Beginning and Ending with a Line from Hera Lindsay Bird

love comes back
harder
falling in love with you
for the second time
is trying to sail back to the harbour
against a headwind
that I hardly felt as a tailwind
sailing out
so confident
though I’ve never been on a boat
it’s perfect saying things like
“catch my drift?”
& you do
but to borrow another line
from Talking Heads
“how did I get here?”
& now
how do I get back?
how careless of me
to have arrived at this party
so overexcited
but so emotionally
underprepared
(is anyone ever just
‘whelmed’?)
promising myself
these spirits (clearly)
too much for just
one person alone
although I really
go in for that feeling
where I weigh
nothing
at the top
of the trampoline’s vault
when the valium
counterbalances the molly
when left
to my own devices
I get high on my own supply
when in my hands
these tattered sails / this
mostly empty bottle
valiantly I sense
my back’s against the wall
though I know
I’ve never looked cool
standing alone at a party
I stumble outside
to feel the same wind
from earlier in the poem
hit me suddenly
& when that rush subsides
lying down
it’s when the trampoline
stops bouncing
when the boat stops pitching
that’s when
love comes back

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

Intergenerational status anxiety is a pending job app

Suburban mums at Highpoint Shopping Centre (highlights in hair, talons on hands)
remind me of white lion statues worn as jewellery on brick McMansions;
I can hear the hose watering the concrete driveway from my childhood.
I wanna tape myself to the wall, like a t-shirt on display—2D, empty, not embodied yet—
for everyone to look at and ask ‘Ooh, how much for this one?’.

One line circulates each time it resonates:
more people bought their seventh home than those buying their first.
Ok, not true-true; proportions a little blown out,
like an unoccupied
high-rise.
I cackle at my 26 y/o brother after he buys his second house.
Funny like wog boy had no option but to join the family business in high school.
Cinder-blocked between:
funny like wog boy had no other choice but to work hard for good money.
Truth Coming Out of Her Well (1896), but broke.
The gate to his newly purchased property reads:
FUCK OFF C*NT
in sparkly, silver graff.
But the command is owner-facing, onto the property and upside-down.

Me, a Don’s gold pinky ring
sitting next to my didi front row at my cousin’s wedding
looking down upon a man, prayerlike
removing his own coat to lay across my grandfather’s lap.
This kind of mafioso exclusivity is not reserved for the Italians
but The Sopranos makes my memory yolky
so much so
I consider buying a $2000 plinth to rest my TV on while on JobSeeker.

On the outer suburbs of wealth are critically underpaid workmates who e-mail each other:
Don’t worry! No one’s having as bad a day as Lindsay Lohan’s net worth!

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

Because It’s Slower It Races Away

Someone at the place that used to be Michel’s Patisserie but is now called something else and is in fact something entirely else but despite efforts seems more generic than Michel’s Patisserie with its new mint green and blonde wood is wearing a red Free Julian Assange shirt. Maybe 12 years ago I saw Julian Assange walk right from where I’m standing to the counter of Woolworths, which might have been called Safeway back then but was essentially the same place as it is now even down to the lighting system buy or request to buy a SIM card for a prepaid mobile phone. That’s Julian Assange, I thought. He is buying a SIM card for a prepaid mobile phone. I knew as much about him then as today, which aside from the words Internet and Freedom is zero despite or perhaps because of the fact I once watched a poorly made biopic about his early life in Melbourne. Something about Dandenong or is it the Dandenongs. Good at the Internet. Something to do with war and America. Or is it sex and Sweden. The Internet, which I can’t explain but am always on or is it always in except for when I sleep and being in the Internet is so like being asleep or is it a dream. I’m here because I’ve been working my way up to this moment. Not that there’s anything wrong with me, or wrong with this Shopping Centre. There is, but that isn’t the point. The point is I need to buy thrush medication to treat the UTI medication to treat the unprotected sex which I suppose I had as a treat. Chemist Warehouse of course is a dream and a curse to the germaphobes and to the racists and the way I live in the Internet is like the way I live in the coronavirus, perfectly well in those correlative ways without understanding anything at all about it but receiving this information or is it this dream. Life ebbing or is it flaring in Chemist Warehouse, a fact of life I ascribe to the general paranoia between the different customers and between the customers and the staff though I don’t feel paranoia between the staff themselves. Weeks later I’ll see the security guard remember and describe what will seem like one of his big nights to the young woman behind the checkout counter. I’m not surprised there’s some aggression between an old man on his bicycle and an unseeable driver in a grey vehicle and I take the aggression on board because it feels like mine to take. Even though I only came for the thrush medication my backpack has other items I purchased and took from Chemist Warehouse and also Woolworths including: a Twix, a surprisingly square carrot, an expensive coconut water I didn’t want. I have been working up to this moment or is it that this moment has taken a lot of effort. I didn’t want this moment or is it that I don’t understand this moment. It is aggressive, expensive, sick with this moment, this moment, or is it that I’m here.

