These paper boats of mine are meant to dance on the ripples of hours, and not reach any destination... Rabindranath Tagore

So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past...F. Scott Fitzgerald - The Great Gatsby

We were the people who were not in the papers. We lived in the blank white spaces at the edges of print. It gave us more freedom. We lived in the gaps between the stories.
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On the way to the river are the old dormitories, used for something else now, with their fairy-tale turrets, painted white and gold and blue. When we think of the past it's the beautiful things we pick out. We want to believe it was all like that.
--from Margaret Atwood - The Handmaid's Tale

Reading is the sole means by which we slip, involuntarily, often helplessly, into another's skin, another's voice, another's soul.
- Joyce Carol Oates
Showing posts with label The Secret River. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Secret River. Show all posts

Saturday, June 23, 2012

Raw Music of The Secret River



Thornhill's Point was so far from
Will's own Thames
As far as the convict ship Alexander
Could weather the distance
Without breaking

Untamed Thornhill's Point on
The untamed Hawkesbury was 
His adopted dream
(Once he had his ticket of freedom)
And Sal's interim 5 year dream
Till the real dream of Home
Could return

However
He changed
They changed
Transformed
London became
Another 
Shapeless Story

And to the children
That Home was
Just a word


Confronting those who roamed this land before him
He felt naked
He felt small
Words were just a wall
But she felt...
She simply felt
Connected to 
The beauty of a black woman's
Crude
Bark
Dish

 A scorching world in January
Ants 
Mosquitoes
Flies and 
Speckled lizards
But in the cool of the mangroves and
The river oaks
And armed with a hearty pannikin of tea
(Trade
A bit of kangaroo for
A bag of flour)
It could be easy 
To pretend
Here was heaven

 But the Secret River funnelled into
A dark season
A fear of spears and 
Ruined corn and
Frozen eyes and
Ragged breathing

Still
Seasons pass
Thornhill's Point faded and
And Cobham Hall 
Brandished a fine stone house with
A fine red velvet armchair

Home
Had sailed
Home

 But heaven seemed
Remote
Give a little Take a little
Perhaps
Still
A precious
Mantra


Kate Grenville is an Australian writer from Sydney - The Secret River (2005)


GOODREADS REVIEW

The Secret RiverThe Secret River by Kate Grenville
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

For some, the Hawkesbury River north of Sydney, in the 19th century, was a wild place where only madmen venture. Some find its secret beauty, but only realise that priceless magic when the glittering wealths of life entice them away.

View all my reviews

Goodreads Discussion: I especially love the image of William Thornhill finally locked into his Cobham Hall and viewing his Hawkesbury escapades through a spyglass with a sad yearning! He knew that he came close to real beauty but let it slip through his "social status" fingers. Meanwhile, he saw that the Aboriginal, close to the Earth, really lived with true beauty. A very symbolic, challenging moment!

Linking to:
Real Toads ~ Open Link Monday
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