Remission

Mama is waiting for me perched on her cliff
with her black, bat-winged parasol opened
scrutinising the sky with owl spectacles,
there might be sun that sears our backs,
there could be rain dropping pellets,
she has thoughtfully dressed
in a light fabric, hewn from the temerity
of leaves from all seasons,
the young green cleave to the bodice,
weaved in with the creases and crinkles
of fallen and rested,
needled into the flow of the skirt and sleeves.

These days she is so easy to carry,
her 75 years of story and lamentation
fold into the contours of my back
becoming my carapace as I stretch my neck
towards the horizon of densely designed
scaffolds and cranes holding the steel
and concrete blocks,
we scale as one species.

It is only when we reach the turret
of “Yiatrina” Γιατρίνα: informal speech for female doctor
she disembarks to unveil
her ruptured, heroic body
awakened from death
by telescopic insistence,
Mama looks to me to voice her gratitude
and acceptance, as I become the myth
of the humble whisperer
‘upon settlement in strange land’.

After the tick of health,
Mama would rather I climb her back
but her carapace shrunk into her spine
when she turned 51,
and we both know that my heart
was birthed for two souls.

Through pathways spilling cables like entrails,
she screams in fear of our fall
until we reach the turbulent weeds near home,
where she dares her body to escape my back
and trudges the climb with nose to the ground,
as if a mushroom would sprout with a sniff,
her memory creeps and entangles
my feet to her door,
she implores me to enter
with a fig she snatched from a passing branch,
knowing I am now the eight-year-old
with the hunger for anything sweet.

Posted in 101: NO THEME 10 | Tagged

A Muslim, Christmas

The streets are empty-ish.
Ish is for my body, the faithless
and lonely. I head toward
departure. Long one-eyed spectres
hunch over the earth
and each tree has around it
a darker deeper life.
Few shops are open: solitary
yellows adorn a doorway
or two amid dormant heavens
(I call any abundance heaven now)
saying welcome in Mandarin
and later, Arabic.
I move past the beckoning oasis.
I am not looking for a home
all prior attempts failed—
I aim to find the heaven of me,
the we who linger
at stations to hear a loop of human
voices skip over silence
or sink into it, to relish
the ripple that makes absence
visible. We move through
enormity and feel our edges
obvious and crowdless
with the hand of an ancestor, perhaps
brushing the backs of our necks
so we tilt up
to see a migrantory heaven
pummel the sky and disappear.

Elsewhere, beloveds
gather, ready to unwrap
a gift beneath
the semblance of a tree
or the memory of pine, still green,
and though I have one
a family I mean a queerness
I cannot abide leaving
the city without a body
to trouble its making.
I have no destination
in mind—how sacred it is,
this not knowing, how divine
to walk in this world as an ish.

Posted in 101: NO THEME 10 | Tagged

Ghost of the Bush Marys

The ghosts off Bush Mary
fancy playing cards
they’re given to birth,
divinity and oh and
so forth, Mother.

Women deal the men
like how we gathered, we
young Mary, and first told Mary
Magdalene, He
is risen!
Dammit

3 Aboriginal women came in and they took … nothing
instead, strung coolamons
and left bearing gifts of ace

Women carrying the busted children,
the honouring of fertility.
Spirit, she dealt a map
into Earth and marking older planes.

Posted in 101: NO THEME 10 | Tagged

guided meditation ASMR — your therapist’s intern calms you down roleplay — monotonous colonial apocalypse comfort ASMR #RoadTo100K

I know obviously you’ve got stuff going on, but please get up. They don’t really pay me for this, it’s a cadetship.

Okay, well, since you’re gonna lie prostrate on the floor like that I mo’aswell practice. Can I join you? Any objections? Okay, well, um.

Welcome to this, your guided meditation. It is just for you and not for anyone else on Cordite dot org dot au.

Find a comfortable place, somewhere you won’t be disrupted. Like the floor next to my ringing phone, for instance, sure, fine. Okay, unclench your jaw.

Tsk tsk tsk tsk. Sk Sk Sk.

Like that, yes, now your eyebrows. Slacken your shoulders, feel the weight of your body on the lino. Move that relaxation downwards. Like that, like that. Now, inhale. Now, exhale.

Now, if you’re like me and your head spins when you do these things, you might be asking:

How do I stay alive boiling this fury far in me? When these listless, flaccid poems only salt right up my rage? Right? How could I use this bloody and limp tongue to dignify those I love? To offer more than symbols: empty and aware with no end?

We’re all in that ugly, restless chorus shouting our shared fate.

Tk tk tk tk tsk, swoosh.

Hey yeah sorry, just step around them no they’re fine it’s okay — yeah she’s just down the hall waiting for you. Did you bring your Medicare card? Okay, just leave it by the phone. No, I. Just hand it to me then, okay, third door. Remember to subscribe and hit the bell.

If you’re anything like me, you’ll remind yourself — your every yawp of public pain is little more than a boreful background hum to others. The same is true for all among our midst — amidst all vaguely and horribly this.

We are choking on the smoke like our emphasytic parents, only catching little breaths atop our last. I certainly have no measure, that shameful uselessness we feel, except 164/94 and two new pills.

Shhhhh, tk tk tk tk, shhhhhhhh, hmmmmm

Notice without hard judgement, all the baking wrath in you. Every time it bubbles, bump into a new risk group.

Pick an affirmation to return to. There is no pressure. It only matters what it means to you. Anyway, each one is a humiliating gesture to our vast and weird oppression without end.

It is okay to surrender to that impulse. Let go of any tension.

Nothing you say will do anything but embarrass you. Also pretty much no doctor will prescribe benzos anymore. All of us will fail to scale with words the terror that we meet. If only there was something we could do when all around us buckles and dies other than, well, exposition.

Anyway, um, return to the breath. I have to make some calls.

Posted in 101: NO THEME 10 | Tagged

Te Whitianga a Kupe

Last week we celebrated the arrival of the waka hourua of Kupe
Matawhaorua about 1100 years ago and HMB Endeavour in 1769
of then Lieutenant James Cook.
Kupe’s wife Hine Te Aparangi,
according to Ngāti Hei, named the islands Aotearoa
which refers to the Māori name for Great Barrier Island,
Aotea, with the main landmass of the Coromandel
marked by its high peaks observed by her as the longer,
‘roa’ of Aotearoa. When they landed, Kupe named the first landing
or crossing, Te Whitianga a Kupe.1
When Cook arrived
for twelve days in November 1769, he named
Te Whanganui o Hei Mercury Bay. They were there
to see the Transit of Mercury on November 9
so that the astronomer Charles Green could work out
the longitude of Terra Australis Incognito.
The crew gave other names such as the Aldermen Islands
for their high rock needles like a court.

Posted in 101: NO THEME 10 | Tagged

The Commonwealth of Australia Constitution Act 1901

Whereas the people of New South Wales, Victoria, South Australia, Queensland, and
Tasmania, humbly relying on the blessing of Almighty God, have agreed to unite in one
indissoluble Federal Commonwealth under the Crown of the United Kingdom of Great
Britain and Ireland, and under the Constitution hereby established:

With the blessing of our Almighty God, we take for ourselves your ancestral lands.
With the blessing of Almighty God, we take for ourselves your bodies as our commodity,
and as possessions of the Queen.

With the blessing of Almighty God, we wrench you from your Country and your kin.
You shall toil for us and your payment shall be your continued existence.

Over your lands we shall scar state lines,
scramble your bloodlines and give you over to the custody of men.
Your children shall be taken from you and forced to renounce themselves.

We gift to you our arbitrary common law,
which shall apply to you but not protect you.
We appoint ourselves your custodians,
but we owe you no duty of care,
and you shall have no compensation for any loss caused,
here no equity shall be done.

These things are indissoluble.
Indissoluble.
Indissoluble.
This Commonwealth is indissoluble.
Our right to this land is indissoluble.
Our right to exploit you is indissoluble.
Our sovereignty is indissoluble.
Our authority is indissoluble.

Be it therefore enacted by the Queen’s most Excellent Majesty, by and with the advice and
consent of the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, and Commons, in this present Parliament
assembled, and by the authority of the same, as follows:

This Constitution shall be binding on you, you shall submit, or hang yourself, or contract a
disease, or die of hunger, or we shall be forced to breed the blackness from your recessive
genes.

