Heather Taylor-Johnson Reviews Ken Bolton

attheflashandatthebaci2.jpgAt the Flash & at the Baci by Ken Bolton
Wakefield Press, 2006

The best way to read Ken Bolton's poetry is to sit down and read Ken Bolton's poetry. Trying to decipher or even appreciate his style can be frustrating if the reader is only given the odd poem in a random literary magazine; and such a reading could result in Bolton appearing indulgent in his verse, perhaps working too hard (or not hard enough) at being clever. But opening up a collection of Bolton's, in this case At the Flash & at the Baci, and reading a few consecutive poems, from beginning to end, could leave a reader feeling as though she has been witness to something new in Australian poetry.

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Nicholas Manning Reviews Jean-Michel Espitallier

seis_espit.jpgEspitallier's Theorem by Jean-Michel Espitallier, translated by Guy Bennet
Seismicity Editions, 2006

To begin with a tentative hypothesis: what is taken from mathematics, in its application to literature, is by definition never its “content”, its undeniable positivism, but rather its formal elements: patterns, figurations, configurations, molds, models, fractals. Mathematics, seen in poetic terms, is thus largely concerned with such questions as the same and the variable, the one and the multiple, the arbitrary and the contingent; and whereas for mathematicians such questions are mere means to achieve verifiable solutions, for poets, they become unique and autonomous ends.

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Generation of Zeroes

Cordite 25 – Generation of Zeroes is now online, featuring new works by a whole bunch of digitally cool poets including Carol Jenkins, Derek Motion, Elena Knox, Jill Jones, Joel Deane, Klare Lanson and more! Our special guest poetry editor and chanteuse extraordinaire alicia sometimes has done a terrific job balancing the ones and the zeroes, with the result that what you get for your eyeballs is an excellent assortment of long, short and plain kooky poems. And it's all free!

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Straight from the Tank

On January 25, 2003 – the hottest Melbourne day since 1939 – David McLauchlan and Michael Ward began the practice of filming poetry readings for the Channel 31 TV program “Red Lobster”. As of late 2006, this process continues, and over 150 episodes have gone to air. STRAIGHT FROM THE TANK is a two-hour DVD of selections from the first two years of recordings, with over 60 different pieces recorded at 17 different venues, and featuring readings by well-known poets such as Dorothy Porter, Eric Beach, and Les Murray.

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Trisha Kotai-Ewers: Tashi

Tashi sits at the side of the stage
in the bamboo chair. A monk
in golden robes on a blood red seat.

Tashi sits on stage
in his cell in Tibet
the pages of his magazine scattered
in his head space, stuffed
in his mouth.

Tashi sits silent
in the scream of hearts, minds
in the freedom of the new Tibet.

Tashi sits on the side of the stage
in Melbourne
In a week of words
he mouths
a silent scream.

Tashi sits
on a stage
in a cell
and asks us
to speak
into
the silence.

Written at the Melbourne Writers Festival in response to the empty chairs organised by PEN International to represent writers in prison.

Return to Generation of Zeroes

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Acid Wash

          I saw Pete Thompson thirty-four days ago and can't shake the image from my mind. He didn't look much different to the days when I learned to hate him ?± except the beer gut. His blond hair had lost the shine that made him popular years ago, and fell in no particular style over his football shoulders.

          His fashion sense hadn't changed and I was surprised he didn't boast the black moccasins he once adored. Although the stretch acid-wash jeans ?± stuck. He'd worn them with a smirk after making me change into what he deemed suitable. Something that hid the curves he didn't like and promoted those he did

          I don't think he saw me.

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Timothy Barbon: looking happy

and it's just morning but warm already they're looking for scraps they're snacking on the leftovers two dogs on the train tracks. clack! it's a sedan on the crossing it's been smacked up the back by a station wagon and we expect something bad to happen then nothing does nothing but a quick eye then they're off. a woman and a boy are pressing the green button for electronic train arrival information she's drinking her first beer for the day from a green bottle. from both the platforms people detect there's dogs on the train tracks. we're in a sea of blue sky the hum of traffic moving all over and around. cigarettes are being smoked and a white haired lady drifts by her head in a book and the dogs are saved by three teenagers thrown up on the number two platform and the frankston line train is arriving now late slowing to a halt inside people I don't know are on mobile phones looking happy.

