Part of a Discussion

Eve: Except nothing happens. That was what the fruit was about: one bite and boredom exploded like juice to fill our mouths.

Adam: Except it wasn't juice. It was not any kind of matter, although it would fly up to consume us, although all we can do is pin it down with words, an entire language.

Eve: How long have we been walking? Juice. How apt. How boredom drags itself out from us through our skin as sweat, floods the space between my legs with liquid fire.

Adam: It is also a vacuum. And the body is sucked in to fill it. Desire. This is what the word means.

Eve: Frustration follows. Then weariness. Cyclical. With an unstoppable rhythm: our hearts keep the time, drum out its indifferent tempo.

Adam: We will have each other. Or more of us if we have to.

Eve: Let us rest here. We will build a fire for the night, as nights are longer here. And the cold will be unbearable.

Posted in 13: INTERNATIONAL | Tagged

International Date Lines

the first: watashiwa piano

mizue takada on the walkman. my japanese
is like fractured helium. i'm wearing paradise

pink bobbles in my folded hair. my fingers are
origami swans. i shuffle my nerves to the corners

of my mouth. he is coming closer. we talk nicknames
& canasta & pizza. he walks into my kiss. then he says:

wanna play 'go' sometime? i could kick your
blossom bottom.
 

the second: dadra

eating subji on the train. a sitar as purple as dad's.
the pineapple sunset is scraped with morning red.

you always wanted the trip of a lifetime. this scene
was just the ticket. as we share bad wine you lean in.

pulling out a fantale & a pink handkerchief you swear.
then: hey baby, was this the way you pictured it?
 

the third: before Nirvana

        banana clips. balloon shoes. baggies.
baroque. batwing blouses. big bangs. bicycle shorts.
        bermuda shorts. bolero jacket. bubble gum jeans. bows.
bra shirts. bullet belts & bandanas.

this is the backdrop for a bad night. bowled over
by the eighties. you have a solid navy top.

i hate the way you always smack my mum on the ass
& then talk to me about commitment.
 

the fourth: during the Dirty Three

we made out like punk music & stared at each other
like alt country. you were severe in every brush stroke.

all that alcohol & loopy band behaviour. i loved your
hook & kink but couldn't stand the love quotes from

random books. we held hands during jim's drums.
i cringed when you said: this is the theme to my sadness.
 

the fifth: after Charles Mingus II B.S.

'Often when I'm sitting at the piano , developing a piece,
it's difficult to put a label on the particular feeling I have going.'
        Charles Mingus

smashmouth bittenbabe. this was the chase. you
were tenor to my sax. just when the shuffle started

you said: i'm moving to spain. i like the weather
& the women. i couldn't think of the words.

how do you say go ahead in spanish &
shit in a calm voice.

Posted in 13: INTERNATIONAL | Tagged

Q&A with Pablo Garcia

When Pablo Garcia imparted his belief that a) Poets were shamans of today and b) Poetry was the trunk from which all other branches of art sprouted, I'll admit that I had trouble staying my left eyebrow. In the end, it remained on my forehead and I was able to engage Garcia on his thoughts regarding the cross-breeding of the arts, and the interconnectivity of the world we live in.

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Paul Mitchell Interviews Dorothy Porter

For Dorothy Porter, writing librettos is a natural extension of her desire to “open things up” with her poetry; to discover the realms in which it can move. However, renowned as the woman who writes with rock music playing (the final sections of her latest verse novel Wild Surmise were written with P.J. Harvey on the stereo), the shift into opera in recent years doesn't mean Porter's CD collection has altered too much.

“Librettists are, internationally, pretty scarce on the ground,” she says when I meet her in the courtyard of her local cafe in Clifton Hill. “Jonathan Mills approached me back in 1996 to see if I'd be interested in writing a libretto for him based on a short story called 'The Chosen Vessel' by Barbara Baynton. And I wrote a libretto called 'The Ghost Wife'.”

The chamber opera premiered at the Melbourne Festival in 1999 and also played at the Adelaide and Sydney Festivals, as well as at the Opera House and in London. Then last year Porter and Mills entered an international opera competition run by London's Genesis Foundation. Their opera, The Eternity Man, was one of three winners.

The opera is based on the life of reformed alcoholic, Arthur Stace. For 30 years from the 1940s, Stace in the night chalked the word “Eternity” in copperplate script on Sydney's footpaths as a celebration of his faith in God. After the word lit up the Harbour Bridge it became almost the signature symbol for the Sydney 2000 Olympics. In July this year, Porter heads to London to begin work on the opera's international debut.

“I turned the Arthur Stace story into a kind of an hallucinatory tribute to Sydney, my hometown. I look at the history in the 40s, 50s and 60s, using Arthur Stace as a ghost-like figure.”