The provisions of this Act shall extend to Her Majesty’s heirs and
their heirs; and
their heirs; and
their heirs; and
their heirs; and
their heirs; and
so on.

The Commonwealth shall be established, and the Constitution of the Commonwealth shall
take effect, on and after the day so appointed. You shall accept this Act without question and
without complaint, and your heirs and their heirs; and their heirs; and so on, shall accept this
Act, without question and without complaint.

This Act, and all laws made by the Parliament of the Commonwealth under the Constitution,
shall be binding on the courts, judges, and people, and what we deem the native flora and
fauna of every State, binding on every river we choose to pollute, on every gorge we choose
to extract, on every tree we fell, on every inch of Country we farm and pillage.

You shall now speak the language of our great and Almighty God-blessed and indissoluble
Commonwealth – English. You shall cease to speak your own languages.

You shall cease to practice your ceremonies practiced since time immoral.

All your lore is repealed and the right to make law over you now vests in the Parliament of
the Commonwealth. The Parliament shall be composed of members of our choosing, directly
chosen by ourselves. The power of the Commonwealth shall vest in us. We shall call this
democracy. We shall make laws that you cannot keep and appoint men to preside over you
who have no interest in your ways, your lore, your rights, your cultures, your Countries.

Your many Countries shall take a new name Australia, and so too shall you, we shall call you
Aborigine.

Posted in 101: NO THEME 10 | Tagged

Buenos Aires

from Places You Leave

Your dog takes a shit outside Hotel Presidente.
Someone else always cleans up for the State
and it’s not Alsina, busted, Socratic, his hand
remonstrating with a balding, white sky. They
rake green shoots into a pile on LIBERTAD,
a cosmetic gesture to the funerary traffic
on Avenida 9 de Julio, the largest boulevard
in the world. You film your dog in a series
of selfies cascading through the park. Abilio
roll over [click], Abilio squatting for a piss
on the lower branches by the hissing fountain
[click]. Snapchat over the traffic snaking west.
You feel yourself part of the continuum going
nowhere in the coolness of a Jacaranda’s quiver.

Who was it fleecing the workers’ pockets but you?
Each day opens and closes like a clockwork petal.
Even the air locks everybody in. Today is another
national holiday: warm rain soaks up the workers’
protest, where you pass by tapping your wallet,
looking down at the young man who lost his father
in the cyanide mines at Valdero. What can you say
when your eyes are spreadsheets, counting out
the world in ounces of gold. ‘Lo Siento’ you mutter
when the Pepsico workers approach, not meaning
I feel or feel sorry, but the formality of ‘Déjame
Pasar’. And you pass. Dream of a hacksaw factory.
Even Marx backed away when he saw the flags
of free capitalism. All those numberless offices.

PAN Y TRABAJO reads the sign. PAN Y TRABAJO.
When a canvas didn’t sell he drank the oils.
Turn away into Pettoruti’s La Plata. They call
you a foreigner but what does the word really
mean? Look away now and again. Solar’s smoke
-river. Spilimbergo’s louche terrace: the world
floats through rocks like memories (but whose?).
Commotional billboards blur and set the cars
honking. Tamayo’s soldiers wear shells for eyes.
Your everyday uniqueness and vertical sequencing
unimpresses Lam’s balloon skull; its eyes look
away from you towards a tablecloth covered in
unshakeable dust. Carry your tears in a wet sack,
worn heavy. Until the retina starts to shriek.

Lightcrawlers. Monsters in the bestiary. Games of
love or mischance. You count your casino chips
on the side of a dice. Peel away yesterday’s lover
from the tattooed map of your body. What you want
to call temptation can be renamed Ambition’s Grotto,
Encounters Unease. Turn Aryan devils into saints,
rise above a city counting out your bank balance.
Rattle your new coupe keys in the exhaust, ex-
hausted, wheeze through a cloud of cognac, disc
cells contracting the rotunda of your body. Morning,
your skin ruddied, reduced to buying up the sellabilities
of image. So much distance between victory and victim,
you think (how to translate this for the boardroom?)
When you die they’ll cut the film from your eyes.

The voyeur twiddles you as if by puppet string.
In Figari’s Candombe o Candombe de carnaval,
a pink-shirted man shakes open his hands to
question a gallery of masked faces in windows.
Chevron ¬– Swastika. A General, skeletally x-rayed.
Another morning when the waffle-haired president
reminds us how we met Hitler. As you would say,
sometimes it’s all just too much. How to embody
hope? Chagall painted dreams to save the world
from itself. My hands run over yours, lean in through
the remoteness of trees to fire a kiss. Because what
else is love but the world opening in your eyes, open.
Morose beauty of a horses’ eye, sad but knowing.
Stay close, take cover, safe in this mirage of mist.

Today, walking in the scent of love’s blood.
Tomorrow, casted in Alonso’s ‘Carne de Primera’.
‘It’s not just in Mexico, women go missing here,
you don’t hear about it on the news.’ A business-
man smokes his cigar and the elsewhere of his eyes
suggest: I am counting you up as a number: 622
by the leg, 729 by the arm. I live out my violence,
from the entrails of a ranch, from the hanging
of a meathook. The oligarchy are Bacon-faced,
digging another anonymous grave at the roadside.
A lost child runs through doors of broken glass.
You edit yourself in and out, as Mayakovsky
advised. It’s a form of self-dentistry, he said, just
to survive. A gloved hand props open your throat.

Without bread but with work. Weeks caption
the stillness of a blue table. Nothing devastates
more than a child dangling an empty spoon.
Stray bloodfleck on black-backed curtains.
Monday: volcanic as the sun. You remember
Christmas 1990, your mother serving chicken
instead of turkey. Am-Dram pretence of knives,
but she ate none. Outside the window, a swab
of musketeering soldiers on the charge raise
the sword of war. Death breathes through the cut-
glass wetness of your eyes (but for what, what?)
A child’s belly, soiled, the bills yet to be paid.
Whoever paints this is the repo man at the door.
The father looks to the mother who looks at you.

Posted in 101: NO THEME 10 | Tagged

Trees of Seed

The seed-cloud its own netting, counter-entangles its own advantage grain beyond
the graining of parent tree to find new roots in universal improvisation:
encompassing similars of tree-host, prime collusion is the link with original tree
mass

Tree to tree at its most variable according to seed size within-tree inferences of
seed weight, let it echo the call to crown-height

Sheer hulk of tree has always led to seed initiative the differential seed spree a
course across origin (vertical community), not merely its hornier side

Though a tree might contract to a seed message, it never retracts from found bulk:
the paradox of ready load at origin

Are the nuts on a tree its camouflage of becoming, its fruits of self-zoning
inadvertently transferring?

The drive of an oak to steep its scatterables, draw apart ancient stores each new
seedling the eldest heir

Cupped for its ovalling onto new green documentaries of site towards a
wideness of solo generation, each uncapped acorn alone

Not gathered but trusted with remote absorbance a slight twist to rest and root
among skins of soil

What is an acorn’s anchorage if not its drop-size off tree, then to beguile new
ground spikes

Tree entitlement at one remove its own displaced belittlement with those many
dwarfs of return

A seed’s prowess, the most exact reiteration, without imitation

A key spinning its ancestors, awaiting their revised insistence each seed loosed
like a travelling scar of the over-offerable

With winged fruit accurately acute, detachable at a lee-spirited randomness:
stays true to the origin’s crowding

Rescinding at the level of air (sycamore twirl) what was kept firmly unassignable
at branch dangle

Drones of winter turbulence, they scour their bleak infill turbary spend all their
germination in one simultaneous mass, no seed bank for a wingless soil

Field maple on short hold to colonise only intermediate damage, the inset fruit
concisely opposes its flight keys

Hazel hurdles not made on their seed pulses the flower display averts main
struts to red styles and catkin dust on thinnest twig antennae of fringe
revision, core seed cumulus

A seed glut is their prime fluctuation gambit the rarity of excess grants a lean
layer remaining the exception of success

As mast it set well, abundant occasionals confuse raiders with a plenty they
haven’t the practice of

If a seed does resume a tree, only so far as predicting half-smothered lineaments,
sediments of initiation, the coronal commission is non-competing while
pressing the departing

A ribbon of prevailment goes its swarm, common sift for saturate edge fresh
native comparisons the lightness of seeds which leap

