Friday, June 9, 2017

Poem: In the Huon Valley by James McAuley

At the moment, I don't have a vintage novel to review: I'm working my way through another Walter Scott, Guy Mannering. It's one I've never read before, but it's been fun so far. I have my suspicions about this Captain Brown character. I think we may have met him before *eyebrow waggle*.

Anyway, I look forward to reviewing that when I get the chance - hopefully next week! In the meantime, I want to share a poem - another of James McAuley's, since this year is his centenary.

James McAuley is perhaps most famous for the Ern Malley hoax, but he ended his life in Tasmania, as a professor at the University of Tasmania in Hobart. Southwest of Hobart is the beautiful Huon Valley, the centre of Tasmania's apple and cherry industry, a green rolling valley bordering the Huon River. I've spent many happy months in the Huon Valley, and later this month I'll be heading back to participate in the Pilgrim Artists' Festival, where I'll be giving a workshop on fiction writing.


As I'm looking forward to seeing old friends and familiar scenery, it might be a good time to share James McAuley's poem about this lovely place...

In the Huon Valley

by James McAuley

Propped boughs are heavy with apples,
Springtime quite forgotten.
Pears ripen yellow. The wasp
Knows where windfalls lie rotten.

Juices grow rich with sun.
These autumn days are still:
The glassy river reflects
Elm-gold up the hill,

And big white plumes of rushes.
Life is full of returns;
It isn't true that one never
Profits, never learns:

Something is gathered in,
Worth the lifting and stacking;
Apples roll through the graders,
The sheds are noisy with packing.

2 comments:

Joseph J said...

Am I the only one who read 'huorn'? My new favorite poet is William Blake. I love his four seasons poems. Here is Summer:

O Thou who passest thro’ our vallies in
Thy strength, curb thy fierce steeds, allay the heat
That flames from their large nostrils! thou, O Summer,
Oft pitched’st here thy golden tent, and oft
Beneath our oaks hast slept, while we beheld
With joy, thy ruddy limbs and flourishing hair.

Beneath our thickest shades we oft have heard
Thy voice, when noon upon his fervid car
Rode o’er the deep of heaven; beside our springs
Sit down, and in our mossy vallies, on
Some bank beside a river clear, throw thy
Silk draperies off, and rush into the stream:
Our vallies love the Summer in his pride.

Our bards are fam’d who strike the silver wire:
Our youth are bolder than the southern swains:
Our maidens fairer in the sprightly dance:
We lack not songs, nor instruments of joy,
Nor echoes sweet, nor waters clear as heaven,
Nor laurel wreaths against the sultry heat.

Suzannah said...

Hehe, I doubt there are huorns in the Huon. But perhaps there are Entwives. It's their kind of land.

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