 

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Tara Motherwell: Slow News day

The teapot, once dropped from a two storey window, now skated down the street on tiptoes.

 

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Kimberley @ Sunset

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The truth about everything

expressed digitally
the answer to everything

                                 is one.

or nothing.

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things that I would like to tell my son

the word sky is a physical background to many birds
with small eyes & 1000 flights & the collective skin of
all memories is journeyless when compared with dream
& Dylan Thomas & silence & yesterday I confused
buoyancy with God & most religion never worked
& why are there so many cloudless nights & supermarkets
& television listens to no-one & no-one listens to the sea &
the existence of fish is a blessed salt & I cannot find the words
that I used to & what happens to beautiful punctuation &
I will never think anything less of you & chakras will never
be made of plastic & the unremarkable has beauty
& when analysing flower consider each petal

& never reduce anything.

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th[e] broken

the broken wings   of spent birds, flying until overweight

with pollution & a closing sky

                              th broken promises      that saw a short,

dry cleaned pedestrian questioning his small existence

                                                                                           only later,

                                                                a reduction in afternoon

                              the broken child   confused in a   mix

master of red-brick dust & mother's [underrated] cooking

                                                                                             th broken voices

beside an unused lake, the view beautiful to the unharmed eye

the broken package of blunt genetials re-inventing themselves

as consumable Art &

god

                  the broken radiator          flung hard against conversations

about   the Whitlam years, uranium toothpaste,                 closed

insomnia & other                                                        forgotten miscarriages

                              the broken sound of two mountains banging

together in the middle of Israel & indifferent prophets

                                                                                       th broken narrative

homogenised in a plastic wrapping of expectant public hygiene

and lack      of attention to the word:   nature

                              th broken fences keeping the small distance

b/w my first masturbation   & the bible   sticking against my skin

the broken fridge door         slammed after a morning walk into

the stick forest                              once known as everything

th broken geography                           of slow unremoveable breast

cancer and my dead mother                              wanting to die

the broken flesh that surrounds the boundaries of my flannelette

                                                                                                             pyjamas

                                                                                                      the broken sibling

hiding under a carcass pillow of                    heroin like a swollen bedsheet

the broken verse submerged in an unfathomable blue sea of multinationals,

nameless thirst & hunger

th broken ideal begun in front of 200 white skinned males without any

                                                                                hint of revolution

                                     the broken light seen

catching a passenger train, moving across my suburban paths, and finally

resting, illuminated like a yellow scrapbook

th broken furniture                                                                    wanting a smaller room

the broken toy borrowed a thousand times

without                                  repair, tin eyes                                   and a considerable skin                   

                                  the broken poem

like a na??òve pilgrim entering a neighbourhood milk-bar only to see his

own image tattooed on a cigarette packet

                                                                               the broken man found

nailed between the naked walls                             of his own white bread sandwich

the broken dreams                                                      & dream.

                                                                            this sticky tape life.

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the square root of a full stop is the square root of 64

1st answer

a man walks through the door
picks up a broom and sweeps all the heads into the corner
he is paid to clean the factory floor of memory
and as he appears to us he will vanish
as he transcribes doctrine from dripping oil under machinery
as he peels the skin from incorrect answers in an uncorrected state
he tells the lies what they want to hear
wipes his feet on the freshly moistened lips of rumour

2nd answer

a man walks through the door
drops down on all fours to sniff out traces of his ancestors
he can detect the whole range from conception to presence to death
although he finds evidence of guilt the most interesting
because with guilt the thoughts are left behind with the action
and the dried sweat derived from guilt has a different taste
the taste of a stillness from nerves crying through the skin
the apparent need the apparent desire to deceive or confess

3rd answer

a man walks through the door
carrying all ten fingers on a white plate
his smile will guess the weight of the body of his smile
in the defeat the victory slips inside the bone oven
salutes the treaty collected in the orange dust on a stamen
he offers all that he has touched
to all that he would touch if he could touch nothing else
peace in the mind of the heretic is the heretic in the mind

4th answer

a man walks through the door
is thanked for his attendance at the meeting
blessed with an ability to deface his supple existence
he states that he has never been more than a shadow
places a submission on the table for it to remain so
he is applauded for his honesty
in the fire on the fire before the fire
he places his hand of undrinkable water