To mend a tree’s future so far as seeds are not weapons that branches confer
fruit actual from within an otherwise preserve

Posted in 101: NO THEME 10 | Tagged

a case study on the colony

a case study of the colony – in lutruwita (tasmania) – twentytwenty (in the year of the coloniser). a property called cullenswood (we know that’s not the true name of that place) / was sold for twelve million dollars (in the colonisers currency). after six (one two three four five six) generations of the legge family (who never bought the land / but certainly spilt blood enough to call it theirs) ///

                                                                                                                        back then (and how long ago it was!) those first legge – after never making a purchase to this place (though justified with the logic of their far-off law) – marched across the land and tore from the earth any person who would remember the land’s true name. and those they could not kill fled – followed by hoards of hard footed hard mouthed square eyed animals (they took from the soil all things – and in turn the humans would take the wools and the meats and the babies of those animals to begin the cycle again) and sell those things from the stolen soil – from the soil they never bought. from the soil too they would seed those plants (those plants with the same origins as the legge) lace the soil with plants that poison the land slowly like a sickness spreading. plant it out and sell that too ///

                                                                                                                                                                                   not satisfied with the surface next they would open wounds across the land. great open sores into the earth called mine. mine mine mine – a word as foundational to the people who can take from others a thing they call mine. they cut the hole (mine) and took from the ground what couldn’t be seen on the surface. stories that swim with ancient fish in quartz coloured streams underground. they took that (those spirits of the land where minerals lie) and sold it off. that thing they stole from the land ///

                                                                                                                               maybe they felt unsettled or like winds they couldn’t see moved across their souls. the legge built a church (in the colonisers religion) and in this faith they built a yard to place the bodies of the murderers (born and died on a land they stole) buried there in neat wooden boxes (boxes they didn’t afford the people who had always known this land) ///

                                                                                                                                                                        the legge spread out from the place they named cullenswood and when a legge saw a bird or a mountain or some thing that made them feel some way they named it for them (legge mountain) (legge eagle) as though these things did not have names given to them since before time began – as though these things were not true things that existed before legge. the name spread far and the people of cullenswood said aren’t you glad the legge were here ///

                 and when there was nothing left to kill – contaminate – extract – they sold the place (that system of wealth that means a thing stolen can be sold) and when they sold it they said – we are the people of this land. six generations (one two three four five six legge) the time it takes two lives to begin and end and the memories run clear. the thing that wasn’t bought can be sold and can be sold on a bloodless deed (for the paper remembers a border drawn and not the bodies who fell) these civilised people put it into law (that death) without looking over their shoulder. and the colony said oh those people who were here didn’t know how to use the land and it wasn’t theirs anyway and ///

                                                                                          no what people before? we are the people of the cullenswood and that is the name of the land.

Posted in 101: NO THEME 10 |

Dark is Beautiful

In my country
if you have fair skin
you are called
“gora” or “gori.”
This is
considered
a compliment.
If you have
dark skin
you are called
“kaala” or “kaali.”
This is
considered
an insult.
In my country
they tell
dark-skinned
girls and boys
that they are not
marriage material,
and offer them
skin lightening creams
as if they are
antibacterials,
for they believe
that having a
dark complexion
is synonymous with
having an infection.
These creams
are endorsed by
Bollywood celebrities
that capitalise on
peoples insecurities,
while also starring
in films that are
discriminatory.
In these films
the fair-skinned
women are
glamorised
while the
dark-skinned
women are
ostracised.
Songs are
constantly
sung about
“gora gora rang”
and this
toxic ideology
pollutes the minds
of the young,
this toxic ideology
is why skin
whitening creams
are a multibillion
industry.
My people are
victims of racism
but they’re also
the biggest
culprits of it.
India was
colonized by
the British for
two-hundred years
but the country
still isn’t free.
And there will
never be any
freedom when
your own people
become the
colonizers.

Posted in 101: NO THEME 10 | Tagged

Readers Digest Great World Atlas 1961 (1962)

Between the time of its publication and fourth revise they exploded the bomb they called Vanya over Novaya Zemlya—its fireball five miles wide hung a second sun over the island—its cloud rose into the mesosphere—black rain over the Kara Sea, Barents Sea, Alaska, Norway, Finland, the Ukraine, northern Canada—lines leading back to the closed cities—to Arzamas-16 (Sarov), to Chelyabinsk-70 (Snezhinsk), near the Mayak site where they loosed the radioactive waste into Lake Karachay, Lake Irtyash, into the Techa river, past the villages, to the Arctic Sea—its radioactive cloud moving northeast over Berydanish, Satlykovo, out to Tygish—Between the time of its publication and fourth revise they exploded the bomb they called Starfish Prime off Johnston Atoll over French Frigate Shoals, high inside the thermosphere—Its aurora—a blinding white flash, green sphere of light, vast cloud outflung in turning arcs, in circles sweeping outwards—flared across the earth’s magnetic field lines, debris lighting the sky from Taraw, on the equator, down to Apia, Wellington, Tongatapu, Campbell Island—trapping radiation along the field lines, irradiating the satellites TELSTAR, KOSMOS, ARIEL—the classified ‘national reconnaisance satellites’ ZENIT, CORONA, gridding the earth in rectangles of film—Its fallout rained over the world—Between the time of its publication and fourth revise they exploded plutonium over the salt-bush scrub of Maralinga, at Taranaki, north of the straight train line across the Nullabor, in secret trials they had named Operation Tims and Operation Vixen—its plumes, a hundred miles long, drifted on the wind—They had taken the sacred objects, trucked the people south across the rail line to the coast at Yalata—She said, ‘Where are we going? We are going to a place we have never been to’—Some people walked, leaving sand tracks in the desert for the people left behind—lines leading back to Calder Hall at Windscale on the grey Irish Sea—Between the time of its first publication and fourth revise they exploded the bomb they called ‘Storax Sedan’ underground at the Nevada Test Site, as part of their Peaceful Nuclear Explosions program, lifting a dome of earth 90 metres above the desert floor—more than twelve million tonnes of earth exploding outwards, a radioactive cloud separating into two, drifting north-east and then east over Iowa, Nebraska, South Dakota, Illinois, across to the Atlantic—In Las Vegas people watched the explosions at the Test Site from their hotel windows, put on their radiation badges and sat outside—its clouds spreading between the Cascade and Rocky Mountain Ranges—They collected the children’s teeth for a study—Between the time of its publication and fourth revise they exploded the bomb they called Bighorn over Christmas Island (Kiritimati) in their year-long Dominic series of thirty-one nuclear explosions over the ‘Pacific Proving Ground’—filmed with EG&G Inc. rapatronic cameras, at 2400 frames a second, at one frame a minute—capturing its fireball, sun-like until its shockwave, rebounding off the ground, smashed into it, a cloud—a film-like sequence of high-speed photographs—‘the critical information needed to build better bombs’—lines leading back to Los Alamos, to the Lawrence Livermore National Laboratory, to Hanford in sage-bush country on the Columbia river—Between the time of its first publication and fourth revise they exploded more than a hundred atmospheric bombs at the Semipalatinsk Test Site (the Polygon) in Kazakhstan, south of the valley of the River Irtysh, out to the Karagandy Ranges, south as far as Degelen Mountain, east to Chagan, where the river bends—testing them on purpose-built apartments, bridges, underground metro stations, trucks, planes—black winds over the industrial city of Ust-Kamenogorsky, Znamamenka and the Kazakh steppes, the towns and villages—at Dispensary No. 4 (IRME) they studied its effects on the local people and their newborn children—She said, ‘Like hair burning—the smell came back from the earth each time it rained’—Between the time of its first publication and fourth revise they fired the thermonuclear warhead they called Operation K from Kapustin Yar south of Stalingrad (Volgograd) towards the Sary Shagan test range, detonating it in the troposphere south-west of Zhezqazghan—a pulse so strong it fused buried power cables for six-hundred miles—Between the time of its first publication and fourth revise they exploded the fourth of their Gerboise bombs over Reggane’s ‘Sahara Centre for Military Experiments’—a vast flash, an enormous ball of bluish fire, red at its centre, a cloud carried on the desert wind—That same year, they started on their nuclear test series with jewel names in the granite mountains at In Eker—the desert base they named Oasis 2, invisible from the road, east of Tan Affela—where during ‘Operation ‘Béryl’ the steel door of the tunnels exploded into the air on a rush of flame—its ochre-coloured cloud turning to black over the desert, drifting eastwards—The chief of the armies fled that night—they had brought in crates of guinea pigs—they had the soldiers crawl across the Forward Zone—Between the time of its publication and fourth revise—

