An English Corner

 

In little Paris of Melbourne

A little English corner 

Treasury Place surely is.

Look at the pictures

Not only the buildings

Are in the Bath Style

The gardens follow the English pattern

The deciduous trees alleys

Lead you to thick greens lawns.

The coat of arms on the main building

Is the franco-english one

Honni soit qui mal y pense

Accompanied by  Dieu est mon droit.

They are proudly displayed

The home country is forever strong here

This is the second building I see in Melbourne

Displaying her Majesty Arms.

Only towards the end of the road

The Commonwealth building dares

To display a very inferior Aussie coat of arms

On a building whose entrance imitates 

The prison gates of the Tower on the Thames.

We are still a colony,

Just open your eyes.

No wonder we are suffering

Of a cultural cringe.

L. Bailliet©

09/07/2012

Dans le petit Paris de Melbourne 

Se tient un coin d'Angleterre

S’appelant la Place du Trésor.

Regardez les photos

Non seulement les bâtiments

Sont dans le style de Bath

Les jardins suivent le modèle anglais

Les allées d’arbres à feuilles caduques

Vous mènent à d'épais gazons verts.

Les armoiries sur le bâtiment principal

Affichent  la version anglo-française

Honni soit qui mal y pense

Et de Dieu est mon droit

Et y sont fièrement affichées

Le pays d'origine est toujours fort ici

C'est le deuxième bâtiment que je vois à Melbourne

Afficher les armes de Sa Majesté.

Ce n'est que vers la fin de la route

Que l’immeuble du Commonwealth

Affiche les armoiries Australiennes

De manière très discrète

Sur un batiment dont l'entrée

Reprend les barrières de la Prison de la Tour sur la Tamise

Nous sommes encore une colonie,

Il suffit d'ouvrir les yeux.

Pas étonnant que nous souffrons

D'un problème d’identité culturelle.

L. Bailliet©

9/07/2012

Daylesford Lake Sunset Walk

Sunset walk around the Daylesford lake

No tourists at that time.

Smells of the pines and eucalyptus

On top of the smoke

Are wafting around us

While the birds are starting

To think about homing

For the night.

The magpies are loudly bickering to find

A place nearby a comely mate.

The geese are honking on the misty islands

While the kookaburras

Are sitting laughingly

On a branch all in a row.

A lonely bat is flying seemingly erratically

Against the darkening sky

Dogs are barking at the falling night

In the distance just for the sake of it.

The resorts bay windows and courtyards

Are alight with fairy lights and heavy chandeliers

The smokey scent of burning iron wood

Hangs heavily in the night sky by now

And the air is turning icy

Time to return to our lodgings.

L. Bailliet©

29/06/2012

Promenade à la tombée du soir

Autour du lac de Daylesford

Pas de touristes à cette heure.

Les odeurs de pins et d'eucalyptus

Mélangées à la fumée nous entourent

Alors que les oiseaux commencent

A réfléchir sérieusement à la nuit.

Les pies se querellent bruyamment pour trouver

Un endroit à proximité d'un compagnon avenant.

Les oies klaxonnent sur ​​les îles

Alors que les kookaburras

Se sont assis en riant

Sur une branche en une rangée.

Le vol, d’apparence erratique, d’une chauve-souris  

Contre le ciel qui s'assombrit trace une route compliquée

Les chiens aboient à la nuit tombante

Dans la distance, juste pour le plaisir de le faire.

Les baies vitrées et les cours des stations balnéaires

Sont illuminées avec les lumières féeriques et des lustres lourds

Le parfum fumé de l’Ironbark brûlant

Bloque massivement toute autre odeur

Et s’élève lentement dans le ciel nocturne

Maintenant l'air est devenu glacial

Il est temps de retourner à notre hébergement.

L. Bailliet©

29/06/2012

Ballarat

Ballarat,of proud history,

Eureka Stockade for memory,

If I am right,

Has surprisingly enough,

For me anyway,

A full standing Queen Victoria Statue

With a golden victory on her globe!

Oh men of little memory!

The gold rush certainly

Did put Ballarat on the map

Once again pushing out the natives.

Ballarat the fifth largest town

Within the Australian country side

Proud of its two universities

Of its Cultural life so early celebrated

In Her Majesty's theatre

And in fact today we saw

A movie staged in the fifties being filmed.

