silver fern!
All Blacks!
Silver fern!
All Blacks!
Hi Ya!

Peter

Haka

Man overboard

Ferry

In May 1927 Joe Lynch fell overboard from a ferry in Sydney Harbour.  He was drunk and his pockets were filled with beer bottles which helped drag him down.

This happened while the Sydney Harbour bridge was under construction and the only way to cross Port Jackson was by boat.

Joe was a cartoonist who worked with Kenneth Slessor for Smith’s Weekly magazine in Sydney.  The pair also worked together for Punch magazine in Melbourne for a time.  The night he died Lynch left work and met his brother Guy, Guy’s wife Marge, and Frank Clancy, another Irish Australian journalist who worked for Labor Daily.  They were boozing hard and loaded up with bottles when they boarded the ferry Kiandra at Circular Quay.  Somewhere along the way Joe leaned too far back over the rail and slipped away beneath the Harbour waters.

That might have been the end for Joe Lynch, an embarrassing end quickly forgotten.  But eight years later his old pal Kenneth Slessor had a bit of an epiphany as he listed to the watch bells ring from the Warships in the Harbour.  He penned his most famous, and one of Australia’s greatest poems.  Kenneth was born on this day in 1901.  Happy Birthday Kenneth Slessor.

Because of Slessor Lynch has become the most famous, and possibly the most preposterous, drowning in Sydney Harbour.

Below the poem you will find a photo of a war memorial in Devonport, Auckland, New Zealand.  It was sculpted by Guy Lynch using Joe Lynch as his body model.  It depicts a Kiwi soldier of WW1 coming off duty, and is nicknamed “The Untidy Soldier”.  This statue is the subject of “The Digger and the Faun” a poem by Michele Leggott.  So Joe Lynch is immortalised in poetry twice!  Not a bad memorial.

 

Five Bells ; by Kenneth Slessor

Time that is moved by little fidget wheels
is not my time, the flood that does not flow.
Between the double and the single bell
of a ship’s hour, between a round of bells
from the dark warship riding there below,
I have lived many lives, and this one life
of Joe, long dead, who lives between five bells.

Deep and dissolving verticals of light
ferry the falls of moonshine down. Five bells
coldly rung out in a machine’s voice. Night and water
pour to one rip of darkness, the Harbour floats
in the air, the Cross hangs upside-down in water.

Why do I think of you, dead man, why thieve
these profitless lodgings from the flukes of thought
anchored in time? You have gone from earth,
gone even from the meaning of a name;
yet something’s there, yet something forms its lips
and hits and cries against the ports of space,
beating their sides to make its fury heard.

Are you shouting at me, dead man, squeezing your face
in agonies of speech on speechless panes?
Cry louder, beat the windows, bawl your name!

But I hear nothing, nothing…only bells,
five bells, the bumpkin calculus of time.
Your echoes die, your voice is dowsed by life,
there’s not a mouth can fly the pygmy strait –
nothing except the memory of some bones
long shoved away, and sucked away, in mud;
and unimportant things you might have done,
or once I thought you did; but you forgot,
and all have now forgotten – looks and words
and slops of beer; your coat with buttons off,
your gaunt chin and pricked eye, and raging tales
of Irish kings and English perfidy,
and dirtier perfidy of publicans
groaning to God from Darlinghurst.
Five bells.

Then I saw the road, I heard the thunder
tumble, and felt the talons of the rain
the night we came to Moorebank in slab-dark,
so dark you bore no body, had no face,
but a sheer voice that rattled out of air
(as now you’d cry if I could break the glass),
a voice that spoke beside me in the bush,
loud for a breath or bitten off by wind,
of Milton, melons, and the Rights of Man,
and blowing flutes, and how Tahitian girls
are brown and angry-tongued, and Sydney girls
are white and angry-tongued, or so you’d found.
But all I heard was words that didn’t join
so Milton became melons, melons girls,
and fifty mouths, it seemed, were out that night,
and in each tree an Ear was bending down,
or something that had just run, gone behind the grass,
when blank and bone-white, like a maniac’s thought,
the naphtha-flash of lightning slit the sky,
knifing the dark with deathly photographs.
There’s not so many with so poor a purse
or fierce a need, must fare by night like that,
five miles in darkness on a country track,
but when you do, that’s what you think.
Five bells.

