Gus Goswell Reviews Barry Hill

books_hill_cover.jpgNecessity: Poems 1996-2006 by Barry Hill
papertiger media, 2007

The lines below, part of the long poem 'Canto 1: Ice', go some way towards representing the tension that exists within Barry Hill's fifth collection of poetry. Written over ten years, some of the poems in Necessity: Poems 1996-2006 are political poems, some are spiritual poems, some are nature poems; many are all three. Necessity gives no easy answers and is difficult to categorise because it reads as a record of its creator's confusion, passions and ambitions. These things are never easy to codify, especially through poetry, an art form that, at its best, subverts the literal and reveals the subterranean:

Don't tell me all poetry is political
when rain is not the lake
any more than the river
the ocean, the ocean
sky. OK, Sky.
Now that's
political.

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Liam Ferney Reviews John Ashbery

ashbery.jpgA Worldly Country by John Ashbery
Carcanet, 2007

At an athletics meet in Salamanca in 1993, Cuban high jumper Javier Sotomayor began his run up with a customary sprint that mellowed into half-a-dozen languid, bouncy strides. His best leap that afternoon was an improbable 2.45 metres bettering his own world record for the second time in six years. After almost a decade and a half, the record remains unbroken. Sotomayor's dominance of the event saw him clear 2.40 metres more often than anybody in the history of the sport. He remains the only person to ever clear eight feet. Throughout the nineties he regularly outclassed his opponents and even won a silver medal at the Sydney Olympics, but never again would he match the giddy heights of that Spanish afternoon.

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Felicity Plunkett Reviews Julian Croft and Yve Louis

croft1.jpgOcean Island by Julian Croft
John Leonard Press, 2006

The Yellow Dress by Yve Louis
Five Islands Press, 2005

Watching waves breaking on the shore, the rhythms that emerge are, of course, only part of the larger pattern of the ever-mobile natural world we seem to observe. The poems in Julian Croft's Ocean Island suggest the occluded and multifarious that lies beneath the surface, gesturing towards the tidal, and larger worlds that dwarf human concerns. They return to a paradox of simplicity emerging from complexity, and the inverse: a kind of pure clarity that emerges from the anatomy of the difficult, the contradictory, and the awkward, ugly and troubling.

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Margie Cronin: Innocence

INNOCENCE: Blamelessness. INNOCENT: Not hurtful. One free from fault. Approaching the world with an attitude unwounded and harmless. Having a vigorous and unprejudiced perception that does not expect what it will find. Being prepared not only to understand but to reunderstand.

True innocence is about being ready. It is about allowance. A poet needs to be innocent as he or she must come to existence again and again, time after time, with full attention. Attention – and therefore the poem – will be less than full when we bring bias, guilt and untruth to whatever is our attention's focus.

Innocence is not skipping with lambs nor being ignorant of what might slaughter them. It is retaining within oneself a clearness of vision which can see to the heart of things and which wants to see the 'whole' of things. Such clarity is enabled by an undistracted self, one who does not rationalize, confabulate, brag or delegate responsibility.

And the body becomes just that as the soul struggles to equal
the simple sum of subtracting a dead weight from a live one

[Jane Williams, In the wee hours]

The value of innocence is in its ability to do 'justice to being' for how can this be done if we are not innocent – if we offend, malign and damage. The proof is that it is impossible for poetry to do these harmful things. Poems should make us ignore evil. They should make us set it aside; to wilfully disregard it because it does not deserve our regard.

This is proactive and has little to do with what is usually understand as ignorance (as what is said earlier has even less to do with what is usually taken for innocence).

omara_small.jpg
Peter O'Mara, 'category distribution' (detail)

And whose poems did I choose? Courtesy of anonymity, innocently, I chose no-one's. Though I did choose some poems. And chosen for themselves and with no crime committed, there's not much point 'after the fact' linking them back to their authors.

It would be nice to think that those authors will be happier for their poems' readers than they will be for themselves.

