We who with songs beguile your pilgrimage / And swear that Beauty lives though lilies die, / We Poets of the proud old lineage / Who sing to find your hearts, we know not why ... (James Elroy Flecker)

15.8.18

Wellngton Street Notebook


Wellington Street Notebook

Mrs Aylett next door took in the sick or wounded animals 
the neighbourhood kids all brought her. (We just knew.)

The house I lived in had a huge back lawn and two willow trees. 
The wooden swing my Dad made me hung from ropes as thick as my arm.

Our end of the street was in Sandhill; the other end was all the way 
down into town. I could walk to school without leaving my street.

The women used to talk to each other over their back fences. 
'Coooo-ee!' they would call, once the men had gone.

Because we were on the hilly end of the street, we could see 
from our high windows all the way down into the town centre.   

When Ludbrooks store burnt down one night, our neighbours woke us up, 
and in houses on the hill we all stood gazing from our back windows

watching the huge orange flames and the smoke against the night sky.
I was cold in my nightie but I stayed up a long time looking.

There was a big patch of uncleared bush just around the corner from my house,
with a shabby old mansion way back through the trees. We thought it was haunted.

My little brother got stuck up a tree one Saturday afternoon. 
His friends had to run and get all the fathers to come and rescue him.

The little boys used to ride their billy carts down the hill. 
They were supposed to stay on the footpath.

There were always people walking past. Not so many had cars back then.
Trams went along our street, all the way from our end into town, clanking. 

The kids in the street used to come and play at our house, in the big back yard, 
because I wasn't allowed to play in the street unsupervised.

I lived in my street until I was 12.


Modelled on the 'Pima Road Notebook' series by Keith Ekiss, in the book of the same name – an exercise in one of my favourite resources: Wingbeats: Exercises and Practice in Poetry, ed. by Scott Wiggerman & David Meischen. 























Photos 63 years later (2014). Little changed, but looking older: Our house; Mrs Aylett's house left of ours; Across the road, with High Street going off uphill. The patch of uncleared bush is gone, filled with houses. The big back yard is gone too. 'They paved Paradise and put up a parking lot' – really. And the tram lines have gone. Today there are buses.

16 comments:

  1. Thanks for this journey to the Launceston of your childhood Rosemary. Your poem is of special interest as it is our home town now, but reading it is an enjoyable and interesting experience in addition to these connections. As I read, I am with you watching the fire . Also, five bonus points for mentioning the trams :)

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  2. What a fabulous memory you retain of the whole neighbourhood... all the little details!

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  3. Oh this is beautifully worded and vividly portrayed! 💞 I could picture the "huge orange flames and the smoke against the night sky" and enjoyed walking down memory lane with you.. 😊

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  4. Sounds like you grew up on a very interesting street! Very enjoyable, Rosemary.

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  5. Lovely childhood memories. It is strange revisiting childhood places Invariably they change and everything looks so much smaller. I enjoyed reading this.

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  6. Nice when the child who's not allowed to play in the street can attract all the others to play in the yard!

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  7. these types of writing exercises often yield so much more than just words, or a loosening up into the experience of creating ....

    this has offered us, and I suspect you, an intimate glimpse into life, set in another time, and maybe even for you, what seems like a world away - and yet, it's always the details, the particulars, that will keep the scenes fresh, alive - along with the memories, of course, even as time marches forwards and some of the places change, - certainly people come and go -

    lovely to have experienced some of what your life is/was - was/is - and the images are great additions too ....

    I can imagine being at the top of that long hill - looking out in the night, seeing the horizon, seeing the flames glowing bright (perhaps a bit too scary this) and yet, on other days, standing there, looking out at the expanses, and wondering - about life and infinity ... and where adventure might bring one's feet ...

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  8. What a sweet poem. Your little house and neighbourhood look very much like my grandma's cottage. I could relate so well to this poem, as it took me right bck to childhood. My grandma's neighbourhood still looks very much th same, I always love going past and looking when I am in Kelowna....all the old remembered places. Sigh.

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  9. I've never been there but I feel as if I know Wellington Street, Rosemary. I love the chatty tone of this anecdotal poem and the clear details.

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  10. All of these details you still remember. I too remember vividly the neighborhood in which I grew up, until I was 12. The trams that have disappeared. the store that burned down. These small details that bring us into your memories.

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  11. Oh, all of it is so heartwarming. Such memories are cherished -- it's beautiful to revisit and be that same 12 year old for a while.
    Lovely!
    -HA

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  12. Very vivid rendering of the sights and sounds of your childhood neighborhood.

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  13. I really love the way you described the memories in little snippets.. almost separate pieces but still coming together. Brilliant.

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  14. Thank you for sharing your memories, and street with us. Even for the trams, it must have been quieter than the input of cars. You sounded happy here, and I hope you had a wonderful childhood.

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