This is my one idea of the Art of life:

to make your biography the poem.

- Harold Stewart [ref]David Rainey, Ern Malley: The Hoax and Beyond (Bulleen, VIC: Heide Museum of Modern Art, 2009) 68.[/ref]

During a panel at the 2010 Salt on the Tongue poetry festival in Goolwa, SA, one audience member slammed performance poetry as being ‘more about the poet than the poetry’. Their intention was to damn performance poetry as an inferior genre – the undereducated, overcelebrated, buck-toothed cousin of real literature. Inadvertently, though, the comment hit upon a much bigger issue than that same tired line in the sand. As a sometimes performance poet sitting just a few rows back, I was not so much insulted as amused by the attack. Yes, I thought to myself, there’s a grain of truth in that – perhaps not more, but often as much – but how is page poetry any different?

Take Ern Malley. When James McAuley and Harold Stewart cooked him up, they gave him a bio befitting the archetypical tragic poet: dead-end jobs, a failed relationship, tragic illness and death at the sweetly Keatsian age of twenty-five, never recognised in his own lifetime, his work kept secret, a la Emily Dickinson, from even his family until after his death …[ref]Ibid 8-9.[/ref]

Max Harris later mused:

I was offered not only the poems of this mythical Ern Malley, but also his life, his ideas, his love and his death… For me, Ern Malley embodies the true sorrow and pathos of our time. One had felt that somewhere in the streets of every city was an Ern Malley… a living person, alone, outside literary cliques, outside print, dying, outside humanity but of it.[ref]Ibid 25.[/ref]

That Malley was unlucky in love brings an extra intensity to lines like:

I have remembered the chiaroscuro

Of your naked breasts and loins.

For you were wholly an admonition

That said: ‘From bright to dark

Is a brief longing. To hasten is now

To delay.’ But I could not obey.[ref]Ibid 56.[/ref]

and Malley’s awareness of his own terminal illness offers a grim context for Petit Testament, which begins:

In the twenty-fifth year of my age

I find myself to be a dromedary

That has run short of water between

One oasis and the next mirage

And having despaired of ever

Making my obsessions intelligible

I am content at last to be

The sole clerk of my metamorphoses.

and ends:

There is a moment when the pelvis

Explodes like a grenade. I

Who have lived in the shadow that each act

Casts on the next act now emerge

As loyal as the thistle that in session

Puffs its full seed upon the indicative air.

I have split the infinite. Beyond is anything.[ref]Ibid 64-5.[/ref]

Would things have played out differently if Ern had been living? If he had been a well-fed lawyer and swinging voter? A stamp-collecting debt collector? A preacher? A police officer? A woman? Furthermore, what if the hoax had never been revealed? Would Ern’s poetry still have racked up dozens of reprints in countries all over the world?[ref]Ibid 10.[/ref] Would there have been a Children Of Malley I, let alone a Children of Malley II?

McAuley and Stewart intended the revelation of the hoax to prove that surreal poems were “nonsense … devoid of literary merit as poetry.”[ref]Ibid 8.[/ref] But over the long term Malley’s poems have arguably toppled the hoaxers’ more ‘genuine’ works. Malley has provided inspiration for numerous artists including Sidney Nolan[ref]Ibid 56-63.[/ref] and Garry Shead[ref]See http://www.artcollector.net.au/GarrySheadGentleLyricism[/ref] and for writers such as Peter Carey and Elliot Perlman.[ref]Rainey, op cit 53.[/ref] There have been so many Malley spin offs that, like “Robinsonade”,[ref]See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robinsonade[/ref] it is practically a genre in itself. As John Reed observed, ‘the myth has overwhelmed its creators.’[ref]Rainey, op cit 50.[/ref]

Further supporting Reed’s observation, Malley is the focus of numerous essays, academic papers, theses and critical analyses.[ref]Ibid 10.[/ref] Interestingly – or perhaps ironically – many of these investigate the psychologies of the hoaxers themselves. Rundle claims that ‘the answer to the riddle of Ern Malley’ can be found ‘in James McAuley – in his frustrations, his fears and the terrible splitting of his soul’. Rundle also explores the possibility of unexpressed sexual tension between McAuley and Stewart.[ref]Guy Rundle, ‘The Legacy of Ern Malley’ in Eureka Street, available online at http://www.eurekastreet.com.au/article.aspx?aeid=910[/ref] In terms of validity, such theories lie wide open to challenge. But validity is not the point here. The point is that theories exist – in such abundance that Stewart finally wondered whether ‘perhaps neither McAuley nor I ever existed except in the imagination of Ern Malley’.[ref]Rainey, op cit 15.[/ref] In other words, readers are concerned as much – if not more – with the poet(s) as with the poetry.