Posted in 101: NO THEME 10 |

The Hook

I

The Colony won’t let me breathe
It walks rough shod over
My very air
My country is cut open, bleeding
She has no tears to spare

I’m with my Country, with my
Family, my heart Boodjar, moort, koort
In the jaws of a vice

And you are helping them turn
The screw

We’re screwed

II

I had a dream of walking
On water, down the river to the sea.
Carried on the breath of
The ocean back to where
They have carved deep into my Country

Where

I bleed ink, my skin is
Paper, my family was stamped
Scrawled recorded
I bleed ink

Where

If not for wadjela’s paper we might never have found
His/Her-story

Where

My skin is paper
My bones are story

III

The colony won’t let me breathe
I am dying
The colony won’t let me breathe
I am drowning
The colony won’t let me breathe
I fight for breath
The colony won’t let me breathe
I learn to breathe water

I hide amongst the roots of a paper bark

We are as aware of the colony as a fish is of water
Send me a fish hook.
I bite. I bleed.
Let me bleed

Posted in 101: NO THEME 10 | Tagged

nookert-ngoornd-barniny / sleepwalking

.

djenbiri dooka-k koorliny
(toes dust-in moving)
toes dragging through dust

manda nookert-ngoornd wer biyoo-kadak
(between sleep and awake-having)
between sleep and wakefulness

noorakoort-il yoowart koora nakolak baranginy
(brain-it not previous-time knowledge holding)
the mind cannot retain memories


..

yoowart biyoo-kadak, yoowart nookert-ngoordiny
(not awake-having, not sleeping)
not awake, not sleeping

djidar, malyarak, karnamook, bandang winarak
(dawn, midday, evening, all same)
dawn is noon is troublesome twilight

kedela baal woori maladji-k warniny, ngaangk-boort
(day it long shadow making, sun-without)
the day grows long shadows without a sun


nidja djena koorliny, mayakawa-boort
(here feet moving, echo-without)
footsteps don’t echo

windji nyidap-ak
(where edge-at)
where are the edges

benang baal djinara-boort wer mirook baal yindjarangany
(tomorrow it roots-without and yesterday it evaporates)
tomorrow is rootless and yesterday evaporates


….

ngalak Boodja-k nookert-ngoornd-barniny
(we Country-on sleep-walking)
we are sleepwalking on Country

miyal-il binbart binbardiny ngarda miyal nalyak
(eyes rolling under eye lids)
eyes rolling beneath lids

bintj-abiny kambarn ngalang moordang koondam
(trapped-becoming with our dark dreams)
trapped with our dark dreams


Cass Lynch uses the Marribank orthography when writing in the Noongar language and is indebted to the efforts
of Noongar Elders who have kept language alive.

Posted in 101: NO THEME 10 | Tagged

Tripod

Father Alfred [1]

It is said the earthquake is the migration of animals that cannot be seen.  A stampede actually picking apart the foundation that falls.

He told them about the cross as they were quilting.

Mostly it was dislocating as the work of assimilation.

Quilting is a brutal craft that begins with scissors.  It is Christianity with its swords and thorns and nails.  The names of quilts— Sawtooth.  Streak of Lightning. Shoo fly.  Crucifixion.  Crazy Quilt with squares going everywhere. Without pattern.  But the end is the preservation of cloth that otherwise would not be preserved.

In the earthquake buffalo hide is remembered.  The bone needle and sinew.  Now the paper bit me or maybe it is his needle in my hand.  At night my grandmother talks to me about quilting.

There are rifts in the texts I read.  Fissures underneath.  These are the names of the quilts they made— Fort Parker Massacre 1836.  Battle of Plum Creek 1840.  Battle of Palo Duro Canyon 1874.  Battle of Yellow House Canyon 1877.


Father Alfred [2]

Father walking hooves his feet

Maybe now it is him— wearing a horse mask with wooden ears— eyebrows held on with brass upholstery-studs and teeth that are stubs of dowel rods.

He lectures from the chalk board on solecism— a word that refers to an ungrammatical combination usually of words— but also of thought.

Solecism is a dream-word.  He is against it.  We must learn to write clearly. We must give up our old language— though a thought walks two paths at once.

Does he not know a horse carried language to the earth because it was the heaviest load?  Therefore a sentence starts with hooves.

He has four legs under his robe.  In his sleep at night he neighs.  His room beneath theirs in the school.  I am writing on my tablet.  Near the end his legs kept running.


The Story-teller Nails Her Thesis to the Quiltmaker’s Door [3]

In those days fabric was sparse.  We held onto our clothes or she would cut them into pieces.

Near death her hand kept stitching.  She sewed to the end of the road.

I stitch pieces together too— pieces of cloth that have been cut— that have been wounded in the cutting.  Only my fabric is stories—

My mother had a taffeta skirt she kept it in the back of her closet.  After she died, I found the skirt.

When light shines on it, the skirt is like copper.  When I wear the skirt I hear the deer-skin dresses with elk teeth sewn to them.  I hear the jingle dresses with tobacco-can lids rolled into small cones— sewn close enough they speak when I move.

When did she wear the skirt?  Where did she get it?  How did she hide it from my grandmother, the quiltmaker?

Maybe my mother wore the skirt in a dream— floating above the bed until she found the window— flying out into the cold winter air.

I see her in the taffeta skirt.  A large bird’s head on her shoulders.  Bird-claws sticking out beneath the skirt.  My grandmother trying to capture her with thread and needle from a peddler who came to the reservation and continued up the dirt road.

Maybe my mother passes above me in the night.  The taffeta smooth as tanned deer-hide scraped with a worked stone.

I have two stones from a buffalo jump— one, an ordinary stone— the other with an indent for a thumb, a worked stone that scraped hide until it was transformed by the visceral work of cutting— of making something of the parts.

There may have been 100 million Indians on this continent when the Europeans landed.  90% were killed by smallpox, cholera, tuberculosis, measles, massacre.

I hear my grandmother’s spirit-voice from the next world— she does not approve.  I tell her we work in our different ways— but they are the same.

Posted in 101: NO THEME 10 | Tagged

Leaf of Fall Back and Rise

The heart of darkness is not Africa.
The heart of darkness is the core of fire
in the white center of the holocaust.

–Derek Walcott

In Kingston, the sirens fill the twilight air—
the curfew begins with casual ease
and the slow emptying of the street
before the staining of streets
with the mute lights of a city hiding from itself.

The people are stoic:
“If a dead we fi dead, den a dead we mus dead.”
Or perhaps this is resignation. Down in the market,
the strugglers announce themselves,
they say “Look around you, look around you,
who do you see, face-to-face,
if not we are the strugglers, while the safe
hide in their mansions and wait.”
This did not begin as a song of class and power,
it began as a pastiche of sorts,
a strained pastoral of an island waiting for the chaos
of bodies falling away. And the older women
are in their gardens gathering
ginger root, cerise, thyme, mint leaf,
shame-old-lady, and the poetry
of invention in the names of the leaves
that will stave off death—
Leaf of Refresh My Lungs, Leaf of Woman Power,
Leaf of Forgive My Sins, Leaf of Charity and Grace,
Leaf of Africa Vengeance, Leaf of Fall Back and Rise.
At dawn the roll call—the ritual of obituaries;
the men are slipping away;
the veteran artists; it is as if their persistence
is an affront—Ellis Marsellis, Bob Andy,
Bill Withers, the mourning arrives in feeds,
tiny bytes of dispensable lamentations—
blue lights, green lights, white lights,
the scrolling screen of images flashing,
the truncated sentiment, the pocket grief;
where will the slow march to the funeral be,
and where the high-stepping,
the weeping, the performance of joy
under spinning, gleaming umbrellas?
This is how a culture is made.
“Bring out your dead!” Ecuador, Iran, “Bring out your dead.”
In Kingston, they have taken to calling
the police The Virus, and, “It a come, it a come
it a come.” To think that beside the dispatches
from Kingston, Aba, did you think
it could come to this?
Did you think it could come to this?
I read Saint-John Perse’s lament to Friday,
and pray never to be an alien to the earth
I long to rest my soul in. But all of this is a vanity,
a deep misguiding vanity, while the world
collapses around us. All these contagions,
and the American President chuckles at his soaring numbers:
My TV Ratings last night were higher
than the Super Bowl, did you see that?”
What monstrosity have we wrought
that we have no language to speak of it?
And here come the sirens,
the Virus are turning the corner,
in their masks and with their batons,
“Ba-by, Ba-by-lon, Ba-by, Ba-by-lon, Ba-by, Ba-by-lon.”
Here, in the cave of my study, here where I study
the necromancy of verse,
and horde my secret fantasies—
I can’t share this hidden ration with anyone,
I simply hide and chew, lick away the residue
and face the family. Here on the soft fabric
of paper pulled from wood, preserved between
sheets of soft-beaten cotton strips,
I confess that the virus may have arrived
in the tender embrace of love, a friend
or a stranger, or a tainted breeze
in the daily rituals of labor and living,
and I search out the economics of death—
will my family owe the taxes I owe?
Will they be free to step out into the new season,
protected, kept, debt free?
What must I do to prepare? What instructions?
How to be clear that these are the ordering of a life,
not a note of a suicidal depressive? You see why
I dare not shout this from the roofs?
This is what Babylon the Virus has done to us.