My reading found poetry that, at the very least, wanted to be necessary and possessed a living courage. It also found poetry that at its best has the potential to develop the human word and act. Read and let the words play over and over in your mind, as we 'play' through poetry on the way to a place where we won't need art.

Now that is innocence!

Maleny, July 2007.

Posted in ESSAYS | Tagged

Michael Dransfield’s Innocent Eyes

When you think of ways to interrogate innocence, you will sooner or later come to a moral dichotomy. It can be unpackaged as either good or bad. It can oppose guilt, and by implication your innocence allows that you have done only what is good, what is moral. Or it can mean you lack experience, and are 'innocent of the ways of the world'. Both definitions work biblically and allow for the complexity of religion. But Dransfield's innocence falls into a third category. It is a constructed way of seeing.

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Q&A with Ryan Paine

ryan_paine.jpgWe've all read those interviews where the interviewer begins by making a few remarks about his or her subject – perhaps something cliched about a 'piercing gaze' or 'bubbly persona' – as a way of easing the reader into what promises to be a puff piece or a booster article.

Often these articles function as a way of softening the general public's perceptions, or planting seeds in the reader's mind, to be sown at an unspecified later date. A full page photo of the subject, preferably situated somewhere 'in the bush', staring into space somewhat abstractedly but nevertheless determinedly, also helps.

All of which could not in any way help me to come up with a promotional photo of, let alone write an article about the new Voiceworks editor, Ryan Paine, who was not only half an hour late for our interview, but also turned up at Glenferrie Station carrying some kind of doctor's portmanteau. To top it off, a tattoo of Tolkien's initials took pride of place on his left forearm.

Clearly, a nice nature shot under a peppercorn tree with Ryan wearing an akubra was not going to work.

Voiceworks is a literary magazine written and produced by and for Australians under 25. I was lucky enough to be published within its pages about ten years ago which will give you some indication of the upper limit on estimates of my current age.

Paine, a self-described “working class boy” from Adelaide, had his first story published in Voiceworks at the age of 20 and has since navigated that rare path from aspiring writer to chief head honcho in a mere 17 months, giving you a similar indication of his age, as well as his expected tenure as Editor.

Unlike the National Young Writers Festival, where the 'young' bit refers to how old you're feeling at the time, Voiceworks (and its parent organisation, Express Media) is a little more strict in its age policy, and why not – for every publication dedicated to the under 25s, there's a dozen catering to those who may well be young at heart but, perhaps sadly, actually remember the 1980s. But enough about me.

After dropping out of university, Paine worked at a series of labouring jobs before finally landing some work experience with an Adelaide publishing company he freely admits catered to the vanity end of the market.

“It was a self-publishing house, it was fee for service type vanity publishing, so I didn't feel like I was really involved in what I wanted to get involved in. It definitely made me a bit cynical of self-publishing because of the low quality of what I was working on and I was encouraged to turn a blind eye to things.”

While this experience was not necessarily creatively rewarding, it did land him another job within the publishing industry, this time with Wakefield Press.

“I started working primarily as a typesetter and then just convinced them to give me manuscripts and thing like that and so I started editing them. They were making decisions based on judgement, rather than just a commercial basis, and that's what I was really interested in. I mean, Wakefield do fee for service as well but mostly academic stuff.”

Not that he necessarily sees self-publishing and vanity publishing as loaded or derogatory terms.

“In fact moving to Voiceworks has opened my mind to a lot of worthwhile stuff that's been self-published. There's a bunch of stuff going on that publishers aren't interested in but there's a market for it – I mean, zines are a form of self-publishing, and if that's what you're into reading and making, then go for it.”

After he had his first story – one he describes as 'based on a true story about a goitre and a fart joke on a fishing trip' – published in Voiceworks, Paine started travelling to Melbourne to attend literary events, went to the aforementioned NYWF in Newcastle then joined the editorial committee and was finally offered the job as editor and moved to Melbourne in 2006.

