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Sally Murphy, Australian author

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A Whale of a Time

October 22, 2014 by Sally

Before this year I’d only ever seen whales twice. This year, it seems whales have been a bit of a thing for me:  a whale watching oat trip with two of my sisters a few months back, then seeing whales from the plane when I flew to the Abrolhos Islands on my trip to Geraldton last month, then spotting whales from Smiths’ Beach a few weeks ago, and seeing two bobbing in the surf off our local Back Beach last week. Today, however, was the ultimate whale experience.  Excited by our trip off Augusta as the whales headed north earlier in the year, my sisters and I decided we would head to Busselton to see if we could see them again on their way back south. My mum decided she’d like to come along, too.

The cruise was due to go for two hours, and we saw whales not too long after leaving the marina. We also saw a pod of bottlenose dolphins, and lots of flying fish, which are the coolest – and oddest – of all fish. The whales, though, were hardish to spot and mostly quite a a long way from the boat.

Until, that is, we were heading back to the marina, when we were lucky enough to come across a group of six or eight whales jumping, splashing, whooshing and putting on an awesome display.

Of course, I had my camera ready, and of course the photos don’t live up to my excitement of seeing whales breaching over and over again. But, here is evidence that they did indeed breach:

Whale watching

And, a couple that show just how close they got:

Whale watching

(I think if my hand, and the boat, were more steady, this would have been an amazing photo. Instead you have a fin and the massive splash that a 40 tonne whale makes when it lands).

Whale watching

The best photos of all are the ones I didn’t get with my camera – because I had to put the camera down and just watch and exclaim and clap and sigh and exclaim some more. So those images are in my mind, but it was a day that will stay with me for a long time, and I suspect there will be some whales in my writing in the near future.

Poems that Make Me Tingle #2

October 21, 2014 by Sally

Still thinking about poems that have really resonated with me and made me come alive.

This is another one where I can remember the first time I heard it.

I was quite young – perhaps five or six – and at the end of year concert for our school, held in the Miner’s Institute in Collie. As with every concert, there were probably songs and dances and skits, but I don’t remember those. I don’t even remember what my own class did. But when my older sister’s class took the stage, I was entranced.

There they were, all those big girls (they were four years older than me!), on a darkened stage, each clutching a torch which, when they turned them on, illuminated their faces – because they were aimed upwards. Oooooh, clever. And then they recited their poem:

Hist!….Hark

The night is very dark,

And we’ve to go a mile or so

Across the Possum Park.

 

Ooooh. Spooky. The poem proceeded, and I was hooked. This was a poem that had everything. Suspense, humour, word play, and some lovely rhyme and rhythm. As a five year old I didn’t analyse all of that, and of course didn’t remember much more of it except for the opening Hist!….Hark, but I  loved it, completely. I even hoped – prayed – that one day I could stand up on that stage like those big girls and recite a poem like that one – actually, I wanted to do THAT ONE.

I loved (and still do) many more C. J. Dennis poems, and even got to memorise another which I loved almost as much, The Ant Explorer, but it was Hist! that continued to give that special thrill of a perfect poem every time I saw it or heard it. And when it was produced as a picture book, with amazing illustrations by Peter Gouldthorpe, I had to have it.

You can read the whole poem here.

What poems make you tingle?


 

Being scared of poetry

October 15, 2014 by Sally

One of the luxuries of my doctoral studies is the time it gives me to focus on something I’m passionate about: children’s poetry. Every day I write poetry, read poetry and read about poetry – and have to remind myself that this is work. And, of course, because I’m writing and reading so much, I also spend a lot of time thinking about poetry. What I’ve been thinking about this week is the mismatch between  the way most children love poetry and the way most adults don’t.  Two articles I’ve read have particularly illuminated this.

Firstly, Andrew M. Brown talked in the Telegraph about the ‘tell-tale tingle’ that memorable poetry gives you,  a phrase coined by Nabokov, and a state referred to by other poets including John Larkin. His article was inspired by the Cambridge Poetry and Memory Project, a study looking at the effects of memorising poetry.

The second article, by  Michael Perry in the  Wisconsin State Journal reminds  readers that poetry doesn’t have to be “gotten” – just experienced.

And there you have it: the problem I think many people who drift – or run – away from poetry have, is that they don’t ‘get’ it, or perhaps that they’re scared of not getting it.