I don't know about the glamour industry

Everyone was frozen in the icy wind

Waiting to play their part.

But art was reigning

As the traffic has been closed

To allow for the filming.

The botanical gardens

Splendidly reflected the belief

Of the earlier generations

In the future of their town

And the beautiful villas surround 
A lake filled once again.

L. Bailliet©

28/06/2012

Ballarat à la fière histoire,

La Stockade Eureka pour mémoire,

Si je me rappelle bien,

Possède de façon surprenante

Pour moi, du moins,

Une statue en pied de la reine Victoria

Avec une victoire dorée sur son globe!

Oh hommes de peu de mémoire!

La ruée vers l'or certainement

A mis Ballarat sur ​​la carte

Une fois de plus repoussant les indigènes.

Ballarat la cinquième plus grande ville

Dans la campagne australienne

Fière de ses deux universités

De sa vie culturelle très tôt célébrée

Dans le théâtre de Sa Majesté

Et en fait aujourd'hui

Un film mis en scène dans les années cinquante a été filmé.

Je ne connait rien à  l'industrie du glamour

Mais tout le monde semblait gelé dans le vent glacial

En attendant de jouer leur rôle.

Mais l'art régnait, la circulation était fermée

Afin de permettre le tournage.

Les jardins botaniques

Traduisent magnifiquement la croyance

Des générations précédentes

Dans l'avenir de leur ville.

Et les belles villas règnent supremes  

Entourant un lac rempli de nouveau.

L. Bailliet©

28/06/2012

The flags

The white flag from the Red Cross 

Flies gaily in the wind

Undulating happily in the billowing air

Trying playfully to cut loose from its pole.

On the contrary the Australian flag

A few feet away

Is hanging limpidly pointing downwards

Fore-lone with a few attempts

At catching the wind curling around its pole.

Opposite to these two official symbols

My wet tea towel is also flying

At my window trying to dry

Catching the wind and the last warm rays of sun.

To each its own symbol

Why wouldn't my rag fly

As well as the official ones?

It only indicates that I’m in residence, after all.

L. Bailliet©

7/05/2012

     

Le drapeau blanc de la Croix Rouge

Vole gaiement dans le vent

Claquant joyeusement dans l'air qui l’entoure

Et essaie ludiquement de rompre avec son pôle.

Au contraire, le drapeau Australien

Quelques mètres plus loin

Est limpidement suspendu

Il pointe vers le bas

Malgré quelques tentatives

De capture du vent autour de son pôle.

Face à ces deux symboles officiels

Mon torchon humide flotte également

À ma fenêtre essayant de sécher

En attrapant le vent et les derniers rayons chauds du soleil.

Un symbole propre à chacun

Pourquoi mon chiffon n’aurait-il pas

La même reconnaissance

Que les officiels après tout?

Il indique simplement que je suis en résidence.

L. Bailliet ©

05/07/2012

ANZAC

ANZAC national holiday

For Australians celebrating

The massacre of wars

Fought on alien lands

In foreign wars for foreign countries .

Should I start by Gallipoli

The original battle

Where  Aussies  and Kiwis

Lost so many

But much less than

The Brits and the French or the Turks

For that matter.

Each passing year

My disgust for the imbecility

Of it grows with the number

Of young dead soldiers

Killed in not so glorious battles

Or even worse in collateral damages.

Once dead they attain

The status of heroes.

Who remember the heroes

Fallen in Vietnam, Korea,

Iraq and Afghanistan ?

Once dead they enter

The field of forgotten lest.

ANZAC day celebrations are supposed to

Laud them once again

For the sacrifice of their life

For the mother country.

Why, may I ask, or what

Rather made their sacrifice imperative?

Which part of Australia was under attack

That thousands of men had to forfeit

Over the years their life ?

No, they went to war for the benefit

Of another country idealistic avidity.

Then if it is really to celebrate

The stupidity of war

Let's celebrate in that case

All the armed forces and not

Only the massacre of the Anglo-Saxons

Inhabitants of this continent

At the time of WWI.

It is an insult to the immigrants

Whose ancestors may have

Fought on the other side

By the hazard of history.

Stop that false patriotic celebration

This is a divisive one

That the nation does not need.