Similar phenomena can be found in other literary and artistic identity scandals. Helen Darville used the name Helen Demidenko and feigned Ukrainian heritage to give a ring of authenticity to her novel, The Hand That Signed The Paper, which relates events of the holocaust in the Ukraine. The book received initial praise, but was slammed when Darville’s real identity was revealed. Darville’s writing has more or less faded into obscurity, but fascination with the Darville/Demidenko character and her performance of the hoax persists.[ref]Paul Eggert, ‘Where Are We Now With Authorship and the Work?’ in The Yearbook of English Studies, vol. 29, 88-102.[/ref] In the art world there was Aboriginal artist Eddy Burrup – really Elizabeth Durack, a white Australian. Durack’s supporters described Eddy Burrup as ‘a work of art in [him]self’ and a character in the story “his” paintings told.[ref]Patricia Durack-Clancy, ‘Eddy Burrup – A Daughter’s View’ in Westerly, vol. 54 no. 1, 72.[/ref] I stress here that I by no means intend to defend Durack’s actions, but am fascinated by the concept of authors as characters. Traditionally, authors are considered extra-textual – existing outside the text. But in the cases of Malley, Demidenko and Burrup the authors, both “real” and invented, can be seen as intra-textual – existing within their texts as literary devices.

But hang on. I’ve used the ‘A’ word. Any literary undergrad worth their black hair dye and hand-rolled ciggie can tell you, Virginia, the author is dead, dead, dead. Killed by some French cat in the 60s.[ref]Roland Barthes, Image, Music, Text (London: Fontana, trans. S Heath, 1977) 72.[/ref] Before that, even, some stuffy English dudes had decreed that preoccupation with the author ‘leads away from the poem.’ According to them, a poem is ‘detached from the author at birth … [and] belongs to the public.’[ref]William Wimsatt & Monroe Beardsley, ‘The Intentional Fallacy’ in Sewanee Review, vol. 54, 468-488.[/ref] The basic point of all this was that authors and their intentions are not the ultimate source of meaning in a poem or other text. Readers are free to interpret texts in varied and multiple ways, unhassled by the spectre of what they are supposed to really mean. This was essentially a rejection of a previously dominant approach to literature that stressed authorship and authenticity at the expense of broader possibilities.[ref]Catherine Belsey, Critical Practice (London: Methuen, 1980) 13.[/ref]

I’m definitely not arguing with the view that readers are free to interpret. The Malley case is a perfect example of how readers of poems can find meanings far beyond those the authors intended. However, it seems many readers, for whatever reasons, want to keep the author’s corpse attached to its works by whatever lengths of fraying, necrotic umbilical cord reside at hand. I am guilty. My bookshelves are lined with biographies, letters, diaries and other paraphernalia relating to the lives of poets I admire. I don’t care if the stuff is real or forged. I crave stories – oh okay, I’ll admit it, gossip – and the ways I can use this information to create new (probably completely whack) interpretations of the poems I love. In my mind I turn not just hoax, but real authors into fictional characters inside their own texts.

I can make this shameful admission because – I have evidence – I am not alone in my indulgence of these voyeuristic fancies. Consider films such as Bright Star (2009), Sylvia (2003), Barfly (1987) and An Angel At My Table (1990). These explore the lives of poets John Keats, Sylvia Plath, Charles Bukowski and Janet Frame, respectively. But if movies aren’t enough, a Google books search for “Keats Biography” returns “about 91500 results”. Plath gets 12400, Bukowski 2520 and Frame 2920. Die hard fans can also visit Keats’ house in London, which has been turned into a museum[ref]See http://englishhistory.net/keats/london.html for map and admission costs[/ref] or take a Janet Frame Guided Tour around Oamaru.[ref]See http://janetframe.org.nz/Right-aligned%20Column.htm for booking information[/ref] Sylvia and Hank’s houses aren’t open to the public, but UK Attraction (“The UK’s Premier Attractions Site”!) provides a map to the Plath / Hughes residence,[ref]See http://www.ukattraction.com/london/sylvia-plaths-house.htm for map[/ref] while in 2008 the Cultural Heritage Commission and City Council of LA named the bungalow where Bukowski penned Post Office as an official Historic-Cultural monument.[ref]See http://www.redroom.com/blog/kim-cooper/saving-bukowskis-house[/ref] Similarly, Lord Byron was as famous for being ‘mad, bad and dangerous’ as he was for his poetry.[ref]Terry Castle, ‘Mad, Bad and Dangerous To Know’ in The New York Times, available online at http://www.nytimes.com/books/97/04/13/reviews/970413.13castlet.html[/ref] And then there’s the cult of Beat Gen obsessives … (no disrespect – I’m in it).