Posted in 101: NO THEME 10 | Tagged

Song of the Andoumboulou: 304

To be bled into by this or that borderless
event while the birds were away, the very
ones that were never not there. They had
flown
the fall of Troy, what Huff had been call-
ing the fall of Troy, loath not to euphemize the
knife he’d gone under, the cyst on his ilium,
pel-
vic dismay. Playing loose with fate, mak-
ing fun of it, making light, was prophecy, what
Huff meant, what Huff the Prophet meant…
A
light rain was coming down in Low Forest, a
drape or a veil of sorts, a curtain of beads it
looked like. One lay back or one looked out, an
eye
on each drop if one could, Nub at the torpe-
do prez’s mercy, a harder rain eventually
to fall. Why were we there, I was asking Huff, of
all possible places why were we there, another
feel-
good cop show on the tol’you in front of us.
I thought of my niece and my nephew, long since
gone, never not no way I was over it, never it
was
only the way things go… We were watching the
tol’you reminiscing the times we’d been in Hous-
ton, a static song of not yet readiness, a street or
a
neighborhood we knew. What will being dead
be like the abandoned boy was asking. The a-
bandoned girl was asking as well, a disconsolate
duet
thereby enacted, static itself grown sonorous,
an articulate brogue regret. Between them and
what being dead would be like there were nearly
nine minutes, a floating coffin had been leaving
the
church when we tuned in… A light rain was
coming down, a harbinger of rain to come, col-
loidal song of the not yet ready, Nub’s oncoming
collapse. We born with a knee on our necks leaned
on
the what-it-was window, a safety pin hummed in
the ground outside. It was a wet, gray play on words,
the reign of our lives not mattering coming down,
no
more not mattering we yelled and clamored for, the
numberless days of outrage it would take… The
word “moment” was on every tongue, we who’d’ve
rath-
er been mystics or philosophic pissed off, so vi-
cious we could see Nub’s way was. The birds had
come back having never left, a certain way they had
of being not being there. We sat with big books open
upon
our laps. It was we who had gone in search of Mount
Qaf, a cyborg or a sunbird said to live there, the Simorgh
they said it was… Where had we been when the birds
who
had never left got back, we ourselves who had nev-
er been birds? How was it to be back having never
left? So went the questions against the walls of our
heads.
But for the pictures the books on our laps bored us,
quizzical couplets it was too late for, unsurprising
rhyme. The word “moment” cut everyone’s lips and made
them bleed, pecked by beaks it seemed, the birds having
left
and come back, the birds who were never not there…
It was all another day in photo-op Nub, another day a-
mong the so-called colorless ones. The birds were back
hav-
ing never gone, lives not mattering no matter, soul no
one spoke of anymore. The abandoned boy was a white-
haired lad raised among nestlings, all atop the earth atop
the
bull atop the fish, not what had been said but also that, no
sign
the only one there
was









Posted in 101: NO THEME 10 | Tagged

These Old Bones of Mine

at first
I carried them
back to her
that pile
of old white bones
I found
in the pocket
of a river’s meander
high in a dry
floodwater bend
a shoal of
ten thousand river stones
the marbling shade
of elder casuarinas
knots
of roots
& smaller stones
eddies of earth
patched by
grass

having stumbled
upon
a farmer’s Boeotian
slaughterhouse
set back
from the river’s
cascade
quarrel & din
a silent
place for a bullet
the infirm
& broken
cows
led down
from
the paddock above
shot then &
their
scattered white bones
sculpted
by the high
sun
moving through
bleached
horns & the dark eyes
of their
forebears

I had only
my own eyes
to see
small zones
here & there
old bones
where bodies
drop
over time
&
then
down a bit
a rust brown
hide
taut over hollow ribs
stuck out
jaw open

forgive them
sacred cows
white milk
blood
& hard-baked
shit
the hide arched
over bone
into
a fly-blown
temple

who
would forgive me
though
when I
looked around
wandered yonder
& found
a remote pile
of bones
away
by a tangled pomegranate
scattered
dry
old white bones
the
skull first
resting
forward of the rest
two
clean bullet holes
resonate
with a
deathly cool
refrain

in the solid
resting
brow
& in
the skull’s wake
a wreck
of vertebrae & ribs
their empty
cacophony

who
would forgive me
if I
took them
with me
all the way home
& out into
the world’s
wide
tomb

my fingers
ran
along the smooth
dead
bone
& in a crack
I saw your
break
all the darkness
held inside
& so
variously figured
I should
indeed
take the bones
back
as the cracked
darkness
shared
might resonate
between us

so then
I first held the skull
up
brushed off
leaf muck
put it
aside
& over
time
picked
over
the dead
made a small
fine pile
of the best bones
& then
held
the deceased’s
naked clatter
in an
armful
picked
up the skull
with my
remaining
hand
& walked
back down river

I held
my cache of white
like a baby
by the
welling, turning
water
took a narrow
path
over rock
by the rapids
where the
river spilled
the story
witnessed
all the dead
danced &
cried
in the cataract
of death
reflected
in the transparent
glissade
of water
then I rested
at a wire
fence
pushed all the bones
beneath
& crossed a wide grass
paddock
tall
seed-heads
licking the bones
as I passed
down by another
pomegranate
thicket
& then by the river
again
down
a dark tunnel
of trees
beside
deep black water
blue sky
mirrored
dead leaves sailing
through
a gallery
of overhanging she-oaks
& gums
maiden-hair ferns
the water’s
hushed
movement

I came up
from
the river
out from the tree
shadows
holding the baby
load of bones
the skull
& when
I arrived at the house
she said
how when at first
she saw me
walking
from the distant corner
of the paddock
she had
panicked in horror
thinking
I was carrying
a dead child
up from the
river

we
laughed at this
as I lay
the bones at her feet
with some
dignity
for the substantial
presentation
of the dead
and we
looked at them
wordlessly
eternally
not a child
just bones

it was Easter
so we had time
to begin
making all kinds
of new
conditions
found
an old
bicycle wheel
rim
& tied
the ribs in
a hanging
circle
for the wind
to reanimate
& hallow
as her break
grew
wider
darker
& for a while
I broke
alongside her
was perhaps
even broken
by myself
but

I kept the bones
whole
the whole time
in a box
I bore
from house
to house
over the years
the skull
always
nailed in the wall
above
my writing desk
the vertebrae
placed
delicately
on windowsills
& bookshelves
their
long thin arms
white
angelic souls
dead
wombs
full of the river’s
echo
silent letters
on the book spines
unknowingly
radiant

that’s how
there are still
all these
old
bones of mine
on my desk
on bookshelves
& today
after a dream
where I
measured out the years
in bones
laid out
one
after the other
I held
the same vertebrae
I brought up
from
the river that day
& in its dead
light weight
gravity
I knew in fact
after all
it was a child
all along
not a bone
we held between us
then but
a child of the hollow
centre
where love like
marrow
of the same
flesh & blood
grew & grew
by the altar
of our bones
&
when they broke
they all
dried out
a river of dark blood
escaped
into the atmosphere

& so now
all the bones
are empty
corridors of dust
the child
a pile of bones
offering
as it did
back then
to be nothing

Posted in 101: NO THEME 10 | Tagged

Alexis Late Reviews Felicity Plunkett’s A Kinder Sea

A Kinder Sea by Felicity Plunkett
University of Queensland Press, 2020


The writer Phillip Hoare, celebrated author of The Whale and self-confessed sea obsessive, once wrote: ‘Our bodies are as unknown to us as the ocean, both familiar and strange; the sea inside ourselves.’ This quote might also describe acclaimed poet and critic Felicity Plunkett’s latest book of poetry, A Kinder Sea, which takes writing about the sea – or through the sea – to whole new depths. This collection of 29 poems, published by University of Queensland Press (2020), reveals more than just a fascination with the literal sea. As any seasoned ocean swimmer or sailor knows, a calm surface is no indication of the sea’s nature, or of one’s journey across it.