“It's been a pretty turbulent ride – it's happened pretty quickly. I had no idea I'd be moving to Melbourne.”

ryan_paine.jpg

When asked what he sees as Voiceworks' role or place within the field of Australian literary magazines, Paine is initially cautious and inadvertently mixes his metaphors.

“I don't think I know the landscape well enough yet but what I often feel and what I usually say is that I feel like it's an isolated island in that landscape and whatever that landscape is around it, most of us are still unaware of it.

“It's been a reaction against mainstream and established ideas – but I think it's gotten to the point now where it's being too reactionary, where it's being deliberately oppositional and disregarding other values – I'm talking more in terms of the visual aesthetic of the magazine, not so much the writing.

“I've often heard people talking about how unpleasant an experience it is to look at past issues of Voiceworks and that's been damaging to some extent and that's what's caused it to be isolated because people with more conservative or traditional values would just write it off immediately as 'grungy', 'irreverent' or 'ill-thought out'.”

He may have a point, although perhaps this is an untestable assumption. Voiceworks has been reviewed a few times in recent years, but Ryan later tells me he's referring to the word on the street and some letters the magazine has published in recent months, one of which described it as coveting 'a sort of Grung-lite ugliness'.

Then again, who needs another 'serious-looking' magazine, especially when that magazine is aimed not at 'conservatives' (whoever they may be) but at young people who may themselves be immersed in the visual arts as much as the written or literary arts.

In the end, as with any magazine, it's all about striking a balance between visual and linguistic aesthetics and, as Paine is keen to emphasise, attracting a variety of readers.

The choice of a new designer for the magazine reflected this motivation.

“That wasn't a case of me not liking the last designer and so getting a new one but it was certainly a part of the process for selecting the new designer – So to go back to the landscape, I mean, especially when the magazine has been set up to give voice to young marginalised people, what's the point of shouting over a big moat?”

In my mind I conjure up more mixed metaphors as well as images of Paine as a pen-wielding knight defending his castle from attack by font-bending attackers. Such an image, however, belies that fact that Voiceworks is not a one-man operation, but rather a cooperative organisation with a fourteen person editorial committee as well as a management committee with an oversight role.

Paine, a self-confessed 'satellite figure' in social terms, has had mixed feelings about working within such a group structure.

“I never really developed an understanding of the dynamics of a cohesive group, so now not only am I a part of that group but I'm also a manager. I have to play the friend and mentor as well as the professional editor, so at varying times I'm called upon to use my authority to govern the group but I also have to step down and just be another editorial committee member.

“I realise now that not everybody's on the committee because they want a career in publishing. They're also interested in art and in meeting new people – that's great and that's what the committee is good for but sometimes you have to temper that with practicalities. I treat it as more of an opportunity to give and receive professional development.”

I suggest that this might be the reason he's the editor, to which Paine responds that he actually would have preferred to just be a member – a puzzling preference, one would think.

“But”, he explains, “I'm really missing my in-house job, where I wasn't a manager, where I didn't have to worry about those major concerns. Sometimes I wish I was writing for the magazine instead of editing it.”

Be that as it may, Voiceworks is surely the richer for Paine's decision to make that monumental move and become editor-in-chief. I for one am looking forward to seeing the results of this shift, in print.

Posted in GUNCOTTON | Tagged ,

Genevieve Tucker: Online? Present & Accounted For

In 2003 Cordite commissioned Anna Hedigan to review the websites of Australia's established literary journals.

Now, four years later, we ask: what's changed?

Genevieve Tucker's update looks at the online presences of some of Australia's litjournals in the context of online content licensing, to give our readers an idea of the rocky road some of these publishers have traversed between paper and hypertext in this sparkling cyber age.

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David Prater: Hits & Online Readership

Frank Moorhouse's article in The Sunday Age (full text here) discusses the ongoing Meanjin 'controversy' in a much-needed context: that of the troubles currently facing print magazines, as well as some of the problems facing online magazines in Australia.

