after Twombly after Turner
1
Falling down in triplets
the ships shifted and
shook primed but
nothing else This
is how you jettison
a load slowly but
with forgiveness
2
To be built for
fighting is just
another way of
being built for death
and all vision of you
will be blurred
because death is
3
You are linked only
to yourself and
you must know
(because I can see)
that your decomposition
is who you are
there is blood
but not a lot
there is pain
but not a lot
there is hope
but not a lot
there are cries
but not many
there is a life
but only short
there is truth
but only one
there’s a fear
but not a hate
there’s a siren
but far away
there’s a gun
but not mine
there’s a man
but not him
there is another shot
but not at me
there is death
as you’d expect
there is an end
but not the death
there is me
there is him
there is her
this is it
This is not a document of barbarism, we said
but the weather was fine
and the girls/women were in swimsuit ads
or at least we thought
they were, but from our position on the dirty
parterre, really all
that could be seen were the fibrous wires
holding everything together.
Those fibrous wires, they said, are surely but
chainlinks in a larger
fence, but the goods, tainted as they were, couldn’t be
sold, so we didn’t reply.
A new start, really, was all we were looking for
and our study of homiletics
definitely contributed to that, though the inbreaking
remained unbroken.
So what, you might say, as they did, there’s nothing
new under the sun,
which, anyway, was gone from its hegemonic position.
Meanwhile, on the parterre,
the tulips were thoroughly roasted. Odoriferous, we
laughed and held our noses.
Everything vegetates, this is known. The cycle of nature,
we said, remains unbroken.
That is that
though the is
is the that though.
That is
the, though that is though,
the is that, the and though
though though is that.
Is that that and that? That though
is the The.
The is the that
and that and that
though the though
is though.
But
is though that or that
or the? Or The the?
That is that and that is not that
though that is not that that
though that
is not the that.
That is that
the or though
though though is that or the.
That is not that that, though
the is that that
or that the that.
The though is not the not —
Is not that the though is?
But though is not that is
though though is not
that that.
That is that, or the and that
and that though
is The the, though The the
is that, not that, and though
and though and though.
The the is the the and that;
That is that not that but that and that;
and though though is though,
though is though, not that.
Allen Ginsberg
Academic articles, collected poems
Cancer-related heart attack, intelligent bridge-player
The most reliable source: corduroy, synthetic biology, rare foot
Howl, Howl, Hello, my name is blog!
Whitman, Ginsberg, Washington DC
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Forthrightly gay, freedom fighter, free collection, free download, listen free
Prophetic American bard, Convocation of Unitarian ministers, Renaissance or die
Elected king of the May by Czech students
Likes technology but LOVES people
Whitman, Wichita, Journalist
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Who is Allen Ginsberg?
I was briefly in graduate school, Film School reject, spotlight operator,
A photographer in Bentleigh East
The leading boardroom-level advisor to the Accounts Receivable Management Industry
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AcRonyM
The only person in the world who wears a nametag 24-7-365
Overestimate the importance
“That’s not an accurate quotation”
~Keats: Isabella or The Pot of Basil (after Boccaccio)
You saw me first Isabella, passing
beneath your window. Tongue stilled,
dagger at my throat. You mistook my silence
for indifference. I smiled in spite of myself.
The wind filled your ears with sounds
you alone could hear. Lorenzo. My name
travelled like a curse from your lips.
From your lips I rode
into a forest quiet for the slaughter.
Later, in the glade, we met again.
In the shade of a poison oak – you above
I below – we spoke
of gold and wasted hours
(beneath the wasted stars
among the wasted flowers).
Your black nails dripped with silt.
My black mouth smiled
in spite of itself.
You kissed me once and tried the word – love.
Then quickly buried me like a guilt.
My private missile crisis
Ignition falters once
Twice miss the mark by seconds.
Tack my womb to the cross,
Empty my egg baskets,
Soon I will not need them.
A pig with a solid gold nose ring,
Jesus, bless me with your humility
My snout is itching.
Humiliation becomes me
Since before birth,
I’ve picked my nose with a crucifix
Lord lays down his punishment
And now my faulty rocket can’t
Get off the ground
I’ll pay for it in spades,
Repent my nose-picking sins,
Bear this propeller
Splintery lips fire
Static sparks into my body
Still I stall the stuttering engine
Here the Kings of Israel sat
To judge their people
Quivering nights await
It eludes me,
Like mucus on the corner of my iris
I can’t focus on
The mechanic says my engine
Is easily fixed
Soon, he tells me
How certain your promise is,
Of combustive exaltation,
Til my grave ices over
My private missile crisis,
Ignition falters three times,
Mark the miss by years
for Arjen Duinker
1
Christ Child with Whirligig (Bosch)
twirling until Kingdom Come.