The cover, an exquisite Sandy Cull design, is as undulating as the sea itself, and the contents page reveals such oceanic titles as ‘Becoming the Sea’, ‘Underwater Caulking’ and ‘What the Sea Remembers’. They conjure up exploratory visions of the often-fatal human obsession with the sea – the sea as both grief and hope embodied, and as a locus of loss and longing. A Kinder Sea is all of these and more, dextrously rendered – for example, through Plunkett’s singular neologisms – but it is ‘the sea inside’ that is the collection’s focal point. We each have a sea inside, as Hoare muses, but when a person experiences hardship, grief and unspeakable loss, what becomes of that sea? And how does one keep from drowning? Plunkett seems to suggest that one way is to hold on to a craft, whether literal or metaphorical, as explored in ‘Becoming the Sea’. The persona is anchored by a craft of words, despite her grief:

I have unreeled sentences
from my spine’s spool
to free my bones: cast words
into the depth of your response.

The long vowels and spondees such as ‘spine’s spool’ and ‘cast words’ make the lines sonorous, and the poem itself seems to ‘unreel’ on the tongue as a result. This kind of prosody is prevalent throughout the collection, lending it an aural beauty reminiscent of the lyric poetry of Sharon Olds, Sinead Morrissey and Tracy Ryan. Plunkett goes on to write: ‘I want my disappearance to be untranslatable’ – that is, paradoxically, untranslatable into language and difficult to articulate, which would be evidence of the depth of love. ‘Becoming the Sea’ is reminiscent of a key aspect of Plunkett’s award-winning debut collection, 2009’s Vanishing Point; her preoccupation with the extended metaphor of language as tangible and human physicality as linguistic. In that collection, the poem ‘Learning the Bones’ extends her father’s love of Latin grammar into her very being. She confronts her grief over his death by utilising this extended metaphor: ‘my hands writhed, alive – a tangle of nervous verbs / untranslatable’. Earlier in the poem, she writes, ‘my feelings’ syntax made no sense’. Plunkett’s poetry foregrounds the fact that often feeling is untranslatable, and that this a universal human difficulty, even for a writer of poetry.

In another poem from Vanishing Point, ‘After the Park’, a sort of sequel to Gwen Harwood’s infamous ‘At the Park’, Plunkett again renders emotion linguistic: ‘. . . my swollen skin, my ungrammatical want’. This technique is carried over into A Kinder Sea and works well in poems centred around longing and grief, such as in the affecting ‘Glass Letters’. Plunkett speaks of words as tangible things:

Shaken wordless, I wash syllables
in salt, trace remembered promises to
the place they rolled in foam.

Words become flowers: ‘froth-skirted roses in an old garden / each syllable discarding its petal / under my ribs’, part of the sky: ‘you / study clouds’ thesaurus for one close word’, and fabric: ‘knotted and frayed, our words / a smooth braid in sky’s hymnal’. It’s thrilling to see language conceptualised and crafted in this manner. Above all Plunkett is a word-lover, or collector of a ‘word-hoard’, as Seamus Heaney described the work of a poet, and this is evident throughout the collection. Her use of wordplay is particularly luscious in the poem ‘Syzygy’, from the book’s second section, where Plunkett seems to revel in adverbs:

Edge, swerve, disturb, you’re all
verb: pressed to you, wilfully,
irresistibly, like ivy, sighingly, I climb like
an adverb unattached.

Another interesting aspect of Plunkett’s poetry is her propensity for neologisms – specifically, her coining of compound nouns, including kennings. This was a highlight of her first collection, which contained such gems as ‘whisperthrill’, ‘breath-light’, ‘love-warm’, and ‘violet-soft’. ‘A Kinder Sea’ adds to this lexicon. In the poem ‘Three’, she writes:

All threads in a weave of kin, all roots
that take you down
to glasswords sandbroken
ground small beyond sound.

‘Glasswords’ could be a kenning for promises, for example. Like Heaney, Plunkett is drawn to this interesting Old English device, and the piece ties in nicely with the earlier ‘Glass Letters’, which makes a motif out of the idea of words being transmuted from sand into glass. Additionally, if glasswords are promises, then glass letters might be the specifics.

Posted in BOOK REVIEWS | Tagged ,

John Bartlett Reviews Kevin Brophy and Linda Adair

In This Part of the World by Kevin Brophy
Melbourne Poets Union, 2020

The Unintended Consequences of the Shattering by Linda Adair
Melbourne Poets Union, 2020


Despite the publishing limitations in 2020 caused by the COVID-19 restrictions, Melbourne Poets Union remarkably released seven chapbooks last year in its new Blue Tongue Poets and Red-bellied Poets series, all under the auspices of the soon-to-retire editor, Tina Giannoukos. These chapbooks included In This Part of The World by established poet Kevin Brophy and Linda Adair’s first collection, The Unintended Consequences of the Shattering, the latter continuing MPU’s long-standing tradition of nurturing new poets.

Kevin Brophy is a prize-winning poet with nine collections of poetry, as well as works of fiction and collections of essays. His experienced and deft poetic eye is on display in this current collection. Brophy’s poems are of movement and journeyings, dedicated to a type of travel that pays particular attention to the interiority of the observable world, not merely its surface impressions. He looks at the ‘underworks’ of things, searches out what is hidden behind emotions, landscape, history and particularly the natural world.

This dynamic movement between the observable and the visible can be seen in how the collection itself is structured into three sections. The first section, ‘Here’, concerns itself with poems that explore Melbourne and regional Victoria before moving outwards to ‘And There’, which takes the reader to Italy and parts of Europe before returning to ‘And Back’, where we began. But there is another movement or dynamism at work here, beyond the obvious geographical one. It is apparent particularly in Brophy’s poems of the natural world, observing but moving quickly on to deeper significances. In ‘Dog on the Road’, “the dog must be forgotten as quickly as possible” because:

Inside you is a world where lives come and go like days, like wrappers, like novels, like meals, 
like buses, like birds, like seasons, like you.

These exterior motifs are indications of inner worlds that the poems are interested in. In ‘No Mistakes’ there’s one concrete, observable world of alarm clocks, spiders and moths but more importantly an inner world of love and weddings as ‘a story about the world as it’s turned out to be’. In ‘What the Finch Knows’, the finch knows inexplicable mysteries which fascinate the poet but do not have to be solved. Mystery itself is at the heart of this poetic experience.

While the poems in this collection adopt a free-verse style (with just two prose poems), this particular poem is structured as a series of couplets, each a complete, separate observation. The enjambment allows the reader to pause often, observe and take a slower journey, allowing images to linger.

This poem also stands out in the collection for its bold alliteration, the repetition of the consonants ‘f’ and ‘s’, which lends a musicality and a robustness to the reading, emblematic of a finch’s song perhaps.

                                            The finch is loved

for being small, bright, neat, fast
It knows every seed and spring

in every wrinkle of its fearful songful world
The finch knows how to live

in joyful fright and fret, knows
every shadow in every corner of its world.

The natural world for the poet hides other mysteries, even attributing human emotion to parts of nature as in ‘Winter’ where trees struggle to solve mysteries, a river is impatient, and the mist knows despair. The poet’s mind and imagination are drawn to these hidden parts of nature, imbued with emotion, as in ‘What We Walk Towards’:

Inside us and inside the mountains what lasts
is dark, too dark to know about or dare
imagine where the dark inner liquid
rock might be flowing as we walk the paths.