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

Generated I

// My brain is curing me
forgiveness aches in her belly
I look at her in the window and collapse into nothingness

// My heart is knotting me
won’t you please warn someone
I gasp at us and break apart

// My blood is soothing me
when aching words stay worn she will try to reach me
god, please fear for us

// My body is nourishing me
I might get lost, there’s no symmetry
the name gnaws in her body

// My lungs are cursing me
they might fall and stay down, but she’s still here
words can’t save her

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

Soft Edges

tea is a bush art
stoke the fire
whisper to coals
with a charred billy can
boil rainwater on smoky white box
don’t even consider a bag
leaves in the teapot
steep black oolong
wait and wait and wait
add milk or powdered sunshine
sugar is compulsory
stir rigorously

pain is a bush lesson
dad was a shearer
I followed him to work for day care
smoko is sacred tea time
stop jumping near the fire
one two three
somehow I’m in the billy can
fuck someone get some water
shearers jumping over stock fences
Nata won the Olympic hurdles
that day a gallon of water
held above his head
poured over my shedding ankle

bush lessons have dangerous curves
no phones no ambulance nowhere
shearers running long and fast
more fences and Uncle Jimmy says
Dolly you gotta drive
hold this hanky on your ankle
and stop crying it won’t stop
pain and pain and pain better
call it a lesson to claim what I learned
even small buildings can be hospitals
everyday new bandages and green blisters
I stole that other kids lollies
the nurse wasn’t watching

bush curves have soft edges
a billy can sits on the side
of coals and fate and sings
dad isn’t a shearer no more
I ate fried sheep brains
and we moved in to town
dad is in recovery from everything
billy lessons burn remission
ankles deep and he sheds his skin too
silver bandages at a new hospital
tea is a dangerous love
love is a soft edge

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

this is just another receipt

& yes I’ll carry it like all the others
waiting for the dan when I don’t wake up thinking about
all the debts I owe to people in my life all the money I’m doing wrong
in this sci-fi film to this opening music like
what could possibly happen next svet? throw ur muppet birds & duck armies @ me

people keep making plans like another year might actually come but I’m not so sure
my plans r less made more looking @ apartments in NYC & wishing there were two of me
so I could split the rent between myself & myself.2
the problem with a second me is she’d still be me & she’d probably still be a poet &
struggle to pay rent & we’d sleep on receipts instead of madraci

Tata talks of buying an investment property & taking out another loan
he says Robbie Williams has a Beverly Hills house with 22 bathrooms & when asked why
he said what if he has a party & every one of the guests get diarrhoea?
Tata says in Darwin u can buy a property four bedrooms for $304k
Mama says ne volim properties

pls let me keep pretending like the jobseeker & writing money in my account
is my own & for spending
or @ least let me dwell on my dreams as if they’re still possible
even though
so much was never meant to be attainable

I’m comparing myself to friends again but not everyone
is from a working-class migrant home in this unemployment shit for lyf
& a poet sick of x-po-sure
that is to say disappointing my family is more than likely
with the road I’ve chosen to take

Tata says me & my sestra r lucky
we just have to show we’re young & motivated & they’ll give us a job on the spot
this is not the saddest delusion he nurtures
in Alex Chee’s ‘Inheritance’ he writes ‘My mistake being that money is not
power over pain. Facing pain is.’

