Saying the Names

(with apologies to Al Purdy)

Launceston, Tasmania –

they always get it wrong.

Lawn-CESS-ton, strangers will pronounce

instead of LON-suh-ston.

Tasmania's harder to mis-speak,

but those who grew up there

mis-speak it fondly, purposely.

We say Taswegia.

And Launceston we say as Lonnie.

It's meant affectionate.

But visitors should not presume –

that's much too intimate.

I grew up there but now I'm here,

and sure I'm here to stay

in Northern Rivers, New South Wales,

with other names to say.

You must not call it Ty-al-gum

although it's spelt like that.

It's TAL-gum to the locals,

if you want to know what's what.

And when you see the word Mooball

you say the moo like moe –

and not moe-BALL but MOE-b'l, see –

despite the cows on show.

Tum-BUL-gum isn’t TUMble-gum,

although that makes you smile.

To speak of Pottsville Beach as Pottie

borders on the vile.

Yes, Limpinwood you say like that,

but don't know what you speak.

It's named for the exact same man

as Hopping Dick's Creek.

His name was Richard Wood, who had

a gammy leg, I'm told.

But that was long before my time;

the story has grown old.

I've grown a little old myself;

the hour is getting late.

The names of places lived and loved

are sweet to contemplate.

Murwillumbah, Wollumbin, Tweed.

Tamar, Roland, the Bluff.

To live with oceans, mountains, streams 

has always been enough.

To know the way to say the names

and never get them wrong

is how you tell yourself you're home:

the place where you belong.

For Midweek Motif at Poets United, where we are invited to be inspired by Al Purdy's 'Say the Names'.