Attempts at Being by Alison Croggon
Salt, 2002
Early last year, John Kinsella, man of letters and chief editor of Salt Publication, published his selection of Michael Dransfield's poetry through UQP, simply titled Retrospective. This old Dransfield acolyte couldn't fault it, and I have been waiting for an opportunity to proclaim that for six long months. So what's the occasion, Justin? I think I have just stumbled across Dransfield's successor: Continue reading
One boat remained out in the ocean, beyond the rock. The other twelve boats had pulled ashore before we arrived. Not a single little fish had been in their nets today. The fishermen of the whole village would have to eat crabs from the lagoon. Scrape together some pesos to feed their families. So we headed to the lagoon nearby for some crabs.
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ultra by John Tranter
Brandl & Schlesinger, 2001
At a Carlton party, someone said to me that a number of Australian poets were all right until they started imitating Ashbery: Tranter was the example given. How Ashberian is Tranter? Their mode is similar, the way they range over a topic before resting on a twig or in mid-air, yet Tranter is closer to the ground, less insouciant, more urgent, the phrasing of a private eye who's always on the case, commissioned or not.
Like most, my understanding of French poetry had not really gone beyond the Mallarmés, Rimbauds, or Baudelaires of its “golden age” in the 19th century, ironically, an age that is also representative of the majority's perception of French poetry today. My engagement with contemporary French poetry, meanwhile, had been mediated by a small group of its linguistically innovative and intellectually dense proponents, luminaries such as Michel Deguy, Emmanuel Hocqard, Jean-Jaques Roubaud or Joseph Guglielmi, to name a few.
Blue fireworks cascade from the overhead line
as a tram turns sharply
into another crowded street,
silk stockings and headache-bands
catch the sun.
The old murmuring of string band waltzes
has a wooden sandy edge so now
we charleston closer to the gramophone horn
to reassure ourselves of its always distant call.
We are floating on the spoils of a lost empire.
Vienna?
Berlin rather,
with UFA and Pabst
but we may at last be here, in our Czechoslovakia,
where ideas flower along the electric vine
as we wait in cafes for that new wine
we are assured will come in those new bottles.
For Robert and Patrick
Odd times I still felt sideways
From your breath and stride,
Which nine years apart would do
Even with monthly phone calls,
Occasional photo and email,
The hollow confidence of wire,
Grains of ink, same questions
Of your habits, school reports,
Books read, films watched,
Favourite sporting teams,
Friendships and latest pets—
Yet that two weeks together
Was ease confounding distance,
A dynamic of intimacy
10,000 miles can endure.
It began at the airport,
Exclamation of names and smiles,
Easy hugs, eager talk,
Then afternoons of music immersion:
Your mosh pit ska and punk,
Our concord on 70s rock,
MTV concerts and quizzes.
Then evenings distilling beliefs:
Correlations in Church and State,
Merits of Lotus and Cross,
Boycotts of corporation lures,
Bouyancy of career choices.
But mostly the mornings:
Waking in your den
To an aromatic collusion
Of coffee and toast, your playing
A sport computer game
Or sewing band patches
To a cap, knowing the day
Will flourish with lessons
In stone skipping, guitar chords,
Cable cartoon shows, more flair
And facility in the pact of names
Like Son and Dad, moreso Mite,
Your jest on my accent, days
Converging into rapport
Even after airport goodbyes,
A fluency of breath
As we pace continents.
As a writer who has earned very little from royalties and nothing whatsoever from PLR and ELR I was bemused some years back by the figure of Frank Moorhouse – a libertarian – coming down strongly against photocopying. Frankly I'm delighted if anyone is interested enough in a poem of mine to want to photocopy it.
10,000 Monkeys by Melodrama
CD (Independent), 2000
Words and main vocal by Justin Clemens
If everyone went around saying what they thought, the world would end up a Shakespearean tragedy, with none of the major players left standing. Sometimes, of necessity, there is a vast difference between what one says, and what one thinks. But then again, you just might be the right Rabelaisan dog who enjoys breaking the bone to get to the marrow. Michael Farrell takes a sidelong look at Melodrama's CD 10,000 Monkeys.