The Word is like the hold of a ship:
Heemskerck, its timbers
shivering in a spring tide, heavy
with antiques from the New World.
*
Batavia – a rainstorm drowns out talk of borders, where
fungi phosphoresce for our Lord.
Horses lose their shoes, carts
capsize as we ford the Almighty’s deeper
meaning. Wood holds onto the nail’s faith, wood
splinters on the nail’s dogma.
Paradise is here, between the thighs of a slave,
the taste of sea mixed with sky …
*
Existence is useless
unless you are a hammer – still
you need someone to pick you
up. The hammer ignores the nail –
they both rust but not equally
because nothing is equal; they are still
becoming nothing.
*
Absence makes the heart go
nowhere. Near the clearing, never
in. To revere is to fear
the empty
when all’s said and undone.
*
The hand that grabs at air
vanishes.
A net of names
drops into the illiterate sea.
The ambition of blood to overcome
ambition.
An arrowhead of cormorants
strikes the horizon.
The hand that grabs at water
evaporates.
*
The waves are available to all.
They do not discriminate.
The king also goes
under
for the third time, three
being the number of the unseen
One who wills but will not
intervene –
even to direct the dove.
*
But a wing must scan the air,
counting
time. And the sky is held
accountable
by the wing, as the sailor
and the wave
beat one another.
*
The ship needs the sea.
The sea does not need the ship.
The bird needs the mast.
The mast does not need the bird.
*
Atlantic, rain on the palm of your hand,
salt in the crease of your thighs.
Pacific, the palm of your hand salty
in the crease of your thighs. Rain.
*
Father is away on business, Mother
late. The birds are not of this world,
you hear them when you stop
listening. Every ship that ever set
misread the sextant, steered
beyond the known, the named, making
landfall on a beach of bones.
*
The solar system is a bangle
on the ankle of a god. Shells
inlaid on its rim, our hopes
shine for half the time, time
being illusory yet
divisible. What will we find, losing
our lives to endow museums?
“Provenance unknown.”
We thought of ambition as our rudder,
it is an anchor that drags …
*
The Word was not ready yet
the devil was a tailor
double-stitching Dutch sails
with Cain’s sinews.
A dove is not a god but
a dove with a sprig is godly.
The explorer draws his chart
on water, concentric
circle after circle …
In the centre his ship of bones.
*
To port the sign of the fish
rather than fish.
A wreck becoming coral,
the cross on all fours.
*
What was horizon presses
blood from the genitals.
This is love, the last
commandment: the tongue of a bell
fracturing air. There
the promissory note of the choir,
the cry of the godforsaken gull
swooping on a fish-head
left in the wake of a waka.
*
The sea monster was Appetite: it annexes
common from sense, stripping
prayers then oaths from master and mate –
they go down before the roaring
lord of savages, hermit crabs, and vitrines. Heads cracked
open, hold the Great Southern Land.
*
There’s a lot of space
left. We claim that space in the name of.
We use the voice of a futures broker –
it is an anachronism
and we own that anachronism.
When we said bread we meant hunger.
When we heard men we thought women.
When it grew dark we cried
Hallelujah! the night is ours.
Soon the stars will be beneath us.
The West: Australian Poems 1989-2009 by John Mateer
Fremantle Press, 2010
Since the publication of his startling first collection Burning Swans in 1989, John Mateer has established himself as one of the key Australian poets who, for the absence of a better term, can be broadly labelled post-Generation of ’68. What my clumsy terminology seeks to indicate is that Mateer (alongside other younger poets such as those appearing in the seminal 2000 anthology Calyx) follows in the general direction of earlier innovators while making crucial, although not necessarily generational, departures. The West, a substantial selection of Mateer’s Australian-published poetry of the last two decades (he has also published poetry in Portugal, Japan and his native South Africa, among other places), presents potent instances of his unique, unsettling poetics. Continue reading
Going Down Swinging No. 29: The Unguarded Word edited by Lisa Greenaway and Klare Lanson
Going Down Swinging Inc., 2009
This was my first full dip into the reputable journal Going Down Swinging and so I started with the index. It is not often that you find entries of such intriguing fragments as ‘shoot a harpoon into its golden centre' or ‘the dark play of your wet eyes'. The entries that drew me in the most were ‘terrorism, blah blah' and ‘would sever the possum's head'. I played a fun game of fill in the blanks before tackling the serious issue of reviewing this delightful package of a journal.