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Paul Mitchell Reviews Claire Gaskin

gaskin.jpgA Bud by Claire Gaskin
John Leonard Press, 2006

There is no firm ground in Claire Gaskin's new collection, A Bud. If you're looking for poetry that announces itself as a place to have your psychic tremors explained, your yearning reflected or your misappropriations mended, look elsewhere. Gaskin's poetry is itself raw psyche, yearning direct to the page without apology, and a paean to the misappropriations we make of our lives, thoughts, lovers and literature.

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Andy Jackson Reviews Carl Rickard and Diane Fahey

fahey1.jpgLost Places by Carl Rickard
Perrin Creek Press, 2005

Sea Wall and River Light by Diane Fahey
Five Islands Press, 2006

Carl Rickard's Lost Places and Diane Fahey's Sea Wall and River Light are distinctly Australian, both in their themes and as products. They indicate something about how writers living in Australia see their place in the world, and how they try to make themselves heard. This is an increasingly difficult task – the economic imperative tends to absorb the creative into advertising or publicity, and poets in this country are so marginal as to be almost invisible, or at least viewed with suspicion or pity by their job network advisors.

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Canada, Late September

A haiku and a meditation
 
 

In all places now
we hear the wind sing of war:
dust will fall for dust.

 
* * * *
 

I stepped briefly outside myself
– or so I thought when stepping –
reckoning much that's to be said
needs hearing, as plain as the facts
may seem, as straight down the line.
Pressed for time, a poet's convinced
to cut the chase – even though she knows
pursuit is poem. Eurydice must not surface.
The wolf must, ever-louder groaning, grow.

There are those, even in Canberra,
who would willingly block out the sun:
a slip-slop-slap for Armageddon;
a world that went out in lifestyle.
To them, the self-styled tragics,
I say, 'Your Christ died
on just such a day – so lift your gaze,
at least enough that you can see
your enemy stand, weapon in hand,
a lewd verse for a reprimand,
the one you'd defy – but know
you're in thrall to its every demand:

This is my biro; this is my gun.
This one's for killing; the other's a pun!

And now, the deed is done.
Canberrans know it: stock-still
the suited stand on Capital Hill,
their races run, overcome,
stunned by all the fun.

It's beyond funding, though.
'S bigger than all the glaciers
it shrinks, shatters, heaves, and harrows
– boulders tossed so casually
into chasms, turning, careening,
a squadron of sparrows, dancing
down an air-built thoroughfare,
screaming through countless snows
(below!) below's the answer.

So, too, your taxes, friend:
the chaos'll have those.
So too, our nutra-sweet national anthem:
words more meaning will destroy
what aspirational electors chose.
So, too, our suburbs bright and new:
the coming days'll make
each pneumatic drill-quake,
each dream to bulldoze, but a trifle
beside the force that now
and steadily, daily, gathers shape,
grows, grows – a living culture,
school for all fellows –
and anyroad, who (ever)
really knows how very little
doom a battler can find
in the earth, the air, the sea,
the seed a man sows?

Back inside myself, all's well
or not, as the ayes or nays
may have it. Love, a grammar
of family and friend, knows
no reason for this. My sweetheart
senses an ire that is tired
and forgives with a kiss.

Sunshine
blasts our Alberta farmhouse bed-
room, thundering, rise, rise!
Wipe the tears of all your
bitter dreams from bleary eyes!
Get up all chirpy North American
and greet your hosts so kind!
Bacon's cooking; coffee's brewing;
last night's newlyweds are
on their way. Praise (not to mention
my rays) be: this is a brilliant day!

Posted in 28: INNOCENCE | Tagged

That Old Light on the Hill

I dreamt up a little verse –
and in my mind, a circus-ground
of sound, it neatly rhymed
before this telling (inevitably)
brings it worse.

In fog, a weary one did
climb an old stone
staircase, spiralling, echoing
ocean, up to the lamp.