L. Bailliet©

24/04/2012

ANZAC fête nationale

Pour les Australiens qui célèbrent

Le massacre des guerres

Combattues sur des terres exotiques

Dans des guerres étrangères pour d’autres pays étrangers.

Devrais-je commencer par Gallipoli

La bataille d'origine

Lorsque les Australiens et les Kiwis

Perdus en un si grand nombre

Mais beaucoup moins que

Les Britanniques,  les français ou encore les turcs

Ne les oublions pas qui eux défendaient leur territoire.

Chaque année qui passe voit

Mon dégoût pour l'imbécillité

Augmenter avec le nombre

De jeunes soldats morts

Tués dans tant de batailles non glorieuses

Dans des incidents collatéraux.

Une fois morts, ils atteignent

Le statut de héros.

Qui se souviennent des héros

Tombés au Vietnam, en Corée,

Irak et en Afghanistan?

Une fois morts ils entrent

Le domaine des oubliés à jamais.

Les célébrations de la journée ANZAC

Sont censées nous forcer à nous souvenir

Pour les louer à nouveau

Du sacrifice de leur vie

Pour la mère patrie.

Quel  a été, je vous prie, la raison

Impérieuse de leur sacrifice?

Quelle partie de l'Australie a été attaquée

Que des milliers d'hommes au fil des ans

Ont dû renoncer à leur vie pour elle?

Non, ils sont allés à la guerre pour le bénéfice

De l’avidité idéaliste d’un autre pays.

Ensuite, si c'est vraiment pour célébrer

La stupidité de la guerre

Fêtons dans ce cas

Toutes les forces armées et non

Le seul massacre des Anglo-Saxons

Habitants de ce continent

Au moment de la Première Guerre mondiale.

C'est une insulte pour les immigrants

Dont les ancêtres peuvent avoir

Combattus de l'autre côté

Par les hasards de l'histoire.

Arrêtez cette célébration patriotique fausse

C'est une source de discorde

Que la nation n'a pas besoin.

L. Bailliet©

21/04/2012

  

A day at the Peninsula Hot Springs

Idly floating in one of the hot spring pools 

Protected from the wind by dwarf Sheoaks

Making woven rings from their supple needles

As a gift to the generous springs spirit

Crickets chirping away my worries

Enjoying the view splendidly spread around us

Displaying  both  sea and country surroundings 

 Watching other patrons walking on the side track
Trying each one of the pools and commenting 

On their respective qualities

We are having a fun hedonistic day.

L. Bailliet©

28/02/2012

Why I hate hot summer days?

In the big city near the bay

Blazing summer day

Accompanied with hot wind

Nearing the thirty five degrees

Day for heading to the beach

Another day feeling of holidays!

In the country side it is another story

Too many memories explain

The reason why I hate hot summer days.

Anxiety starts with the morning breeze

The day is busy, clean the gutters

Clean the garden around the house

Collect the valuables, photos included,

Keep the pets inside

Keep the children occupied

Search for the fire channels on tv or radio

And leave them on in the background

Get batteries for the radio.

The fire alert is on

For someone somewhere

Has done the unthinkable

And lit a fire.

Its time to fill in the bath and any containers

Decision time

To stay and defend the house

Hoping for a miracle that the fire will skip it

Or go to the nearest designated safe area after a mad scramble

Before the highway is closed to civil traffic.

The incessant droning of the helicopters

Delivering their buckets of water

Can be heard all over the mountains

The bush is on fire.

The fire trucks and teams

Try to keep it inside the fire containing lines

But the wind spreads crown fires

Disaster strikes

The first human victims have been claimed by the inferno

The constantly changing wind direction

Managed to create a circle of fire that trapped them.

The fight goes on, other fire brigades are called on

Intra and interstate, the night will be long.

The air has acquired the heavy and oily

 Distinctive smell of a bushfire.

Above the hill the red incandescent glow globe

Is staring as a malevolent beast

Ready to pounce, devour 

And bring on more destruction in its wake.

All the neighbourhood is looking at it

And commenting outside in the street.

The night coolness is slowing it down

But the weather man is very pessimistic

And announces another scorching day

At least he is not glorifying

The nice hot day to come for the townies.

The normal TV programs have been replaced

By emergency ones giving

Regular information and advice statuses.