I grew up loving poetry. My early poetry memories include my mum reading me the poetry of A. A. Milne, R. L. Stevenson. C. J. Dennis  and Dr Seuss, among others. I remember the thrill of those tiddly-poms, the sugar-ant roaming, the land of counterpane, and the perfection of Horton being sent home “happy, one-hundred percent”. I relished the word play, the narrative twists, the rhythm, and the social aspect of sharing this joy with my mother and siblings.  When I started school, poetry was offered by teachers, in reading and English text books, and was recited for school assemblies. I lapped it up. I think I was in high school when I discovered poetry didn’t have to rhyme, and remember the very physical shiver of delight when I first read  William Carlos Williams’ plum poem (yes, I do know its title, but it will forever be the plum poem to me), a poem which later had the same effect on my character Pearl.

But something terrible happened. While I never lost my love of poetry completely, I came to fear it, starting when I studied Literature as a year 11 and 12 subject.  I was still able to enjoy the reading of some of the poets and poems we studied – I especially adored T. S. Elliot – but being asked to write analyses of poems – especially in exam situations  – terrified me. What if I got it wrong? What if I missed the meaning? Overlooked the clever allusion ot some historical event I’d never heard of? Overlooked a simile/metaphor/personification? Throughout my final years of school, and through my Arts degree, I really dreaded poetry analysis. (One issue was that no one ever explained what it was I needed to DO in a practical criticism half so well as my supervising teacher on my first teaching prac did, a year after a wrote my last one! I sat and listened to him explain to his year eleven students amazed that it was actually so easy.)

Fortunately for me these experiences didn’t turn me right away from poetry – perhaps because that love was so deep ingrained, or perhaps because I didn’t ever stop writing poetry of my own, or perhaps because I’m just stubborn. Still, I suspect that for those who don’t study literature, or education, or writing – in short, people who don’t need to engage with poetry beyond childhood –  that fear of not understanding poetry, of not being smart enough,  is a deterrent to reading poetry.  And that’s sad, because that tingle, that sheer delight of experiencing a well crafted poem is a magic everyone deserves to have.

My point? Don’t be scared of poetry. As Michael Perry says, you don’t have to ‘get’ it. Just read it, listen to it and share it. Find a poem that gives you that frisson of joy that the poetry of your childhood did. Perhaps you could start with revisiting those same poems. And remember, there won’t be an exam, so if you don’t get it, nobody will know.

 

 

 

 

A Walk With My New Camera

October 14, 2014 by Sally

After months of thinking about it, I bought myself a new camera a few days ago. Yesterday, I took it on my usual morning walk. As a result, I didn’t quite get the usual walking pace up, but I did get to stop and look at things I might otherwise not have.

The path I follow

The path I follow

This is the path across from my house. It looks like I’m heading off into the bush, but if I’m honest it’s about 15 metres long before it meets the bike path, and the total block of bush is less than a hundred metres wide.  But it feels like bush. And there are interesting trees, which harbour possums and other wildlife,

Knotted tree

and wildflowers

Pink flower

and awesome, tiny butterflies.

Two tiny butterflies

Down the road, at the lake, there are lots of birds.  The most obliging of these, photo-wise, are the ducks. There are lots of these at present, and as I neared the lake a little yappy dog chased a large group of them from the grass back into the water.  Of course, I felt sorry for the ducks, but was secretly a little pleased because it gave me lots of opportunity to photograph them. (Disclaimer:  no ducks were harmed by the dog, and the dog was not mine). This was my favourite shot of the day:

Duck

but, proving that they weren’t left too distressed, I was also pleased with this one:

Three swimming ducks

I also tried to get some photos of the willy wagtails, which are one of my favourite birds, but hard to capture – both because of their constant movement, and their size. Oh, and my inability to hold the camera steady. This was the best of them:

Willie wagtail

On the other side of the lake, there’s a boardwalk which takes you close to the water birds that like the paperbarks growing there in the water.  I don’t remember the name of these little black birds, but they’re fun to watch – and really interesting because they have a smallish body (smaller than a duck) but long legs and big feet.  This one was not very obliging – I wanted to capture him on the branch with his reflection, but because he was busy grooming, most of the shots look like he’s headless. This one is the best I could get:

Coot

When he got back in the water, he swam very close, so I did manage a shot which shows how big his feet are. They are splayed to the side because the water was quite shallow:

Coot

I’ve been umming and ahing over a new camera for ages, largely because I didn’t know what I wanted. Now that I have one, I’m wondering why I didn’t get it ages ago. I’m looking forward to getting better at using it and discovering just what it can do.