There, a stamp, as of
ideology, glowed above
its chamber doorway
(apparently, marking
politics, as well as
other systems of love).

Strangely, the lamp then spoke:
I, whom navigators adore,
cannot show safety
to one ashore, but perhaps
you sought a different.

A different, yes, the weary
said. Normally I
seek it left – but try not
to be blind a-starboard
or blind straight ahead.
Permit a weary word,
therefore, and tell me:
whitherwárd?

The lamp responds to
tide and time alone,
so shone to the right
that long, dark, cold,
foggy night, revealing
warships on the waves
and massing troops
and tanks on cliff-tops.

Which made one search
forlornly to the left,
unlit as it was, and
shrouded in the fog,
finding almost nothing
save the great black-blue
and silver surf – which was
hardly a discovery
in and of itself.

And so one searched
a little longer, and a
little longer still.

Posted in 28: INNOCENCE | Tagged

Why be a delegate?

Alright, we're ready now. Not all issues
are black and white. Not all issues
are about how to fight. But the facts
are: this one's different. We're not it.

A creature marries. Is reborn. It
marries again. The history, thus,
lives on. A moving feast. Our structure:
it's ad hoc, sure, but improving.

And can I just say? Can I just?
Say that they have to, now,
building and strengthening, building
our networks, some of our members.

The structure grows. It goes thus:
You're at the coal-face. You are,
you are our members, a structure
that informs and helps us grow.

Growth is systematic activity,
and it relates to our peculiar
structure. Over time, this devolves
into a kind of third party activism.

You look! They pay their fees. They
expect their – what are they going
to do? You look, and we'll review it.
Unpack it. Finesse it even. Of course.

Posted in 28: INNOCENCE | Tagged

Radiant (1959)

The summer dust storms
shroud my mother
as she labours
with this
the end
of the sixth decade
pregnancy.

A year earlier
Maralinga rains
settled
on South Australian soil.

Now Strontium 90 is lifted
and dumped
as soiled westerlies
finger dust into every crevasse
of my parent's Hay home.

In the womb
I enter the atomic age.

Posted in 28: INNOCENCE | Tagged

Discovery

for Claudia
 
 
groove carved in your brow
you consider the motion
of your fingers –
splayed first,
then curling,
two at a time
to a loose fist

a moment earlier
your head jerked back,
face crumpled,
perplexed
by what you saw

an amateur scientist
you tried your theory –
actively observed
until satisfied

then your gaze lowered
to your feet
in case
your
toes
might
move
too.

Posted in 28: INNOCENCE | Tagged

Skydiving With Elephants

He looked at me like I'd just suggested he go tandem skydiving with an elephant as his instructor, then shook his head, swivelled his chair around, resumed tapping at keys.

I shrugged, said 'what?', rolled my chair over beside him. His fingers poised, his head raised, his mouth opened as if he was about to share a thought.

But instead, he kept it to himself.

I wondered, What was his problem? I was only trying to help.

Then I remembered: he was afraid of heights. And elephants.

Posted in 28: INNOCENCE | Tagged

Daddy’s Girl

for craig

 
 
 

in the lead up to today
your fifth birthday
daddy's been trying
not to imagine the anticipation
of your first day at school

last year
he pictured you
throwing first a ball with your cousins
through the cubby house window
then sand
he saw you vying
for first bounce on the trampoline
kicking your shoes off without undoing the buckles

at christmas
you're up before your brother
slipping on the kitchen tiles
where Santa left traces of snow
then fumbling with shiny wrap
and upending your teddy bear stocking

on your first birthday he pondered
your first words
your first steps
your sister
just a month away
he's considered
whether you would have liked
broccoli, carrot and potato
or whether you preferred meat
with your meat
like she does
whether you'd have danced
with hi-5 or the wiggles
and driven around in the big red car
whether you'd have climbed
had curls
your favourite story
the sound
of your laugh

he tries to avoid wondering
how different his memories might be
if you'd been born
just two days before.

