BOOK REVIEWS
Justin Lowe Reviews Michael Farrell
I've never been prone to brand loyalty (no sniggers from the comfy chairs, please), but recently, the merest glimpse of the Salt Publishing logo has me reaching for my wallet. I love a challenge, and Michael Farrell's second verse collection ode ode continues that publishing house's burgeoning tradition of pulling the rug from under my snug size 12s.
Matt Hetherington Reviews Jordie Albiston
Given the small amount of time available between the book’s release and the deadline for this piece, there are still some poems I find impossible to respond remotely in an objective fashion. Two in particular [‘How I Spent Night in Twenty Lines or Less # 2’ and ‘Twelve (Transverse) Octaves, F#’] are difficult for me to inhabit for very long. Which is, of course, a great compliment.
Justin Lowe Reviews Emma Lew and Ashlley Morgan-Shae
Emma Lew's second verse collection, Anything the Landlord Touches, begins with one of those stanzas that could almost serve as a credo for an entire generation of atomized humanity: They speak of stridency and nothingness
and wrap up their shoulders in grey light.
I want to walk again in this miry place.
I want the fever and fret beneath, though
it's something I forget, like pain.
Justin Lowe Reviews Alison Croggon
Early last year, John Kinsella, man of letters and chief editor of Salt Publication, published his selection of Michael Dransfield's poetry through UQP, simply titled Retrospective. This old Dransfield acolyte couldn't fault it, and I have been waiting for an opportunity to proclaim that for six long months. So what's the occasion, Justin? I think I have just stumbled across Dransfield's successor:
Michael Farrell Reviews John Tranter
At a Carlton party, someone said to me that a number of Australian poets were all right until they started imitating Ashbery: Tranter was the example given. How Ashberian is Tranter? Their mode is similar, the way they range over a topic before resting on a twig or in mid-air, yet Tranter is closer to the ground, less insouciant, more urgent, the phrasing of a private eye who's always on the case, commissioned or not.
Michael Farrell Reviews 10,000 Monkeys
If everyone went around saying what they thought, the world would end up a Shakespearean tragedy, with none of the major players left standing. Sometimes, of necessity, there is a vast difference between what one says, and what one thinks. But then again, you just might be the right Rabelaisan dog who enjoys breaking the bone to get to the marrow. Michael Farrell takes a sidelong look at Melodrama's CD 10,000 Monkeys.
Paul Mitchell Reviews Geoff Goodfellow
A mate of mine said there's nothing more artful than seeing a bloke deliver a left hook. I debated the point. I thought the artfulness went out of the punch when it connected with someone's jaw in a pub brawl and sent teeth spraying around the bar. He agreed: the artfulness was in the action of the punch through the air.
Peter Savieri Reviews Going Down Swinging 20
Most people can barely speak, let alone write. So it follows that mastery of the written and spoken word is a rare qualification. This does not, however, prevent an international swamp of hacks from turning contemporary culture into a poorly realised historical theme park of rehashed, diluted, ripped-off high points from an overly romanticised 20th century.
Cassie Lewis Reviews Ted Nielsen
The Australia that unfurled from the 1980s onwards is ever-present in Ted Nielsen's poems. However, this is not a poetry of sentimentalism – shared icons act like familiar furniture in a strange room. New technology, with the possible futures it breeds, breathes through this book. Additionally, the author carries his leftist politics into the current conservative landscape – testing them, honing them.
Richard King Reviews Papertiger #02
A poetry journal on CDROM is apt to raise some absorbing questions about the nature and status of poetry, and in this respect the second issue of papertiger: new world poetry doesn't disappoint. In an interview with Dorothy Porter, the question of poetry's ability to move beyond its 'established' boundaries – in Porter's case generic boundaries – inspires this little exchange:
Adam Ford Reviews Dog Lovers’ Poems
This collection features over a hundred pages of poetic platitudes about dogs and their loyalty, their friendship, the cute things and the cheeky things they get up to. The anthology was compiled by ex-Premier of Victoria Jeff Kennett, who put out a call for submissions while he was working at Melbourne talkback radio station 3AW.
Carolyn Tétaz Reviews Chris Andrews
Cut Lunch, Chris Andrews' second collection of poems, is a work strong on nostalgia and reflection, which is neatly captured in the title. In this age of foccacia, ciabiatta and pide, a cut lunch is an object from our recent past, a descriptor for plain white bread, single fillings and frugal practicality. Part of the charm of this collection is Andrews' fascination with the poetry inherent in the everyday, what he calls minor poetries, and a cut lunch is an apt symbol of his affection for the poetry of cupboards under the sink.
John De Laine Reviews Graham Catt
The debut collection from Adelaide-based poet Graham Catt provides solid proof that sensitivity unleashed can result in quality verse, despite recent factional thinking that posits romantic and emotional reflection as a cheapening of poetic voice.
Adam Ford: Damn & Be Published (Part 2)
My printer ran out of ink yesterday and wouldn't accept the refilled cartridge as legit. The ink light kept flashing until I spent sixty bucks on a new cartridge. A curse on the head of cartridge manufacturers and retailers. Ink is a valuable commodity, and we salute those who choose to use their ink to put their work out there, somewhere where people will read it.
Anna Hedigan Reviews Stephen Malkmus
That there are correspondences between poetry and music in Stephen Malkmus' song-writing (both on his own and as lead singer in 90s college rock band Pavement) should come as no surprise to students of rock music – a self-avowed fan of John Ashbery's lyrics, Malkmus has, over the course of five studio albums, developed an unique vocal style, and a poetic sensibility. So after spotting Anna Hedigan (co-editor of Melbourne-based e-zine Overland Express) at a recent Malkmus concert, we couldn't resist asking her to review his new CD.
Adam Ford: Damn & Be Published (Part 1)
When I go to second-hand bookstores and look through the poetry shelves, it's the books with staples, as opposed to spines, that catch my eye. To me the staple is the mark of the self-publisher, and self-published work, in my mind, is more likely to have that spark, that frisson of passion that really lets you see into the mind of the poet. Here's some reviews of some of the staple-bound gems on offer if you know where to look.
Kate Wild Reviews Cathoel Jorss
I received an early Christmas present last year: a book by Queensland poet Cathoel Jorss, sent in the post for me to review – but no one could consider the arrival of such a beautifully executed collection as anything but a gift. The volume of 20 poems is self-published, designed and illustrated. Poetry aside, the quality of paper, printing, and the reproduction of Jorss' artwork stamp her as a curator of great merit.
Paola Bilbrough Reviews Andy Kissane
Just as there are two poetic sensibilities, Every Night They Dance is in a sense two books. The poems in Part 1 are dramatic monologues with Kissane slipping easily into a range of different voices and skins: Arthur Streeton, a suffragette, a Kanak, a colonial farm girl who saves the life of an Aboriginal man, various nineteenth century workers and others. In a particularly long poem, The Ghosts of Marrickville Metro, the essence of a job is captured beautifully in the choice of language and rhythm:
Deb Matthews-Zott Reviews Dorothy Porter
Dorothy Porter's previous verse novel, The Monkey's Mask, was a huge success – it won The Age Book of the Year for Poetry award, as well as several other prizes, and has been adapted for stage, radio and film. What a Piece of Work is Porter's third novel in verse, and takes its title from Hamlet's soliloquy (Hamlet, Act II: Scene II).