as the first daughter in a new world I carry us all not only myself
so I need to know things for us all
like how the average wage for full-time working Australians in the second quarter of 2018
was over $82k—I’d laugh if I didn’t feel sick about this—
or the cost of living & minimum wage for Bosnia & Serbia

I still wonder if I’d be writing if my parents never left
I still keep all my receipts (no matter how old) in boxes under my bed &
remember to pack them when I move—choosing to accumulate to sustain a wage fantasy
I still never expect to pay off any of our debts in this lifetime

there r 400 wild horses bringing tourists to Bosnia despite their abandoned ancestors
these horses r their own bosses now & have humans who love them enough to build/work for them
& I know money abandoned us
I know this country continues to abandon & silence so many
& I just want to be these horses for them want to be sjajni snovi fulfilled

I want the kind of money to picnic inside this landscape cloud watch with loved ones
& not worry about returning to the world
Do not return, my mother
shouts from her sleep. Do not
return.


Return to Tell Me Like You Mean It volume 4.

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

Little Animal

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

in/on/swamp

rather buoyant to throw around a word like ‘paradise’1
but I’d take bats ova beeps & bastards any day—
& greens, flakey tans & periwinkle eeks

somewhere in another dimension, a silver commodore zips
past a window & a nuttelex-haired passenger w/ red glasses
throws the head back & laughs
o 2 b Zooming through a saturday morning
w/ such verve / or any morning really / or w/ any verve

my lungs are so full of muck & I cough
& I cough
& I did this
to myself / almost w/ purpose & w/ good reason

this place—one time (or still)—a colonial birth canal: water-rush-quote/unquote-“purity”

Semi-Divine Anxieties! o drown thy selves in washtubs
filled w/ paper bark or faecal matter
& what matters may matter will matter will mattress

is opaqueness hidden meaning or
an attempt to not be found out so quick?

\\ focus shatters

whatever peace you found here
is it here
was it ever
will it be
enough to Void thy Self, who,
like pollen in the wind will
tumble dry on high speed,
up & down wind shafts
losing what amounts to
a finger or a toenail, before evtl.,
settling somewhere else.

Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

Two Scenes

expand, taut skin sparking
sharp and hot. peel off rocks, curved
vessels full of yawning toothy sky or
that teary green, thousand winking archives,
cut-glass shoulders. here
I echo and unfold like a napkin
taking flight in sudden wind,
waiting & reaching
first dip of the summer —
one lung blown wide
submerge, completely,
until: blur:
sun-drenched stupor, each drop
a free-wheeling collision
kissing chapped lips into hungry bloom.
fade to blue and balmy
all contours and warm hollowed spaces
quiet like a prayer:
held in palm an infinite goodbye
underwater, eyes change hands

candy-coloured sweat: filmy casing
like a third body:
frozen time. light catches
ice melting in clammy-grasp,
condensation forming is a gasp
or a promise uttered aloud,
salty-granular and always in motion
hugging the open air
all glistening bodies,
slide on the sticky sweet floor
in between the bass and the next limb
come out the other end glowing
wet and dancing new, each
an oil slick, a wave of sound
I count my breaths on my fingers
sink into lip gloss pooling
heat phantom and piercing
this is communion, this is ritual
to feel synchronicity in deep electric
& forget the body, intimately
Posted in TMLYMI v4 | Tagged

Standing at the Gas Station on a Winter’s Night, What Am I Afraid of | 冬夜站在加油站我怕什么