Posted in 28: INNOCENCE | Tagged

Edge Music

So, Yes, she said – because, you see,
I had been walking along Maroubra Beach
with my T-shirt off
in the late morning of a windy day, with flat
lazy surf in dribbles and splashes
and my need to do something with myself
ever since the moment my wife had said, Go to hell,
and life became possible again
with empty spaces in time that I could look forward to,
that excited me
because of what they might have become.
Life was no longer a simple irony of waking up late
with the sun in my eyes, wandering
out to the living room and dropping
onto a bean bag, calling Angela
to find out what time she'd be home, my head
in a hand and the sun burning my legs
while she whined about IT procedures
and I stared at a biography of Rodin on the floor,
thinking of the way she always told me
that I could really write, then going back to my bed
with the exhaustion of it all, thinking of how
I would live the day, as a writer.

Then, a day of me gone with some words on a page
and an ochre sunset on Coogee brick
life was no longer calling her again
to find out why she was late,
and when she finally arrived home with the Pacific stretched
blue-mauve through the room,
life was no longer me on the couch, Angela disaffected,
dropping her handbag in the hall and then
turning up the stereo, complaining
about something or other, then our arguing about it,
then me shouting at her with some Ray
Charles record plodding along in the other room,
the old crooner with his black glasses
and Georgias and pianos and all of this on my mind
on that sunny late morning at Maroubra Beach
as I neared its southern basin.

Down in the shallows I saw a man, flabby around the waist,
who was playing with two children, giggling and
splashing at them over and over
and closer to me, up on the sand, was a woman in a brilliant
white bikini lying on a towel
with a large novel held in both of her hands,
though she wasn't really reading it, I could tell,
by the way her wrists had fallen limp and the nose
of the book had crashed into the sand.
As I neared her she looked up
and I looked away, though
there was still that instant in which she saw me, in
which I caught her pale-pupiled glance.
I walked past
while her deep brown skin shone in the sun
and I thought of her legs as the stained
keys of a piano and the way sex
became anathema to my wife, whose legs
were lumpy, really, and never shown off
under short skirts or in tight jeans, and
how in bed she would lie there, crouched up
like a foetus with her back towards me, so that
the sheets couldn't rest on my chest
and I was left to feel cold on cool nights, and
then on warm nights, rather alone.
But now the sun was burning me black
and I wondered if the brown on my shoulders
wasn't too red, if the time would come, soon,
to put my T-shirt back on.

Dense, green shrubs always bulged
from the sandy topsoil on the headlands of
Southern Maroubra, their colour
fragmented by red thorns and stubborn wildflowers
no matter how vicious the drought, so
it was here as I walked along Australia's cliff
that I thanked the rain for refusing to fall,
that I smiled at the dried up grasses and dead weeds
with their spoilt sensibilities
and inability to handle the times
when they got tough.
A snake stopped me; it lay dozing across the trail.
I smiled at it, then turned to the ocean
to let it have its peace.
The water was calm, though it left
a frilly-white drool around the boulders
clustered at the bottom of the cliff.
Are these the moments, I wondered, when I should be entranced
by the gentle howl of the wind over shrubs,
looking at the piece of moon in the cobalt sky
and in awe of the experience of it all? Like
waking up each morning with my heart full
and dull with my wife
and walking out to the lounge room only
to slump onto the couch and think about
some old piece of music, or some fragment of poetry,
and how it used to move me to tears. Oh, fuck it!
Are you finished? I demanded of the snake.
But its long, shining blackness was like a heavy paste
still drying in the sand, so
I turned back to the ocean
but this time a head was floating over the scrub, a head
and then a chest, bobbing up and down
with the contours of the headland, floating up
from the Pacific and coming towards me. Now her
black sunglasses and thin mouth. Now
her breasts and stomach slick with sweat, her
nipples protruding through white
fabric, veiled
like buds, her hair sifting
the wind to reveal a small, difficult ear, although
I thought it obvious
she would listen and my toes
shifted in the sand and got pricked
by the skeletal remains of fauna. As she approached
she looked down at herself
and I couldn't look away, and she grew bolder,
more colourful, and wasn't it all
so magnificent and unlike anything
Ray Charles had seen – I mean, well,
wasn't it unlike anything he may have imagined
of Georgia, of some wet, flat Atlanta sprawl?