5th answer

a man walks through the door
quickly finds that he has been partially submerged
in an ultraviolet liquid the texture of fruit pulp
this is how silence is embalmed
tired space rubbed inside the cheeks as geometric paste
his neutral erection aglow in its bath of warm static
he could've gone to sleep
if someone had shown him how to close his eyes

6th answer

a man walks through the door
is confronted by dozens of copulating mirrors
enmeshed on their cold bed of unregistered light
reflections sink the calibrations from visual songs
wasted across a market of strobe lit tongues
he has been sent to retrieve his own image
to reattach the echo to his first word
to reassess the accuracy of the right angles in this square sun

7th answer

a man walks through the door
he is immediately identified and killed
he had become too close to resembling his ideas
he knew that truth had the smell of a dead full stop
his body will be wrapped in lead up to its shoulders
his eyelids removed for use as postage stamps on citations
then he will be stood in the sand at the low water mark
signalling bodies to jump from the sea to the top of the cliff

8th answer

a man walks through the door
has finally discovered the room where all the zeros are kept
multiple portraits of the universe in small black circles
this is the language he understands
infinity that adds up to nothing
a zero is the perfect fit for the soul
the method to put one in by taking one out
to replace what is replaced with what is not replaceable

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Monica Carroll: écrivain in the capital

 

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Species Counterpoint

Last night a few stars came into our room
and the moon in a dark suit sifted through my washing.
I watched as dreams performed above your head
little snowstorms in a night-bubble.

Through your body a tide came and went, your dream elongated,
the snow became an undulating whale of light.
I settled to watch the pair of you exchange dimensions.

This morning you woke charmingly iridescent
and reeled me in to sing with you deep continuous songs.

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Colour 1962 – 2003

Somewhere in the colour of sleep is a shade of you. I listen but you're long into the night already. The horse I ride sweats yet we barely cover the length of our echo through the tableland of this nocturnal gallop. Small understandings have flowered late along the way. We are driven, the horse and I, on to a ludicrous fate. Unless they are free I don't like horses and if I'm asleep, awake or neither we seem to get nowhere with all this wanting to. I think you knew, you would mew it in your sleep, what colours meant; the lustre of bones and oil, the universal pigment thick in our hearts. My horse is coloured from an unimaginable palette. It was you who painted this horse and you who put me on it. The flowers were simply splashes ?? and the desert, that was nothing. You are released from known colours and it is uncollectible the way you now appear as particles, as light.

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Mark Garnett: On reading Ken Bolton's Three Poems for John Forbes Or, Poem for Betty

After meeting someone i kind of knew in the city
for coffee at Pellegrini's
i came home to my messy room.
On the tram i was reading
Ken Bolton's Three Poems for John Forbes
and they have made me a little low,
tho maybe mellow
or sad, or whatever…

Maybe i'm a little low
because i have not known such sadness
nor such greatness neither,
tho maybe i have
                    but we were not friends,
and
          while they're speaking to me
                                                                he isn't…

or maybe it's the coffee wearing off
(he was in the coffee shop again).

On my wall is a picture
a friend took in Spain
of a doorway
covered in graffiti,
which cannot be used,
and a sign i can't read
because it's in spanish
(i'd like to be in there somewhere).

Bianca was
                              or rather is
          or could be
                                                 or whatever,
a great artist,
                                i think
though we're not friends.

When i walked from the tram today,
back to my house and this room
where i look out over the rusty roof
at (can you believe it?)
ivy growing over the wall, i saw
“Betty”
stencilled in pink on the footpath
and thought of her.

 

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Kristine Ong Muslim: Airport Roll Call

And now I know how
to bend those small town
hills back home.

And there will be rivers
in my hometown
when I get there.

And I will decide
which of them
to drown in.

 

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graph axis

we are all pushed along by books, dragged by boxes
counted by other peoples numbers, silenced by a roller
coaster, driven by the vision of the other and how bout

the mask that only seems to cover half the face these days.
most i's are in capitals yet this eye turns lines and graphs
into curves of water that drip fluidly into the place where

your most cherished dreams live. it's love in shades of blue.
it's life that equates meaning. it's an x with kisses and a y can't
we all just stop for a minute. it's clusters of memory that knead

us into recognition of self and plead with you to come
to your senses. cherish the colour of the sky. a loss of visible
markers, the blurs always make new scuffs into the streaming

voice of your body. dripping with sensibility are the hands shaken
recording the unknown possibility of our destiny. clouds of ideas
hang on the line. they haven't been washed in a while, they're just

airing. a man falls from the sky and shoots an arrow into the world.
they don't navigate anymore, these arrows are the coordinates
for how we measure our life. they form stairways that lead into

a supermarket where we buy our daily needs. remote control
us. scratch raw figures. create formulas that socially collide,
making form blush with embarrassment, stretching for numbers.