here in the garden worms outnumber the dead(Graham Nunn)reincarnations wriggling to escape(Barbara A Taylor)Cowards! I cannot believe they're gone(Betty Ann Galloway)‘scuse me, friend this spot taken?(Liam)our breathing stilled a city crumbles beyond the north window(Wilie)cutting deeper a blade fashions sorrow(Liam)iron coloured smoke slicing through the fallen trees never stops rising(grant)foraging wild pigs squeal on their backs(Barbara A Taylor)mudslinging zombie brides dirty dancing(Betty Ann Galloway)sweet words below the hedge the earth quakes(Claire)maybe it’s the tides pulling our bodies back up pulp gleams in moonlight(grant)spindle-limbs erected all along the shore(Jasmina)behind closed doors bony fingers are spinning thread for shrouds(Genevieve Osborne)esprit de corps! mummies scatter(Liam)swinging a baseball bat I hear that satisfying crunch(Ashley Capes)fresh mounds pop up in the soupy mist(Jasmina)bearded iris holds and shuffles the deck(Liam)each nodding head learning to crawl again(grant)
Continued from Zombie Haikunaut Renga I. This is Part 2 of Cordite’s Zombie Haikunaut Renga project. This renga has now been completed.
Over There: Poems from Singapore and Australia edited by John Kinsella and Alvin Pang
Ethos Books, 2008
Over There: Poems from Singapore and Australia is ambitious. This anthology reads as a sample of more to come, rather than a clear achievement of the sizable task that it sets out in its introduction. Over There is not, as the title might initially suggest, a collection of travel poems, nor is it a comparison of different postcolonial reflections arising from Singapore and Australia. It does contain infrequent travel writing poems, as well as comparative or postcolonial works, but these do not in any way dominate the anthology. What initially appears to characterise Over There is not a distinctly international or culturally comparative flavour, but rather the absence of these tropes. Over There is focused on illustrating the range of experiences – cultural, linguistic, political, just to name a few – rather than drawing forced conclusions about the similarities between Singapore and Australia.
Marriage for Beginners by Catherine Bateson
John Leonard Press, 2009
Marriage for Beginners is Catherine Bateson's fifth collection of poetry. As the title suggests, marriage, or more precisely the breakdown of the poet's first marriage, is a key component of this work. Bateson has structured the volume in three sections. Although the connections are not so obvious in the beginning, it soon becomes clear that these three individual parts unfold like a three act drama filled with an array of characters and conflict.
Views of the Hudson: A New York Book of Psalms by Angela Gardner
Shearsman Books, 2009
Angela Gardner's first collection of poetry, Parts of Speech, won the Arts Queensland Thomas Shapcott Poetry Prize for an unpublished manuscript in 2006 and was subsequently published a year later by University of Queensland Press. Views of the Hudson: A New York Book of Psalms is her second collection, although Gardner has published several books as a visual artist who also incorporates poetry with printmaking. Views from the Hudson was written during a visit to New York in 2008 as part of a Churchill Fellowship that aimed to investigate collaborations of poetry and printmaking for emerging practitioners.
Fragments from a Paper Witch by Marion May Campbell
Salt Publishing, 2008
Marion May Campbell's Fragments from a Paper Witch arrived not without anticipation. Despite the publication of four of her novels and the staging of several theatre works, this is her first collection, drawing together diverse works of poetry, prose poetry, fictocritical essay and performance writing. Most of these pieces were written between 1985 and 2004, and all but a handful have been previously published, collected or dramaturged. But Campbell has avoided a ‘best of' mode with this book, steering away from self-showcasing in favour of thematic continuity.
Blow Out by Rae Desmond Jones
Island Press, 2008
Many of the poems in Rae Desmond Jones's Blow Out end with silence. This is effective in the poem ‘Witness', about a car accident, where ‘The policewoman leans in to press a button, / Then the street goes quiet'. (This poem also features the excellent verb ‘Bananas”.) But such closures tend to make the trajectory of Jones's poems predictable; though he retains the power to surprise or coast out to something that's, well, nice.