It's a beautiful day, she said to my stomach – a stomach which,
I will add, was quite well toned
and I thought, You too? Are
you also here to admire the things that you believe
you have forgotten about? So
she said, Yes, and, you see,
I know it was only because she had found me
on the edge, between
the heat and sweat of life on one side, and the mindless,
wrinkled heaving of the other,
but I wasn't looking at it that way at the time, as she
approached me with calves a little too thin,
and I noted she had a nose like Angela's
as we made awkward love on the contours
of a sand stone ledge
that imprinted a collage of fossils
on the soft skin around her spine.
So, she said,
tying her bikini back on and me sitting there, wondering
why, after all this time, this had never
happened to me before, So, she said, there's still
something to be said for being a man.
And it's funny, you know, because right at that
moment I wanted to hit her, smack her
with the back of my hand across her face,
but instead I let a snicker slip out,
then a chuckle, a little convulsion from deep
inside my chest, and then another and
another, and soon I was giggling like a child,
laughing, laughing louder, and she had started laughing
too, you know how it goes, the two of us
were lost in laughter and my eyes
were closed, my hands held my hard stomach, I was rocking
backwards and forwards with roars of laughter
so that tears were streaming down my cheeks
and I was mouthing her name, the name of my wife,
Angela, Angela, over and over, her glorious name,
calling for her and crying like a lost little boy, my head shaking
between my legs, my skin on the sandstone
in a crumpled heap of loose flakes
like a faint sketch of myself.

When I looked
up she had gone,
and the wind was whining
through shrubs
like a hollow Ray Charles moan. It was
with his black voice leaping gently
from seed pod
to bottle brush to heavy
succulent leaf that I began to think of music,
and of the way a note
can have two meanings: one
a tiny seed of divisiveness, a separate musicality on its own,
the other an epiphany of the sounds before
and after it,
like the tear and
its place in the soft, wet region
behind the eye, emerging
after only the slightest
tremor in a moment,
trailing down a dry cheek like the scar
left by a snake
as it shifts
through hot, prickly sand.
But by this time I was walking away,
away from the ocean and the things that had grown out of it,
and I had put my T-shirt back on
for the heat of the sun.

Posted in 28: INNOCENCE | Tagged

Invitation to the Cult of Musth

My fingers hold the old pocketknife. 'Many uses,'
master said, and a picture on the side, carved
into ivory: a bull elephant grunts, solitary.
'Cut something else away,' he said, grinning.
My hand worked the wood block, and the pen
worked the page until I forgot the elephant,
his feet, trunk, tusk, and the flies he swats
with his tail. the bird on his back, though, sprang alive
in my hand as the knife trembled. 'Hold it tight,
Damn it,' he said. I couldn't, and the wooden bird
slipped away, a flutter of feathers and wind.
I close the knife with a click and drop
it into the pocket of my worn denim jacket.
The bird rests hidden by the tall plains' grass;
The pen writes another word, and the bull enters
musth, sees master wave a shotgun, and fells a tree.
We got drunk to give us the courage–'goddamn it,
point the shotgun,' he said; I pointed. I pointed.