A backlit black disc hangs in the sky low over the western horizon, like a hole in the atmosphere. An eerie, incongruous twilight has descended, yet the hills on the horizon in all directions remain sunlit. Someone yells excitedly in a language that is unfamiliar to me. It is echoed by another voice, another language. A series of yells follows and I am glad that some spectators can express their feelings like this. It reminds me of the range of cultures and peoples that are here, adding a human element to this overwhelmingly astronomical event. I can't think of anything worth yelling aloud. What can you say? What did original inhabitants of this land think when the sun mysteriously disappeared? Did they have words to describe it? Stories to explain it? For many cultures it was a portentous event. A dragon eating the sun.
Poems for a Dead Father by Geoff Goodfellow
The Vulgar Press, 2002
A mate of mine said there's nothing more artful than seeing a bloke deliver a left hook. I debated the point. I thought the artfulness went out of the punch when it connected with someone's jaw in a pub brawl and sent teeth spraying around the bar. He agreed: the artfulness was in the action of the punch through the air.
Going Down Swinging 20, edited by Adam Ford et al.
2002
Most people can barely speak, let alone write. So it follows that mastery of the written and spoken word is a rare qualification. This does not, however, prevent an international swamp of hacks from turning contemporary culture into a poorly realised historical theme park of rehashed, diluted, ripped-off high points from an overly romanticised 20th century.
(in a michael slater moment)
dropped dropping into
a torment
my poetry alone will save the world
the breeze
speed of my delivery
quickly cannot believe seriously how
quickly i regain my pace and accuracy
i am still young my head is clear i have
beautiful hair and an attractive face …
the fucking perfect animal that i am
the perfect line
that i make in the mirror animal that
i am my perfect skin my fine hair
i am not yet indestructible but i am close
i will make a come back
cooking with gas
cooking with
gas the selectors will have no choice
in their face rock and roll putting it
right up there
in the blockhole
i can see already the fear in the batsmans
feet the horror in the toe of his bat
the willow is arcing
back on itself
sweating linseed oil like eyes
the landscape is full of terrified eyes
the batsman
is barely side-on
anymore but
facing me craig mcmillan i am shane
warne bowling to his bunnies
headlights
white lights
i am only an arm
brett whitelees bowler
snapping up
wickets like
destiny got us going faster than weve ever gone before
snapped up by blockholes
donnie darko i make
holes in time
mercury long revd lines kookaburra 156grams
kookaburra 156km/h
i will take
21 wickets in two games
i have eaten my weet-bix i
m still young
roll on heavy roller
roll on slowly. on
roll by. i have this
knowledge. how
the pitch will play.
i know it exactly.