Translated by Eleanor Goodman

A driver used to long-haul raids, I watch
pigeons by the gas station, waiting for fries dropped by people
coming out of the fast food joint

a few people with obscured faces wait in the cold wind for
odd jobs, they and the pigeons
make Ronald McDonald sort of look like Jesus—is that
what I’m afraid of

no, I’m not afraid of that, although I’m Chinese—Wang
Xiaobo’s little brother Wang Chenguang
was attacked on the street, but let me tell you I’ve been in
fights, you think it doesn’t matter

but I’m used to it, in Saint Louis or a motel on the outskirts
of Chicago
I’ve achieved it deep within myself, an unflappable cool, since
in a dimly-lit situation

with my long hair and quick steps and slightly crazy eyes, a
classmate once took me for a thug.
of course I’m not but that doesn’t make me worry—what
really makes me afraid

which is more likely to affect me, there’s no need to say, but
the feeling follows me
turning my shadow from a hunting dog into a wild horse
into an even more terrifying animal at hunt, and so if I were
walking down the street in my hometown
I’d be aggressive, those who’d dare bother me haven’t even
been born, and the blast
distorted the street, and that might be even better for me to
walk down, and did you think I’m actually afraid

my childhood friend Xiangdong who worked in a chemical
plant, already dead from cancer
my next-door neighbour, beaten to brain damage and stuck in
a madhouse where no one will ever buy him cigarettes again

the dread I feel isn’t because fate is ruthless and decisive, the
sutras have explained that
in my dreams the mountains and oceans are behind me, as
though it’s a prophecy, but the scope is so big the details are
unclear

I fear the mentality of my feet not being afraid to wear shoes,
that’s where the problem lies.
trying to be a hero is just wishful thinking, and even if you’re
abroad, you suspect that if something happens
it will be set off by your countrymen—I fear this attitude, I
hate this kind of unflappable cool, bound up in a bird’s nest

of dread in my sleep, hearing the wings of birds of prey
flapping like the sound of cut paper
at such moments, perhaps fear is unrelated to bravery, it has
to do with millions of hope-crushing feet

stepping behind the simple mould of cause and effect, ten
years before epic poetry, countless people had already
silently collapsed

this really isn’t a question, beetles can survive under water for
forty minutes, so they can adapt
to an unfriendly world, and in an age of oil they win, they feel
contented

with their lack of security, and of course I want to be like that
too, when my hometown explodes to look like its own
reflection in a funhouse mirror

Posted in HOMINGS & DEPARTURES | Tagged ,

Shovel | 一把铁锹

Translated by a j carruthers and Cui Yuwei

noon after snow
Kirin Bay Park
there where there’s a far corner
in this patch of wood
a shovel I see
stuck up a tree
two print-foot-trails
snake along
here from the path where I stand

sunbeam
it streams down through those branches there
suddenly, the shovel quivers
it’s as if it’s having a soul
gleams
dazzled light
snow forsaken by its whiteness
the two crows and with them a flock of sparrows
the lot of them frightened
flee with clatt’ring wing

Posted in HOMINGS & DEPARTURES | Tagged , ,

Sighs | 叹息

Translated by Xuan Yuan and Tim Lilburn

—for all the slaughter victims

I hear, I hear the flock of rain, crowing, rushing out of stirred
crowds of chaos and fright, sweeping past, laughing, roars of
laughter crashing into the Wailing Wall. Triumphant karma
holds a sharp blade in its mouth and slices the sigh into
pieces; one piece, two pieces, feathers flutter, dancing.
You emerge, among the whirling sleet.
The thing, the mortals can’t imagine arises. It’s time,
drops of white blood splash, the brightest blossom of solid snowflakes.
I see, I see your heart of great suffering swells up, up
till an angel thunders out, and he flexes up the roots
of his not-yet-familiar large wings, pressing against the gust
blowing from the gap in the heart, then bows his head to peck
such an immense petrified world with his sharp beak.
An already rigid You, giant sigh, stands upright, burning inside.
A fire wall, a wall of fire burns darkly and damply, smoking
whitely and bitterly, collapses and buries, buries the eternal sighs.

Posted in HOMINGS & DEPARTURES | Tagged , ,

The Fog of Our Age | 我们年龄的雾

Translated by Heather Inwood

How it got here is a puzzle.
That’s not to say it’s unsolvable, but I’d rather
keep a little mystery for myself.

Snail-like, up the steps,
against the wall; wherever I look
I see its milky trail:

I intentionally ignore its weight,
but this is because I know
its strength. I’ve sensed it many times.

Similarly, I never worry about
questions of visibility and the like: I’ve noticed
a post office floating in its belly.