Posted in 28: INNOCENCE | Tagged

Polish Stripper in my Lifeboat

Dear Polish stripper Monique (if that is your real name),

We are in the same boat. We are in the same lifeboat. And I felt you. Either that or you brilliantly co-opted my sensibilities and took my money. You can barely speak English. Me too. You are beautiful but that doesn't matter at all. I'm trying to wish you success and happiness upon parting because I felt you the way Nijinsky felt people. You don't understand. I'm crying because you don't understand how to use articles. I write poems meant to be beautiful only to me. The language in them is beautiful and the mind in them is beautiful. I write only of the mind and of the collective minds-essences. Sometimes the writing is like buds and sometimes like flowers. You are like a flower and I am a bud and you are like a stone that weighs on me. You and I will someday get off the lifeboat and walk across a bridge I've built to each of the seven continents and oceans. Someday you'll put your tits away — when your beauty dries up. Instead of dancing will you just speak Polish to me? I don't know Polish, but I'm sure I would feel it. You said you are half Spanish but don't know Spanish. I know Spanish only fractionally, but I feel it. I know how the words sound in Spanish, so when I read Spanish poems it's beautiful. In hearing you I have become you. This is the way it is. This is the way it is. I am still listening and talking and feeling all at once. There are only these three things because three is perfect or more perfect than two. Instead of wishing you success and happiness and love I should have tried opening like a flower. As you weighed on me like a stone and I felt your troubles, so did I weigh on you and closed off completely. As I watched you take men back to dance for them, I knew they would not feel you except in a strict corporeal way and I was sad. For you, it must have seemed like I disappeared. This man who caused you all this trouble and then disappeared. I heard you. I am you. I write as you. When I next concentrate on sending love out as bubbles (little worlds within a big world and universe like bubbles that will not break) I will try to reach you. My powers are so weak. These bubbles break because of my weakness. I cannot make promises I cannot keep. I cannot save you or anyone or me. But I try. I am you and I am trying. That is all I can say. And in trying I mean failing, always failing. I hope somewhere to be successful, but I don't think it will be here. I am crying because I am too honest. I have become too many people. I am not a well or a boat, only a man. I can neither hold water for long nor float above it. Soon it will pour forth, enter in. Our boat will sink my dear and the well will be useless. We will drown because you trusted me and my feeling. Your goals are simple. Feeling is complex. I am writing into cliches because I fear cliches. The collective, worn-out honesty of a cliche makes me weep. I can't change anything because it's already happening. There is too much thirst and too many tears and not enough joy.

I don't feel joy, only you.

Love,

me and the people I have become.

Posted in 28: INNOCENCE | Tagged

You With the Leopard Spots

You looked so bold and strong this morning I said
you seem much better, you with the leopard spots.
And you expanded around me
your lips and eyes fusion
of man and woman
forget all distinctions
The woman in you blooms in my thighs
The footy lovin' spear hunter smiles with his eyes
and kisses me like he's sniffing a flower.
Caresses me like he's
stirring a pot.
Holds me so close to his digging the garden
and our skin
bathes the children
from head to toe.

Posted in 28: INNOCENCE | Tagged

Eeyi Eeyi Duck (quack quack-quack)

Sleepy sleepy time crawls over the dirty horizon
Like so many ducks – quack quack quack
Eeyi eeyi duck quack quack-quack
They come crawling in a dust storm yellow rubber
Green with trapped water
Squeak squeak spurt – are you my mother?
eeyi eeyi duck quack quack-quack
Eeyi eeyi duck, spurt spurt
They trample down houses, malls, head-butt lamp posts, leave giant duck prints on suburban sports oval,
          dirty the glass on factory show room window
Make grabs at pastries in quaint little bakeries, fish the strip for new clothes and jewellery
duck poo and down the banks are full of it while managers and owners stand
puzzled in streets
What was that yellow cloud
Eeyi eeyi duck?

Quack quack-quack and all the time, bouncing on a mattress
Stained with some foul history
Bouncing bouncing
Eeyi eeyi duck
She can't begin to imagine a world
Where roofs cave in, or little fish go missing
It's all a matter of growing up
Oh how we fail to protect them
On so many fronts, a grazed knee of a time
When mum went away
She remembers that much.

Posted in 28: INNOCENCE | Tagged

untitled II

omara_category.jpg

Posted in 28: INNOCENCE | Tagged

untitled I

omara_above.jpg

Posted in 28: INNOCENCE | Tagged