with my knowledge
i know the blade of
my bat knows it
how insignificant
the rolling is. is it is
known. all
variations. pitch
variations oval the
other variations to
doing with the pitch
all known. as some
jazz guy sonny
rollins i think it was
known. some guy
knows it some jazz
sonny a knows and
it. i know my bat it
grass over grass
blades imparting
all force imparting
timing. all blades
imparting it. and it
i know timing too
is dispersed the
whole field is mar
to imparting
timing to the ball
marto to the fence
all the pitch will
play. the ball to
fence rolling. like
some rolling jazz
guy sonny i think
it was known. it
was so i believe
it to be so. it was
marto be a slow
cool boundary
When it is cricket that is the matter, all forces return to the ball at the limits of the universe. The grass is still growing. It is photosynthesising, there is a flow of moisture involved here among other things (sunlight, carbon dioxide…). All of this, operating within a cricket match, can only be of concern in terms of the way it breaks up the flow of the ball and contributes to the continued production of this flow …
can take anything into your vision time
to kneel but who are you an editor
is opposite with books & ok ideas you
are only responsible for the images though
what if you stood there something being
thrown at you look arund & run
are you thinking of what you are at this point are
you letting things slide into your mind to rub or analyse
later luckily theres no talking involved the pitch remains fast hard
the games there on the other side of
the screen make a sign so someone will
know hit flat it works every time supposing
you want that & dont want to mooch
get out sustains a leg injury for reasons
obscure there are numbers out there they
want to be in here with the memories
& anxieties mutated from your first play ever
was that the word catch or is it
raining with so much green around maybe
youre in the sea a dog runs to you
warning you of the body in the clubhouse
you are dreaming yourself & your dad his shirt
marked with red hes
exposed his heart or is wounded a tennis
ball lies between the dogs paws
rescued from some lonely lawn just
grip it in your hands sometimes youve
got to hurt to heal a lot
can be said & written down when
a little stretchings employed or an analogys
brought in at god knows what cost
you find yourself immersed in the classics only
to be told not to repeat history not
even your own any subjects only seemingly
clean & kills like a temple knock or
interrupted leads to a series of breakings off
because the body or the thought
is uncommitted or taught to believing in
the fallback position perhaps knowing
its existence is enough to hold us whether
we won the match or not wiping sweat
off to come is to be single to be
part of the test the span the spinoff &
you walk back to the pavilion in a state
away putting it into the breeze hed be happy leaves
a away then chops it back picked up leaves back
not a big job a fine edge not really back beautiful
length not really forward mcgraths beautiful the
back length in the end extra pace on the a
drive back foot the batsman has to play a reality
rum drive by butcher confusing kfc & reality taking
the rum punches crystal clear water taking quite
full the opportunity saving the match quite his
right full lbw again well bowled shuffle his him
excellent right foot out of the road through him mind
hardly excellent rhythm fortunate tough one mind the
accuracy hardly varied out of the cordon with the tea
away accuracy the bowler has the advantage tea leaves
Waking, wiping a cheese crust
of sleep from his eye, he
reaches for his pills.
Reading the label on the bottle:
it seems to say:
don't try too hard just
let it carry you” –
like- a river, he finishes,
the sentence and his pills.
It's prescribed like this
because mythology inadvertently
gets mixed up in the games
of chinese whispers
we play with our history.
Drunk on fairy floss and beer
the story they're telling in
Sideshow Alley is that Don Bradman,
fulfilling a promise to a
terminally ill child,
points straight back over
Larwood's head at a spot
somewhere in centre field.
Winding up Larwood
gives it everything he's got,
to the screaming ecstasy and
spilt beer of the Chicago fans,
but even as the ball leaves his hand
Bradman's eyes are fixed upon it and,
with a flick of his wrist,
he sends it soaring out of
Wrigley Field.
Larwood, sticky with humiliation,
imagines a ball rocketing into
the soft-flesh of the batsman's
helmetless head as he walks
back to his mark.
Bradman, luxuriating in the profanities
and abuse he has evoked
watches an angry fan hurl a cup
of beer onto left field and spits
nonchalantly
just missing the fielder at short leg.
Larwood turns and Bradman, like
a brave Achaean points back
prophetically to the same spot.
The bowler runs in like a roidrage
bull charging through the streets
of Pamplona and digs it in short,
a spear jagging up sharply,
but our Achilles has wiser eyes than this
stepping backward and away,
hooking awesomely
the ball
seems to climb
to the sun.
The news story is packaged thus:
The footage of the shot
from a variety of angles,
an interview with humble Bradman,
fans saying how he's the greatest
the world has ever seen and
then the fadeout:
the small child smiling from
his hospital bed,
this miracle breaks hearts
for joy at dinner tables
nationwide.
A kid finds one of the balls out in the street.
He hides it away in a box,
and forgets about it for years
until one day, for no reason
that he can name,
he starts to take it out at nights
and let its elegant stitching
take him back to the cutgrass
summer twilight,
the purity of those
last minutes before dark.