The Best Australian Poetry 2009 edited by Alan Wearne
University of Queensland Press, 2009
The Best Australian Poems 2009 edited by Robert Adamson
Black Inc., 2009
If we seek a division in Australian poetry, we will not find it represented among the poems in these two anthologies. Wearne puts it adroitly in his introduction when he says about the Poetry Wars, ‘for all the legendary brouhaha it may have all happened at one party (and perhaps that's how the eventual movie will see it). If some of us played for different teams (and still may) remember the operative words are 'play' and 'teams'. We are still all part of some all purpose Australian poetry experiment …' That he doesn't take these divisions so seriously is heartening. It is a perspective which pervades Adamson's anthology too. My strongest impression of both books was of the interplay between different poetic forms. Whether it was their intention or not, the editors show that formal verse and free verse are poles along the same poetic continuum, and Australian poets work between these poles and don't take distinct sides.
Unanimous Night by Michael Brennan
Salt Publishing, 2008
Four Lines East by Barry Hill
Whitmore Press, 2009
Unanimous Night and Four Lines East are very different collections physically, the latter being a limited edition chapbook of thirty-five pages, but they both revolve around a central theme of the Australian poet out in the world, away from home, discovering new dwellings for body and mind in the process. For those like me who have been backstroking through the poetics of remorseless national introspection for some time, this provides a welcome moment of forward propulsion without feeling as through you're being completely let off the hook.
Dorothy Hewett and ‘zombies' are not generally found in the same sentence. However, Hewett liberally utilises Gothic tones and imagery in her poetry. These Gothic trappings do not serve only as motifs: they permeate the mood, conflicts and resolutions of Hewett's Alice in Wormland. This collection, published in 1987, combines pseudo-autobiographical elements with parody, mythology and morbid images to reach a strangely optimistic resolution.
zombies in the fields lifting each cauliflower decoy brains(Scott Thouard)footprints smell of fungus and new rain(grant b)in lust for the drummer this silent heart(Lorin)out in the dark behind the disco – waiting(Genevieve Osborne)new moon all that exposed flesh shivers my skin(Graham Nunn)the high-pitch screeches swallowed by fog(Barbara A Taylor)Salome's dragon coughs a wake in progress(Liam)prizes at Bar Etiquette for the best dressed dead(Lorin)stop! on the tailor's needle bits of blood(Vasile Moldovan)his mouth drawn shut a head-shrinker's trophy(grant b)dreaming of pearls the old actress leaves her teeth out(Graham Nunn)signing autographs sideshow seats glow orange(David Prater)Armageddon rules against the whistle blower a stiff wind(Betty Ann Galloway)midnight, the train departs for death camps(Barbara A Taylor)all by itself a hand creeps through the moonlight(Ashley Capes)whose coat of arms on this signet ring?(Lorin)nicotine sky dulling the smell of bodies(Graham Nunn)suffocated by datura's tubular bells(Barbara A Taylor)
This is Part 1 of Cordite's Zombie Haikunaut Renga project. Comments on this post are now closed. Visit Part 2 to join in the fun!
In 1982 Neil Postman first noted that the concept of childhood was disappearing in his book, The Disappearance of Childhood. It's highly unlikely that we'll be saying anything new if we claim that poetry is disappearing from the classroom. And though it is, and has been doing so for decades, poetry itself survives. It's just going to other places. To the small press, to cafes, to cyberspace, even to public transport. Perhaps, if we want poetry to be heard and read in other places too, our society needs to bring it back to schools.
From Mrs Saville, England
May 1, 18-
You write to me brother of Archangel,
of Petersburg, of northern climes and lights,
of your quaint coracle like a wicker bird
trapped in its blue green cage.
But I have my own fields of ice and snow,
frozen wastes and compressions; a world
that cracks and falls away, reforming again
in awesome scale whene'er I close my eyes.
You speak of a fiend, with wondrous voice.
In your words you seek to press its stature,
this lone figure with jaundiced imperfections
and huge murderous hands.
Yet here my very quill screams out of devils,
ones you knowingly left me here to face:
the spawn of every fair-intentioned man –
dead flesh quivering with naked malice,
fish-eyed stares and stranger, colder hands!
You asked me once if I did understand –
imagining I guess a sister happily bound,
at home with the gentleman and his monster –
but I should ask you such a loaded question,
and picture the fog that freezes in your throat.
Can your icy mind imagine all the horrors?
That ‘universe of things' that met my eyes,
as a new world of souls was cursed forever
to wander as the wan and undead peoples
of a wretched and unholy land?
My husband lately visited Australia.
Such noble and hardworking folk he met –
men who in the steady breast of England
produce sheepswool, cattle, Norfolk flax
and a harvest of black hands.
It seems there a lifeless creature's set in motion,
whose breath you'll soon be feeling at your nape.
My husband and his peers are its dumb masters,
and a Christian heart will not be your escape.
Margaret