Do these endless books, films, and various other shrines to famous poets actually offer an accurate insight into their lives? Probably not. Bukowski’s one-time lover Linda King has criticised Mickey Rourke’s portrayal in Barfly as well as Matt Dillon’s attempt in the later film, Factotum (2005)[ref]See video of Linda King interview, available online at http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/blogs/culture/detail?entry_id=47318[/ref] while Frame wryly observed that ‘until Jane Campion’s film I was known as the mad writer. Now I’m the mad fat writer.’[ref]The Janet Frame Trust (website) http://janetframe.org.nz/default.htm[/ref] But whether fact or fiction, these portrayals are out there. Their existence suggests that a considerable portion of readers are interested as much in the poets as in their poetry. Their existence also helps create the personas through which many of these readers interpret poets’ works. In this way, “real” extra-textual authors can be said to become “fictional” intra-textual characters and literary devices within their own works.

Is this cause for moral outrage? Are all history’s un/dead poets now rolling in their graves, swearing vengeance? Meanwhile, what was Frame’s actual BMI? Would Cate Blanchett have been better than Gwyneth Paltrow? Yes. No. I don’t know – and I don’t care. That gristle is for the critics to chew on. Me, I’m a poet, as are many of Cordite’s readers. So I’m wondering, what does all this mean for us?

Essentially, as living poets, we need to cope with being dead – but resurrected – but never quite exactly as ourselves. (In limbo?) Then there’s that notion of being a literary device. (Reduced to the status of a metaphor! Hmph.) To re-phrase those English dudes, it is not just the poem, but also the persona of the author that becomes ‘detached from the [flesh and blood] author… [and] belongs to the public’ as a character within the poems. But we do have a certain extent of control over exactly what becomes detached, and how. We decide how to dress and behave at public readings, festivals and other events, decide which photographs to use for promotion, what to mention (and not mention) in the bio notes we send to publishers as well as in interviews, on blogs and message boards, perhaps even through social networking sites. As per the old cliché, most people – whether writers or not – present various masks in public. Or perhaps I’ll download an upgrade on that phrase and say everyone looks better on Facebook (at least in the pictures they post themselves).

To what extent, then, do / can / should poets consciously manipulate their public personas to contextualise their works? In The Cultural Politics of Slam Poetry, Somers-Willet identifies the performance of identity as a vital device in the genre of slam poetry.[ref]Susan Somers-Willet, The Cultural Politics of Slam Poetry: Race, Identity and the Performance of Popular Verse in America (Michigan: University of Michigan Press, 2009) 8.[/ref] That’s talking about a very literal, live performance, but it is also possible to perform on the page – as well as the screen and various other mediums. Malley’s biography can be seen as an extreme example of such performance. A less controversial example is that of artists presenting work through avatar identities in online game Second Life. “Real-life” writers and artists (not poets) who may be viewed as further examples include Hunter S Thompson, Perez Hilton, David Bowie, Eminem and Banksy (the most intriguing aspect of his persona is his lack thereof). Even language itself can involve subtle performances. Take my use of idioms like ‘the French cat’, ‘some stuffy English dudes’ and ‘whack’. As someone who has racked up around six years of tertiary real-world-avoidance, do you really think I don’t know better?

Ethically, however, this territory is feeling more than a little bit shaky. Am I suggesting it’s okay to lie? That we shouldn’t be ourselves? That an interesting life-story matters more than writing well? No way. But at the same time, I’m wondering how possible it ever really is to tell the truth – the actual truth (which version?) At the point of the essay when I ought to be knitting these woolly threads together into a pretty little conclusion to sit snugly over a well-earned pot of tea, I find everything unravelling… Can poets manipulate their public personas to make themselves characters in their own works? If so, how? Are there examples of poets who have done this? Any who would admit it? Is performance of identity ethically acceptable? Why / not? And even if poets don’t deliberately perform, is it ever actually possible for them to accurately present their “genuine” selves?

In place of conclusions, more and more questions. But perhaps conclusions are overrated. The Malley case has shown us that, placed in the hands of readers, pieces of writing often branch off in strange, unexpected directions. They not only take all the paths less travelled by, but dig tunnels, build bridges, grow wings and go all hell for Icarus. (Particularly on web-pages with message board facilities …