It is a fact:
The Bambino grows in deed and
stature with every passing year.
my saison en enfer & the get rich schemes
evaporate like colonial best intentions
or foraging all over town for Vegemite.
the prospectus of delight was a myth
similar in scope to the lone gunman theory
or the story of a bunyip nicking cattle.
& if I have faith I feel like
Mark Waugh always coming through
when the pressure seems insurmountable.
grace and poise become symbols of an
antiquarian finery like frilly cuffs
& ornamental pistols in a land
where clubbing in shorts is de rigeur if not essential.
you go on your nerve because you never
learnt any better, or anything else.
and anyway things make more sense that way,
the twelve-hour snooze after the three
day binge or saving imported cigarettes
for just the right occasion. take offs are overrated,
it's the landing where the problems occur.
Beside water
I find a space, read again your letter.
A pregnant wattle leans over my shoulder.
We understand
that even light is captured.
Beside water
bishops decide to quit.
A teenager buries a knife in the coarse riverbed sand.
We go
& are blessed (in our ways)
irregardless of choice, pretension or wound.
Birds call out, but not to us.
Where's the railway station, mate?
It's just around the corner wrapped
in the escarpment's arms
like a winning hand of poker.
We trudge together, stick & pack/
intersection at the end of his rage, my wander.
He's 42, the second great love
27 & out today with another guy.
Ex-wife plus kids
job & age.
Sediment On the train
we're smothering miles,
discuss the whispered edge of being men.
The guy's intense, but gentle –
teased to the edge of atrocity.
I am convincing. He edges back
from the sovereignty of fists.
His career is a toxin, infecting each minute
with its hunger, chafe & worship.
Perhaps she's saying
“Give me space”.
Maybe her telling you beforehand was important.
(just as likely
you've stuffed it, more calluses to dress
a once open flesh….
but why say that on a sun-salved day?).
I peel some dead skin from a cuticle
put it on my tongue. No other communion required
as the woman in levis across the aisle
repeatedly thwacks her ticket against a thigh.
At Sutherland we shake hands –
I offer luck, some peace.
Count 10 before you step inside, mate.
His smile is built, its polish hard work.
But the weather is waiting
& it whispers rust.
Hot Sunday hot oven
and linoleum kitchen,
red wine breath
and crumb brushed shirt front.
She is absent in easy listening land,
humming to static
as the kids play outside.
Front door slams on his heavy tread,
and her hands make fists
in the bowl full of stuffing –
parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
that she shoves up the arse
of the carcass in front of her.
Get stuffed, he says
as he comes up behind her,
guffaws awful hands round her waist.
It shits and it flaps and it runs round the yard,
but he's never realised
that this tired old joke
lost its head on the block
many years ago.
Thud
and a crunching of vertebrae.
In her mind
she sees bright blood
pumping.
Search Engine by Ted Nielsen
Five Islands Press, 1999
The Australia that unfurled from the 1980s onwards is ever-present in Ted Nielsen's poems. However, this is not a poetry of sentimentalism – shared icons act like familiar furniture in a strange room. New technology, with the possible futures it breeds, breathes through this book. Additionally, the author carries his leftist politics into the current conservative landscape – testing them, honing them.
A soul hung, up as 'twere, in chains
Of nerves and arteries and veins …
– Andrew Marvell
Bout after bout I fight my body
over who will rule us, me or
her, and round after round sees
me thrown down, knocked out.
Physically she has the upper
fist, the flesh and blood that
gets bums on seats, while my
defence is simply the idea.
She is the temple and I am
the tenant, held like a hermit
in a strange arrangement with
the world, against my will.
Yes, I am the snail and she is
the shell and she is for sale
for giving me hell every time
she has climbed on my back.
As the audience taunts and the
bell goes again, I see certain
stars yet staunchly believe
that spiritually I cannot lose.
Life after life I fight my body
over who is the purer, me or
her and death after death we
return to the same new debate.