A Tale of Three Dogs

October 3, 2014 by Sally

Meg Aug 14There is a Murphdog sized hole in our house and our hearts. Meg (Murphdog) was with us for more than 15 years, joining us as a frightened puppy and growing into a gentle, loving, loyal companion to the whole family. She played with the children, protected them from snakes and strangers, and kept us all company. In the time we had her she had other companions – for a year or so, sausage do Pooch, who was killed by a snake, for a few months Eddie, an exuberant kelpie cross who we looked after till he found a home, and for the last couple of years Jonah (Murphpup), a maltese-shitzu who she grew to tolerate, maybe even love.

Not everyone loved Meg. With Jack Russel in her, she loved to bark at snakes, lizards, and people walking by. This is not always fun for neighbours. She also had an aversion to men with boots and/or ladders – we suspect a particular workman had kicked her when she was young – and so would snarl ferociously at visiting men.

But we loved Meg, and everyone who got to know her seemed to, too. She was gentle with the puppies she had, loving to her people and, in her later years, really didn’t cope with being apart from us (which is how Murphpup came to be added to the mix). She was a family member, and a big part of our lives.

Jonah Sep 14

Jonah needs extra cuddles.

Her death wasn’t sudden, and was seemingly peaceful, and that’s a blessing. We are also blessed with many memories and, of course,her friend Murphpup, who is adjusting to life as an only dog.

Quite by chance, this week we have had a second dog in the house, keeping Murphpup company. My daughter is off on a walking holiday, and has entrusted us with her little pooch for the week. Did I say little? Hmm. Murphhound (his name is Sos) is a rescued greyhound, and the biggest greyhound I have ever seen.

Sos Sep 14 I had always thought greyhounds were a beautiful looking dog, but I really didn’t realise how very placid they are. Sos doesn’t bark, or yap or whine, and is happy to lie on his bed – or outside in the sun – for much of the day. But when we go out, he greets us on our return with an enthusiastic trot to the door or gate, and a very exuberant wag of his very large tail.

The Murphlets have been walking the two dogs each day – the tiny white dog and the huge black dog – and I’m guessing have provided a bit of amusement to onlookers. Apart from this, I can’t say that they’re best friends, but they seem to tolerate each other. Murphpup has no fear of the hound – but Murphhound does look a bit nervous when the little yappy one is being vocal.

In a few days Murphhound will be gone and Murphpup will once again need to adapt to life as an only dog., and Meg’s absence will probably become more noticeable as we adapt to the new normal. Still, I’m counting my blessings. Aren’t I lucky to have had her in my life for fifteen years – and to have other dogs in my life still?

Privilege

September 25, 2014 by Sally

All of August and much of September have been gobbled up, with no time for blogging as I drove up and down the Forrest Highway to Perth, and around the Southwest and even flew up to Geraldton, all for the most privileged of reasons: to talk about books, and reading and writing.

The word ‘privilege’ is one I used many many times over this most busy of periods, but it was used with heartfelt sincerity . It is a privilege:

  • Bookweek 2014

    Doing the Bookweek Dance 🙂

    To speak to hundreds of young readers from schools large and small, in their schools and in public libraries to celebrate Children’s Bookweek.

  • To have the opportunity to inspire those children to read more and to write more.
  • To share my book-babies, including of course Roses are Blue, my latest, but also to have requests for old favourites. This year those requests included Floatingest Frog and Head Hog, which are such a joy to read to younger audiences.
  • To visit one of my old schools, Iona, and catch up with many of my past teachers, as well as to talk to year seven and eight girls about my writing, as well as why I chose to write about Mary MacKillop and what an amazing woman she was.
  • To be invited to a festival as amazing as the Big Sky Festival, in Geraldton, where a relatively small city manages to turn out good sized, enthusiastic audiences to talk about all things literary and where the amazing Geraldton Library and University Centre staff treat their visiting authors like stars.
  • To spend a weekend at said festival in the amazing company of fellow writers who started the weekend as relative strangers and ended as lifelong friends.

    Big Sky Festival With Kaleidoscope 3

    At the Big Sky Festival after a session with Kaleidoscope Ensemble.

  • To return home to emails and messages from children and adults who saw me at different times over those two months and wanted to thank me for inspiring them – when it should be me thanking them.
  • And last, but not in any way least, after a busy couple of months, to have a beautiful family to be at home with and cherish.

Now it’s back to normality – writing a bit, reading a bit and even, occasionally, doing boring stuff like housework. What a privilege to live the life I do!

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