The word ‘inside’ is a recurring motif in this collection where the poet is concerned with hidden meanings. The poems of Italy and Europe are in no way mere travel poems, for these poems concentrate specifically on the ordinary, the everyday, which could be anywhere. Take the poem ‘Mind as Hive’, whereby in walking the streets of a town, history becomes transparent to the poet, indeed transports the reader back to WWII when ‘German soldiers once attended Mass in the town cathedral while local people hid in their wine cellars.’ The poet’s eyes are trained below. The underground realities, even though now in the historical past, still dominate the imagination. The title of this poem too, ‘Mind as Hive’ suggests a metaphorical insight into how the poet perceives the intricate, hidden workings of the human mind.

‘Driving in Central Western Victoria’ reads like a metaphor for how the poet views each new poetic experience – a long journey through the countryside, revealing continual new towns and new experiences; ‘it goes round and round’, the poet says, until

I feel as if we can see all the way
to the horizon from here
amazing isn’t it
it makes you want to just keep going.

Such attention to each experience, not matter how apparently small, seems to expand the work’s poetic vision. This poem employs an interesting enjambment where lines are short, employing few words.

Empty
when you drive through it
at this speed
in winter it’s green
in summer it goes yellow

The result is like driving through the countryside with truncated images flashing past the car windows in quick succession, giving an onomatopoeic, evocative effect.

In a poem such as ‘Appian Way’ the poet asks, ‘why does each step feel like a new sorrow left behind?’ The poet ‘sees’ and as a result carries away an emotional attachment to what has been seen. Small images – rock walls, cowbells, weeds, pines –all carry a need to understand much more.

We stop and read about the quality of late afternoon light
try to find the lit edges of moving shadows.

The task it seems for the poet lies in searching out the deeper signs, the inner meanings of things ‘with a story about the world as it’s turned out to be’. (No Mistakes) The poems in this collection move like beams of light falling on hidden places, illuminating what was not obvious. Even the title of the collection, In This Part of the World, is not so much about a specific location but just wherever the poet happens to be the observer at that time. ‘This part of the world’ is fluid and mobile, not geographical but attached to the poetry’s optics.

Posted in BOOK REVIEWS | Tagged , ,

Claire Albrecht Reviews Jennifer Mackenzie’s Navigable Ink

Navigable Ink by Jennifer Mackenzie
Transit Lounge, 2020


The blurb of Jennifer Mackenzie’s 2020 collection Navigable Ink (Transit Lounge) begins by introducing Indonesian writer and activist Pramoedya Ananta Toer, who died in 2006. Mackenzie had been offered Toer’s novel manuscript Arus Balik for translation back in 1993, but it seems this translation was never completed. Navigable Ink is described as a ‘poetic exploration of Toer’s tragic, visionary and ultimately triumphant life’. At first glance a reader could be forgiven for thinking that this is the translation of Arus Balik, but Mackenzie’s acknowledgements clarify that this is not the case, rather the poems ‘created out of episodes from the novel are based on my own translation (with interpolations) of the text’.

From the first poem, ‘Before Nightfall’, a European sensibility affects how we are invited into the scenes of the poem:

a bucolic radiance
which a painter trained in genre 
might have pronounced
                                              timeless

Imposing a European-style gaze on a muddy Indonesian rice paddy sets the tone for the book. It’s actually an interesting mirror for the steady infiltration of colonial forces that Navigable Ink catalogues, from the Dutch East India Company, through the French, British, Portuguese and Japanese and into the move towards independence amid the terror of the twentieth century. Mackenzie jumps between these historical moments adeptly, using the source material of Toer’s novel as well as documentaries, essays and interviews. The comprehensive notes section explains the sources of the poems, but there are no markers or footnotes throughout the text.

The language is at once spare and vivid, aiming at the spirituality and potency imbued in natural scenes: ‘on the road / a mudslide / on a high peak / gleaners.’ Gig Ryan described these as ‘lyrical descriptions of unvarnished nature’, though the descriptions themselves run the risk of becoming the varnish when they stoke the senses to embellish:

the colour is luminous here
memory is of pastel
blue, pink, lemon robes in the marketplace
dwellings a slash of yellow & mauve
a constellation of red roofs
dimming only for star showers
	              (‘Maluku Pristmatic’)

Pared down to its base nouns, this passage is of ‘robes’, ‘the marketplace’, ‘dwellings’ and ‘roofs’, but Mackenzie coats these with such ‘luminous’ colour as to render the scene painterly, and forms the background for far more menacing events. These seem distanced from such a metaphysical and aesthetic context, operating in a different material realm. The disparity between the vibrant natural world and the ‘unnatural’ death and destruction of colonisation and ecological destruction is palpable.

Mackenzie’s choices of historical moments are not always political, and the work comes alive when revealing smaller stories. The poem sequence ‘Bogor’ uses Mackenzie’s own research to tell the story of Samida, a manmade forest established by the ruler of the Sunda kingdom in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries. The sequence begins again with the plural first person, as ‘we’ are shown the king’s forest and told of its later burning and haunting, with the sole remnant an orchid destined for ‘a lifetime behind conservatory glass’ – just one of the many references to captivity and confinement that mirror Toer’s multiple incarcerations as an activist. The poem then moves through history and imagery as we are left only with ‘one last row of banyan trees / providing shade / for tigers’.

‘Anger’, another short sequence, evokes the destruction of art and letters under Suharto’s suppressive New Order regime:

                                                      a paintbox 
                                                      thrown onto the path
                                                      paint, brushes scattered
                                                      painting ripped from the frame
                                                      made of the wood of a jackfruit tree 
                                                      left out in soaking rain
                                         it could no longer be called a painting

the painter flees, finds safety in a friendly state

This imagery effectively captures the physicality of suppression, the act of violence against culture. The italicised line reminds us, too, of the reality for artists and writers in Indonesia like Toer, whose choices were jail or fleeing the state in fear of persecution. Such ongoing persecution is perhaps not well known to Australian readers, who are treated now with a diverse stream of contemporary Indonesian poetry, despite ongoing political conflict in the country. As one such ‘friendly state’ to which Indonesian refugees fled over decades, Australia seems to have been largely ignorant of the literary culture of Indonesia. Perhaps this book is a step in the right direction to redress that lack, offering Mackenzie’s long relationship with the country as a means of entry, and pairing it with her translation and interpretation of Toer’s life and work.

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Introduction to Alex Selenitsch’s Look!

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To situate the work contained in Look!, it is worth recalling the rich but neglected Concrete Poetry tradition. Even in the twenty-first century, its challenge to the transparency of the word as a medium of communication is still provocative. From the mid-1950s, led by artists and poets such as Eugen Gomringer in Switzerland, Haroldo and Augusto de Campos in Brazil, and Ian Hamilton Finlay in Scotland, Concrete Poetry spread as a global, yet peripheral, phenomenon. In Australia, Alex Selenitsch joined others such as Sweeney Reed, Peter Murphy and Richard Tipping in the burgeoning Concrete Poetry scene of the late 1960s.

Selenitsch’s cross-disciplinary practice over the past five decades has encompassed installations, prints, sculptures and books, and habitually blurs the boundaries between poetry, visual art and design. There is a consistent line of development from his early works to the more recent compositions of Look! He continues to use single words, for example, abstracted from their usual place in sentences, to create compositions structured on the graphic space of a page, though these have now expanded into series. A word such as ‘absolute’ – a visual mark and a sign of an idea – functions as a generator of formal and conceptual variations. Here, Selenitsch exposes the elusive goal of art (which is supposed to disclose truths about the world by revealing the absolute) through a series of slippages, renegade letters that descend (or ascend) the page in ladders. Elsewhere, a boat becomes almost indistinguishable from the sea that contains it, and ‘air’ dissolves into atmospheric fields.

Selenitsch is also an architect, and we could see these compositions as akin to an architectural typology, a pre-given form that architects sometimes use as a generator for practice. Subject to endless variations and meanings, types can be forms (columns or arches) or recurring patterns, small characteristics that architects order, repeat and vary to form a house, then a row of terraces, a street, or a city. Selenitsch uses letters as modular units to displace, repeat and reconfigure, each time resonating alternative sounds, sights and meanings. In Look!, this process of repetition with variations results in the permutations of ‘perfect’, for example, while ‘palm’ mutates to ‘psalms’. An extension of his earlier ‘monotones’ (the first version appeared in 1968), ‘monotrees’ evolves spatially as a series of structures, while ‘Rarrk’ riffs on the cross-hatching of Aboriginal bark paintings, both look and sound rippling down the pages.