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Hansard

(Transcript of the maiden speeches of John Howard, Tony Abbott and Peter Costello)

Australia and Australians / there is no limit to what Australia can / refute / achieve / There is no limit to what Australia can / compromise /

No limit /

We need governments which believe in / knee jerk and automatic responses /
We need governments which believe in / neither a full nor a complete answer /
We need governments which believe in / the Soviet model /

Governments which meddle / badly / Stick to their traditional job / badly /
Governments which believe in / family breakdown / low esteem / the divisions which are emerging in our society /
Governments which believe in / dictates / loss of faith / a pandemic of doubt and introspection /

Australia and Australians / my deep conviction / a strange affliction / a means for applying bandaids / to bring peace / like a householder who keeps fixing walls and mending floors / stifled individual liberty and impoverished a nation /
Modern Australia is rightly concerned /

Nothing is safe / Nothing is safe / Nothing is safe /

Australia and Australians / People are questioning their God, their country and even / wealth generators / I hope I can be a similar goad /

We need governments which believe in / people who believe /
We need governments which believe in / the corrosive cynicism of modern times / We need governments which believe in / uncertainty with conviction /
We need governments which believe in / doubt with faith /
We need governments which believe in / repressive government / as / a matter of logical argument /

One can be persuaded to believe /
One can be / carried along /

Australia and Australians / unemployment, crime, family breakdown and social disintegration / are / the new opportunities /

We need governments which believe in / the real antidote to / hope / fear / immigration /
We need governments which believe in / a balanced appreciation of our true position /

There is no mystery /
There is no secret /
There is no / light on the hill /

Governments are human contrivances /
The foundations are constantly shifting /
The foundations are / guaranteed to tear Australians apart /

Australia and Australians / Let government / run / government /
Let government / run / run / run /
Speaker / Big Government / Excellency / big / big / Big Government /
Excellency / Speaker / Speaker / Excellency / Speaker /
Speaker /
Speaker /
Speaker /

I /
You /
We /

Thank the House for the courtesy it has extended to me /

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Sedition

Music is the calm of a bracelet, girdle, helmet
inside words don't matter
I've found no terror in the package the song contains
there's a type of blue it resembles, one not grown ancient
the patina was freedom or something resembling the ability to finish the joke
they call for calm – you must give it up
standing on the platform with the sick trains
there are laws all around me
and the wind and the road, what of them?

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the zero manifesto

Zero
And infinity
I enter my generation
Conceived, spurted, swelled belly, and birthed
Into an atmosphere more polluted than the last

Indivisibly chemical signatures
Tap along my nerve endings
Thalen that make women of boys
Pregnant women wash your hair at risk

Gordon Gecko years of greed is good
Now masked with paradox delivered
revelations from celebrity gods
We must earn more
To stop poverty

Buy a wrist band no one can eat
Reminding you to “Stop Poverty™”
Wear it near the biro scrawl
reminding you to “buy more milk”

We stagger under Darfur, Timor, Lebanon, tsunamis and cyclones
Helpless as mewling infants
against decades of uncivil war
Internal and external to our bodies

We gobble newsbytes, join morning television families
With whom we share no genetic trace nor smelly uncle

We are lost in a wild thicket of misinfomercials
Our labor is no longer cheap enough
To be worth anything
.53 seconds to produce a Nike™ product
and 56% of our weekly wage
goes off shore, no where
for shoes smarter than we are

we are valuable
like cattle are
marked by what we stuff into our mouths
faster again and again
only
in the depth of our consumerablity
Our souls slowly starve

The numberless number of the noughties is upon us
Zero and zero and zero
emptiness in a time of chaos

minimalist? Try ikea™

when I cry enough
enough.com?’ offers me my own webspace

I am a set of acronyms
This is (insert name here)
my CliP, my Current Life Partner™
love forever, until the next time

All is an everywhere and everywhere
there is nothing

escape through the sliver thin gaps between commercials
Follow the fading white dot in my
Grandmother's Herculean television
Down the rabbit hole
Into nowhere