Just like that, three meals a day, take strolls at night,
read a few pages of Pascal before bed.
The window’s open. I’ve felt the change.

Because of this, I was for a time most engrossed
with where its edges lay,
this always left me full of secret wonder.

But now I have the confidence to stuff it
in a pocket like a box of matches, good for a light,
good for warmth, or for a fortune-telling game.

I also let it turn into an ant and
slip out, watch it cross my arm,
burrow into my chest where, I admit, it tickles—

You have opened the labyrinthine entrance to my soul
and, as curious as I’ve always been: when I see you
I am already within you.

Posted in HOMINGS & DEPARTURES | Tagged ,

The Reliquary | 宝塔

Translated by Ali McIness

—for Li Chun and His Contemporaries

The reliquary is a candle; the lake by the trees
And the bottle on its shore, drawing on its warmth.
And why isn’t it the bottle?
You raise it, perhaps to take another drink?

To whistle? Or cast it into the lake,
Rending your lungs in song to the night life.
I, myself, gallop swift as storm winds, the reliquary
Rising abruptly from weekend shopping receipts to
proclaim: Love!

Hate! That with which your right hand fumbles,
resembles
Not a computer mouse or western book, but a
window frame: Push it open,
Let in the fine vapours of translation. Mountain
forms rising from the babble,
A sandpaper dawn—So false! Against this backdrop

The reliquary stands a pinnacle; the darkness you
turn to grasp,
Forever its reflection. Eyes left in attention,
Its gaze follows you. Although it may be gossamer
soft, fruit flavoured, fluorescent,
Above all else it’s crimson.

Posted in HOMINGS & DEPARTURES | Tagged ,

Cardboard Boxes | 纸箱子

Translated by Canaan Morse

I know you remember those bound-up carboard boxes.
When the spring tide came, they floated in every hallway,
light and rigid, like the model ships boys carry.
This once brought me peace,
as I have only two hands, as do you,
we can’t take it all.

But may I tell you, how I can hear
the sound of them sinking?
though we had thought they would ride the current,
go before us, all the way to the deep eddies
of paradise, and prepare for us
countless tearful gifts.

May I tell you they are disappearing,
dropping through purple kelp
and schools of migratory fish, through whirlpools
and layer on layer of candy-delicate sand?

May I tell you
they now lie wordlessly beside me; and that
nothing ever was destroyed,
but simply gone from the water’s surface?

Posted in HOMINGS & DEPARTURES | Tagged ,

Rangoon Lover | 仰光情人

Translated by Liang Yujing

Your mind is to taste all nightmares.
Your body in charge of fond dreams.

Open your icebox, your white bra.
Open the two clean lungs
like you push open the shutters.
Knock the drumbeats into your guts.
Freeze the letters in a fridge.

I only have eleven lovers.
I only have poetry, this one lover.

My darling bathing in soft cheese:
for you, I can even join the Party.

When we are in love,
we don’t do anything legal.

As you breathe out chit pa de,
a bird pecks them away.

You write about me, I about you.