Mills saw in Porter's verse novels (The Monkey's Mask and Akhenaten) an operatic quality in the way the poetic works are constructed; a view shared by reviewers when the novels have been translated into Italian. Porter says she didn't know much about the art of the librettist before Mills asked her to work with him, but she went into it with a “spirit of adventure”.

“I'd never thought of my novels as operatic before,” she said. But now she's worked with Mills she says the libretto form “does appear to have a relationship with my poetry.”

In the same way that writing opera doesn't mean she's turned away from rock, writing with Eternity in mind doesn't mean she's turned to religion. However, there's no doubt her recent poetic works, Wild Surmise and Other Worlds, have been part of a making-sense-of-why-we're-here motif in her work . . .

Both books take as their, dare we say (well, we're going to!) launch pad, astronomy, the planets, moons, stars, comets. All things spacey and far away. For Porter it's a case of the outer worlds affecting the inner worlds of the mind and soul.

“It's kind of a micro/macro thing,” she says. “There's the illustration on the cover of Wild Surmise which shows this skull with a kind of 'buzzingness' – world within the skull. And then there's a world outside the skull . . . There are images inside the book where I talk about the brain being a neural galaxy. And, also, what do these places [in the solar system] represent to us as images and in belief and so forth?”

It's widely known that Porter shifted from individual poems and collections to the verse novel out of a frustration with poetry's position in the literary world. After Akhenaten there came The Monkey's Mask, a lesbian detective narrative which has rated its gun barrels off and has been adapted as a play, radio play and film.

“I had nothing to do with those adaptations,” she says. “I was consulted . . . Sometimes I was listened to and sometimes not, but that's what a consulting role is all about,” Porter adds. However, she's been excited that people have wanted to adapt her work and she sees them as works in their own right to be judged separate to her poetry.

“I'm intrigued by what other people do with my work. A work of poetry can be a springboard for other people to do other things. The most dazzling example of that is Pushkin's verse novel Eugene Onegin [adapted for, among other things, film] which is still the greatest verse novel . . .”

As far as new work goes, Porter's just finished writing a song cycle for composer/pianist, Paul Grabowsky, to be premiered at the Brisbane Musical Festival. And she's started sketching a verse novel about a serial killer. She laughs and says she wanted to write another thriller.

“After Wild Surmise, which is very dense with these images of the cosmos, I wanted to do something more terrestrial,” she laughs again. “I wanted to get back to the idea of poetry and narrative . . .”

She says poetry has become trapped in the idea that the one page poem that is “difficult, challenging and demanding” is the only way to go. While she says some poetry works on that level, her desire has always been – and will continue to be – to move poetry away from being a “precious, esoteric hobby”.

“The most positive role I can play in the poetry community is just to open things up a bit and to present other possibilities. That doesn't mean everyone is going to follow my path or even want to, but just to say there are other ways of doing this. We don't have to be trapped in this particular cul-de-sac which I think poetry has become.”

Paul Mitchell is a contributing editor of Cordite.

Posted in INTERVIEWS | Tagged ,

Justin Lowe Reviews Alison Croggon

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

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Moses Iten: Because I Was Brought By The Road (1)

“Now the time had come to kill them”

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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Hector’s Insult: war music prohibition signs

Posted in 13: INTERNATIONAL | Tagged

Michael Farrell Reviews John Tranter

Cover of John Tranter's Ultra

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.

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Q&A with Jean Orizet

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.

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Prague In the Twenties

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.

Posted in 13: INTERNATIONAL | Tagged

Letter of Accord

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.

Posted in 13: INTERNATIONAL | Tagged

Laurie Duggan: Cover Me [borrowed title]

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.

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Michael Farrell Reviews 10,000 Monkeys

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.

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Nic Fit: The Day the Sun Went Away

A photo from the recent eclipse in South AustraliaA 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.

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Paul Mitchell Reviews Geoff Goodfellow

Cover picture of Geoff Goodfellow's Poems for a Dead FatherPoems 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.

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Peter Savieri Reviews Going Down Swinging 20

cover of going down swinging issue 20Going 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.

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Brett Lee

(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

Posted in 12: TEST MATCH | Tagged

Sonny Rollins

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

Posted in 12: TEST MATCH | Tagged

Nick Whittock: Watching the Grass Grow

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 …

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Michael Farrell: Bat & Ball

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

Posted in 12: TEST MATCH | Tagged

Michael Farrell: there thereabouts

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

Posted in 12: TEST MATCH | Tagged

Sultan of Swat

Why don't you read the papers?
It's all right there in the papers.
– Babe Ruth

 

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.

Posted in 12: TEST MATCH | Tagged

Seoul Survivor

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.

Posted in 12: TEST MATCH | Tagged

Set Free

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.

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