I listen, I eat
But nothing nourishes
Slow food?
How about slow thinking
Measured pedantic
Beautiful and hesitant
manifesto
                             Rule #1 : Trust nothing you can't kill a cockroach with
                                                one handed.
The rest
I forget

My nervous system thrums
Like a whale's sonar
jammed by a thousand rotting supertankers ploughing
Noisy silt across the bluegreen

If I could beach myself
For some quiet
I would

But I carry the super highway within
Tapped into the genes now
Of my generation

We rot slower from the preservatives
Taste sweeter to man eaters
I am
refined sugarflesh

Three friends I know have brain tumors
This year alone
Cancer in our young bodies
the first uneven chemical tapestry

One in four with mental illness
Depression is like sonar malfunction
White noise of our generation

Thumbs no longer grip on life's tree
But grow like fingers
Better to be dexterous txters
Than to hold on for dear life
Dear life
Dear life – where have you gone?

Khrisnacrystaljesus hallejujah!

Can't fuck without plastic nineties
Gave way to typing on plastic
Care less we no longer need flesh
To smell
We climax over keyboards
Secretly

One in two fail
Blend that family
Reminds me of a joke
Something about frogs in blenders
A mess in any case.

Savage day after savage day
enmeshed in my veins
are a thousand conversations, I never had
The numbers on my belly disguise a pentagram
a secret Armageddon, the last child on earth born
the last night on earth.
And we were out shopping

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Hamlet by a Turing Machine

Mathematicians, their brains being discrete state machines, can only employ an algorithm. Gödel’s theorem tells us that no algorithm can coincide in every case with truth-seeing, and so the algorithm is bound sometimes to fail. But if it is accepted that the mathematician is not infallible, and will sometimes fail, it follows that machines – also implementing algorithms, and therefore also making mistakes – may do equally well. To illustrate the theme of doing equally well, Turing appealed to the concept of 'fair play for machines.' This concept was essentially the idea of the imitation game. The 1950 scenario merely added dramatic detail. Thus, the imitation game had its origins in the wartime debate in Turing's own mind about how to reconcile Gödel’s theorem and the apparently non-mechanical actions of human minds with the discrete state machine model of the brain.~1

If men create intelligent machines, or fantasize about them, it is either because they secretly despair of their own intelligence or because they are in danger of succumbing to the weight of a monstrous and useless intelligence which they seek to exorcize by transferring it to machines, where they can play with it and make fun of it. By entrusting this burdensome intelligence to machines we are released from any responsibility to knowledge, much as entrusting power to politicians allows us to disdain any aspiration of our own to power.

        If men dream of machines that are unique, that are endowed with genius, it is because they despair of their own uniqueness, or because they prefer to do without it – to enjoy it by proxy, so to speak, thanks to machines. What such machines offer is the spectacle of thought, and in manipulating them people devote themselves more to the spectacle of thought than to thought itself. ~2

But who's there?

By chess,
Denmark, prison, Xerox, .

Turing, inuring, .

and devising device
a net to net
the measure of all your pain and pleasure

Ophelia flee
The program counting

logic of being-
what mask, what acting

end to you
returns

Plato, the equivalent

The rat catcher claims his country foul
And this rotten heir

In your lap
The gap:

Of all that's honest,

in human, inhuman-
The treachery of

and to an unautomated scene
the ghost returns

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Writers Festival Pastoral

The room hovers with translucent light
reflected from the ferries' harbour. Seats float,
awash with the voices of well-known, but not
major, Canadian poets. Stubby tops of pylons
plug the water, a template of equidistant spacing,
like a competent set of poems. The captioneer
of animal photographs laughs nervously, not quite
getting the attractive Russian political scientist's
joke. At the fringes, people wait for friends, or the next
session: swaying trees at a hillside property's boundary.
People queuing late for the talk by the telegenic
philosopher become salt-crusted statuary. A promotional
bookmark scrapes the ground in the early winter wind.
On the surface of Walsh Bay, a drowned seabird
is a waterlogged Festival program, a sheen of light
playing over it. In the silence between two speakers,
beneath the PA's ambient hum, there's the dish and swell
of the harbour, the thin platform built over it,
this novelists' casino, seemingly afloat, where the café
bears a small sign stating that they do not give out change.

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