The unusual graphic symbols of ‘weeds’ pop up within Selenitsch’s composed landscape of letters, like their botanical namesakes that threaten our careful ordering of nature. Even the book’s title – Look! – features the simple device of an exclamation mark, which alters the meaning of the word. By using such subtle marks, Selenitsch’s practice focuses our attention on our habitual mode of looking and reading, our thoughtless daily filtering of thousands of marks, letters, words and images. His compositions invite us to look, hear and conceive our designed world afresh.

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Introduction to Catherine Vidler’s Wings

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Catherine Vidler’s Wings are in your hands: here’s 66 of them from a series of 100.

At the beginning of this book is a black-and-white image of what appears to be an insect with six, or perhaps eight, wings; some stretch beyond the page.

Then, across subsequent images, the same shapes and patterns re-appear: multiplied, rotated, twisted, flipped, stretched, spaced, snipped and spliced.

Here, as elsewhere, Vidler works with series and seriality.

Erupting from the cursor tracking across the screen, and from the copy-and-paste of the computer clipboard, Wings encounters the complex erotics of the cosmos via the pixelated maneuverability of Microsoft Paint and Microsoft Word.

Rippling and folding across these pages, these wings – like lines, like words, like syllables, and indeed, a bit like letters – speak to wings before and wings to come.

In a diary entry, Vidler observes how ‘a single brick in the wall of my college room contained more than enough poems to last me a lifetime … it contained infinite potential poems!’

Necessary for this contemplation of the infinite within the finite is the vastness of Vidler’s visualism: the more wings there are, the more Wings can reach a magnitude beyond that which can be contained within the printed book.

Every shape, line, spiral, swirl and squiggle opens up what Vidler calls ‘sheer quantum’; inviting the reader to observe the folds and variations between each wing, to explore how 1 becomes 100, then becomes 66, and then becomes something far more expansive, because in the spaces or overlays between adjacent wings there darts a multiplying swarm of yet further wings.

Vidler describes experiencing intense affective states, ‘flares’, which ‘trigger, and power, the creation of visual poems’.

Identifying the embodied nature of Vidler’s work is crucial: her writing is deeply felt, not simply on the level of its own construction, but also on the level of somatics – the click and drag of the cursor driven by her hand, yes, this is part of it – but also the propulsion of the work via ‘flares’ and fevers, and then during the event of its seeing and reading, when it is sometimes like a Magic Eye appearing.

DL (downlink), the link from a satellite to a ground station, could be an analogy for where Vidler’s wings go, how they appear to mediate between a far-reaching cosmos and earthly bodies.

Let’s put it another way: Wings evokes shapes of stars, nebulae, galaxies, galaxy clusters, transmitting their shapes here: zoom in and zoom still further in, and these patterns can appear also as cells or viruses reproducing and mutating.

Eradiating out of this book’s winged folds is something more than can be articulated in this brief space, though issues of space and scale, of flying forth from a zone of containment, are some of the ever-mutating meanings Wings awakens.

Reader, read Vidler’s viewing as reading: totally wordless work, but every bit euphoric as charged-wondrous language.

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Chewing on a Ruby Passport


Image by Jackie Ryan

I think often about the quality of light in Brisbane, how clean it was, and also of the big storm I experienced while I was there, which shook rooftops and transformed the sky. And most often I think of the faces of my friends.
–Kate Durbin

In its 15 years so far, the Arts Queensland Poet-in-Residence Program has brought internationally acclaimed poets to the Sunshine State from the USA, UK, Ireland, New Zealand, India and Canada. For locals in Brisbane and regionally, these extended visits spark new work, forge friendships, and annually raise the bar for Queensland poetics.

So many past Poets in Residence – from Poet Laureates like Joy Harjo (USA) and Selina Tusitala Marsh (NZ) to viral poets like Warsan Shire and performance innovators like Emily XYZ – have left their imprint in the voice of Queensland through performances at Queensland Poetry Festival and on tour, workshops, and mentorships.

And Brisbane – its poets, its landscape, its storms, its light – left a mark on each poet.

With travel out of the question, Queensland Poetry Festival (QPF) had to get creative (don’t say pivot!) in administering its 2020 Poet-in-Residence program – to capture that cross-cultural exchange and to transcend Zoom fatigue. For that reason, we engaged four different writers – storyteller Ivan Coyote (Canada), poet and conceptual artist Kate Durbin (USA), poet Nick Makoha (UK), and poet Amina Atiq (UK).

Two of these guests – Coyote and Durbin – are no strangers to Brisbane. A tireless touring storyteller, Ivan Coyote sold out the Judith Wright Centre during QPF 2016, while Kate Durbin was Arts Queensland Poet in Residence in 2015, adapting her live performance work Hello Selfie for Brisbane’s Fortitude Valley mall with the help of local poets. These two seemed perfect for a QPF redux: Coyote’s tender, direct address can reach through any screen, dissolving the Zoom fourth wall, while Durbin’s generous, collaborative approach to poetry makes her the perfect literary pen-pal.

Chosen in consultation with UK’s Speaking Volumes live literature organisation, Yemeni-Scouse poet, performer and activist Amina Atiq and award-winning Ugandan-born poet Nick Makoha ‘visited’ Queensland across the airwaves for the first (and hopefully not last) time.

Across four time zones, Coyote, Durbin, Makoha and Atiq delivered performances and workshops, and mentored emerging Queensland poets and performers. And we posted out as much of Brisbane as we could: recent poetry releases from UQP, local Bee One Third honey, and Knowledge Sharing pins by Goreng Goreng artist Rachael Sarra.

Amina Atiq: Golden Eagle

Ivan Coyote: Last Train Out of the City

Nick Makoha: 2 Codex

Kate Durbin: Folio: Brisbane

Four response poems to ‘Folio: Brisbane’

  1. Kylie Thompson: Pre-heatwave Interlude
  2. Pascalle Burton: then is now is then and here is there — a forecast
  3. Zenobia Frost: Severe Thunderstorm Warning for Heavy Rainfall and Damaging Winds
  4. Rae White: Wheelie bin


And, without setting foot on a City Cat or breathing the green pre-storm air or watching an Ibis perform its delicate bin-surgery, Coyote, Durbin, Makoha and Atiq have responded to their uncanny experiences of being ‘resident’ in a far-off city during a pandemic. This digital chapbook collects this commissioned work, and reflects their diversity in style and approach. Their new work evokes these paradoxes of distance and closeness, isolation and connection, travel and memory.


Image by Jackie Ryan

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Golden Eagle

After ‘Lead You to the Shore’ by Steven Oliver (Fire Front: First Nations poetry and power today, UQP 2020)

I’m a dark horse

beating down the door somewhere childhood
escaped the streets etching three syllables of my name
beneath the old city of Bab Al-Yemen

a woman dressed in black found me shackled to the gates
it was my mother, chewing on her ruby passport

it’s time to leave.

Goodbyes passed the Northern valleys
greeted the Southern blue waters unlocking
the fishermen’s Red Sea-

colony crown reeked of death
buried in my foreign blood, martyrs will meet life
justice will dance on the heads of snakes

it turned cold quickly, over the Mediterranean.

This Yemeni girl sings British anthems
between her terrace walls, i lost a part of me.

I forgot the taste of my mother’s milk
with her nipple gritted between my teeth.

I taught my mother how to speak English
translating her hospital letters, cold is eating her bones.

I skipped school to escape the scouse boys
lurking at bus stops who sing riddles
of camels, curry and Bin Laden headlines.

A heartbreak worth to be torn
between two homes if my racist neighbour

daydreams our women in two-piece sets golden
headbands white polished toes
in the sand? I deserve my honour.

I lost a part of me in this dining room
learning to use a knife and fork

we don’t eat Sunday roast fish and chips
porky pie or go to the pubs

i like my fingers in my food, coffee before I sleep.

I lost a part of me in this corner shop
gran-dad left selling Mokha
beans broken dreams broken biscuits for a half a penny.

Why here, why here?

This Yemeni girl sings British anthems British bombs
between her terrace walls she wears home

and this dress fits perfectly.

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