In Melbourne, your appetite had gone,
your angers too; they had been leeched away
by the soft archery of summer rains
and the sponge-paws of wetness, the slow damp
that stuck the leaves of living, snailed the mind,
and showed your bones, that had been sharp with rage,
the sodden ectasies of rectitude.
I thought of what you’d written in faint ink,
your journal with the sawn-off lock, that stayed behind
with other things you left, all without use,
all without meaning now, except a sign
that someone had been living who now was dead:
At Labassa. Room 6 x 8
On top of the tower; because of this, very dark
and cold in winter. Everything has been stowed
into this room – 500 books all shapes
and colours, dealt across the floor
and over sills and on the laps of chairs;
guns, photoes of many differant things
and differant curioes that I obtained…

In Sydney, by the spent aquarium-flare
of penny gaslight on pink wallpaper,
we argued about blowing up the world,
but you were living backward, so each night
you crept a moment closer to the breast,
and they were living, all of them, those frames
and shapes of flesh that had perplexed your youth,
and most your father, the old man gone blind,
with fingers always round a fiddle’s neck,
that graveyard mason whose fair monuments
and tablets cut with dreams of piety
rest on the bosoms of a thousand men
staked bone by bone, in quiet astonishment
at cargoes they had never thought to bear,
these funeral-cakes of sweet and sculptured stone.

Where have you gone? The tide is over you,
the turn of midnight water’s over you,
as Time is over you, and mystery,
and memory, the flood that does not flow.
You have no suburb, like those easier dead
in private berths of dissolution laid –
the tide goes over, the waves ride over you
and let their shadows down like shining hair,
but they are Water; and the sea-pinks bend
like lilies in your teeth, but they are Weed;
and you are only part of an idea.
I felt the wet push its black thumb-balls in,
the night you died, I felt your eardrums crack,
and the short agony, the longer dream,
the Nothing that was neither long nor short;
but I was bound, and could not go that way,
but I was blind, and could not feel your hand.
If I could find an answer, could only find
your meaning, or could say why you were here
who now are gone, what purpose gave you breath
or seized it back, might I not hear your voice?

I looked out my window in the dark
at waves with diamond quills and combs of light
that arched their mackerel-backs and smacked the sand
in the moon’s drench, that straight enormous glaze,
and ships far off asleep, and harbour-buoys
tossing their fireballs wearily each to each,
and tried to hear your voice, but all I heard
was a boat’s whistle, and the scraping squeal
of seabirds’ voices far away, and bells,
five bells. Five bells coldly ringing out.
Five bells.

 

Untidy.jpg

Happy Birthday Keri Hulme

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Born this day 1947 Keri Hulme was the first New Zealander to win the Man Booker prize for her novel “The Bone People”.  An advocate of New Zealand and of Maori culture some of her early work was published under the nom de plume Kai Tainui.

Trust; by Keri Hulme

Here,
where we live
by the rubbing sea
we know our tides and
why we should be
constantly crunched
crouched and sluiced
and rearranged and
hoping – o hoping
for a new moon
to be free

Okarito Lagoon, Westland

Okarito Lagoon, Westland, New Zealand

Make Ireland Gr8at Again

the8

I want to save this iconic photo for my own memories.  This is how Ireland prepared to receive the Haka from New Zealand in Soldiers Field, Chicago on Nov 5th 2016.  In a tribute to Anthony Foley the Ireland and Munster stalwart who died on Oct 16th 2016, the Irish squad lined out to form the Number of Foley’s jersey.

Ireland broke a 111 year old duck to win the game 40 to 29.

Tomorrow we play the All Blacks again in Dublin.  A second win would be legend!