The traffic down the street has suddenly increased

A caravan of fire trucks is passing under the windows

Cars are driving back up

The radio announces that residents have been told to  

Abandon their properties and get out

The fire is at the gully just at the bottom of the street.

The fire front is fifteen kilometres long

On the northern side of the highway

The advice is to wait for the people

To knock on your door before evacuating

In order to leave the street

To the fire engines as long as possible

Comes the long list of streets names.

The phone rings, friends

Offering respite accommodation

Even overseas family is calling

With anxious wishes

As the fire has hit the news.

The night is a long awaiting.

By morning the day has been transformed

In a grey soup of smoke,

One cannot see more than a few metres

The good news is

The fire has been contained so far

To this side, lower down a few townships

Have been badly touched,

But only material losses are reported.

Another day, another fight

The fire will take a week to come under control.

That is why I hate hot summer days!

L. Bailliet ©

26/02/2012

The Scroungers

On our daily walks with the dogs

We learnt to follow the seasons

We knew where to go

To find quinces and make divine vanilla quince jelly,

To pick up apples and have caramelized upside-down apple pies,

To look for fresh boletus to cook with risotto,

To pick some luscious figs to accompany prosciutto,

Some lovely yellow plums from a long time planted tree

Last remnant of a farm now gone,

To make a scrumptious clafoutis.

The water to make the best coffee and beer in town.

That was for the nice scrounges.

We also knew where to go to pick up

Fat cow pats for the roses garden.

It is amazing what one can find in public spaces,

So many people passing and not noticing,

The natural bounty all around us.

One thing we did not touch were

The blackberries because of the spraying

Which was the source of a deep sorrow

For one of our neighbors,

No more blackberry jelly or pies for her and her daughters!

But she still had the memories of delicious school girls’ parties.

It was a world of simple pleasures which I miss in the big city.

©L. Bailliet

10/2/2012

Bendigo

The Bendigonians can be proud of their city

Put on the map by the gold rush.

Bendigo old stately buildings are a living testament

Of this epic Victorian era.

Nothing was too good or too rich

The buildings could be built with four facades

So rare in Australia as a tablet explains it!

From a tent city within two years

It had a post office and a hospital.

It followed the well established

Second-Empire style of building

So much in fashion then.

Therefore her town edifices do not lack decorations

Such as lion muzzles, urns, garlands and cornucopias.

So much so that as its European equivalent

This one has lost its Australian flavor.

But that was the point you see

It needed to show the world

That civilization had come and settled there.

Nowadays it is a different game, Bendigo has to show

What a modern metropolis it has become.

Well it certainly succeeded

In breaking with the old Victorian models.

No more copies nowadays,  just original modern urban bunkers

Which I suppose go well with the public toilet blocks

They hide away in the middle of the shopping mall.

It has the added advantage of displaying

Two idyllic bush settings to conceal odors maybe?

Or to act as a reminder to Bendigonians of what was before

Their bloody occupation of the  Dja Dja Wrung land?

It does not matter how hard one tries to forget

The injustices and crimes committed

Their souvenir will come back to the forefront when last expected.

The children may run between the spouts of the paving fountain

I see the blood that once was freely running there.

©L.  Bailliet

4/2/2012

Tull

Its gates and grid welcomed us.

Wallabies and roos jumping across the paddocks

Rabbits hopping all over the sheds area

Foxes crossing the garden in the middle of the day

Feeding apples and carrots to the horses on the property

Walking through the gum forest

Finding turtles around the ponds

It was a joyous chorus of animals celebrating life.

The drought hit first with shrinking the ponds,

Every day empty turtle shells were discovered .

Then man took in his hands to change paradise

And started to shoot the wallabies at night

To gas the rabbits warrens and to poison the foxes.

Suddenly we were surrounded by licensed killers,

Even to walk the dogs in the evening was dangerous  

One never knew if one was not in the sight of a shotgun.

All the more for the preservation of sheep and cattle.

Then came the weekly trucks to load the cattle to the abattoir

Which was heart rendering in itself.

Followed by the lambing season

When birth went wrongly and

Ewes and lambs are left to rot on the ground.

Then the overgrazed paddocks turned to dust

And the trucks came again

Taking with them this time the sheep.

By the end it had become arid and deserted.

It was time for us to rejoin civilized suburbia.

3/2/2012

©L. Bailliet