Posted in HOMINGS & DEPARTURES | Tagged ,

Childhood Playmate | 童年玩伴

Translated by Gu Yiwei and Cassandra Atherton

Death, is another child, with a thin face
Occasionally he comes to play with me, knocks three times,
moderate and regular, forming a habit
Like the scar on his forehead that is uncovered
when he takes off his hat—
It’s a strange mark burnt by Mars, he says
He doesn’t blame his father who smoked every day in clouds
and swam in alcohol, who was old, tied to the post
nor his mother who sat and sighed
at her dresser. His home was in the depths of the flax field across the lake
Unexpectedly, I have never really been there to have a look
(I have headed towards there several times, but returned
Before arriving) or to see the antique furnishings
he described, kept in their proper positions
Sometimes when I am not yet up, he lies prone in the sleeping bag
looking at me; sometimes when I happen to be
drinking milk in the kitchen
there are feathers floating in from the window, something to speak of
He always collects quaint baubles such as
a silent bird, a doddery horse which cannot be ridden,
Some canned fish that aren’t fresh, he probably loved these things
covered in moss in the shade, not heliophilous,
he did not expect them to grow into feral shapes
Before leaving, mum always warned, ‘You have to be home before the sun sets.’
Then we rushed across the front hall
Across some sporadic puddles, and arrived at
The reeds where discarded barges were moored, so
that was how one puddle joined another
You took off your hat to show me your scar
You even took a cat out of your arms, saying it was magic
Out of admiration, and of self-esteem, I said
This is nothing surprising, once I even held a
Colourful tiger in my arms, and let it go
with my hands. Just now a wild francolin flies over head
and you go chasing the luminous curve
As if you love falling, you run like
the rising tide, puddles gradually swallowing up the reed field
It disappears, like an innocent beach gobbled up by the waves
Coming back empty-handed, you spread out your hands, shadowed with sorrow,
‘People always talk about going somewhere far away to dance, but they
Never know where to go, or sometimes go too far,
Forgetting to come back home.’ At times like this, it means goodbye
I look at the puddles, the lake that has formed
The flaming clouds over it, and his home
He said it was only another mark, the same as the one
On his forehead. Then I stepped and splashed about here and there
Strolled back home alone, while my young solitary playmate
Always ran in the opposite direction.

Posted in HOMINGS & DEPARTURES | Tagged , ,

On Curing Depression | 关于抑郁症的治疗

Translated by Austin Woerner and Bao Huiyi

Now all I need to do is carefully differentiate
between each dull ache, name it, add a footnote,
lock it up
in the correct drawer: which tears I shed
for my suffering father, which for frostbitten love,
which came just from shivering in this vast,
indifferent
prison of stars in which we all live. If each small pain
could be precisely located, like troubles in Yogacara
buddhism,
they would, like sins in Dante’s funnel, become
bearable.

Every pain I refuse to, won’t stoop to, or simply
cannot pour out
will congeal into brown, olive, and silver spices
brewing miracles in the holy-water bottle of time.
Rhetoric evaporates before a suffering heart, speech
becomes frivolous,
and if not done in order to save oneself
narration is unforgivable. If I could take a piece of
sky-blue chalk
into this maze, and mark every forking
that leads to disasters: “I have been here, I will not
be tempted again” then they would become
bearable.

If all my tastes of mercury and arsenic
could exempt you from understanding this poem
—they would become bearable,
little patient.

Posted in HOMINGS & DEPARTURES | Tagged ,

Contemporary Chinese Poetry in Translation: The Homings and Departures Project


Image by Wang Yin

Homings & Departures is a poetry translation project of the China Australia Writing Centre (CAWC) at Curtin and Fudan Universities, and the International Poetry Studies Institute (IPSI) at the University of Canberra. As worldwide borders close and movements are restricted, the project’s title has gained a pressing new relevance. If bodies cannot travel then words, at least, can. In a spirit of nuanced exchange, CAWC at Curtin and Fudan, along with IPSI, continue their creative collaboration at a time when it is increasingly vital.

These poems were first published in Homings and Departures: Selected Poems from Contemporary China and Australia (Qinghai People’s Publishing House, 2018), edited by Bao Huiyi and Hai An. Later this year, an Australian companion volume of Homings and Departures will be published by Recent Work Press, edited by Lucy Dougan and Paul Hetherington, with Chinese translations by Iris Fan Xing.

Mai Fei: Shovel | 一把铁锹
Translated by a j carruthers and Cui Yuwei

Wang Ao: Standing at the Gas Station on a Winter’s Night, What am I Afraid of | 冬夜站在加油站我怕什么
Translated by Eleanor Goodman

Leng Shuang: The Fog of Our Age | 我们年龄的雾
Translated by Heather Inwood

Wang Pu: The Reliquary | 宝塔
Translated by Ali McIness

Zhao Si: Sighs | 叹息
Translated by Xuan Yuan and Tim Lilburn

Dai Weina: Rangoon Lover | 仰光情人
Translated by Liang Yujing

Zhang Dinghao: Cardboard Boxes | 纸箱子
Translated by Canaan Morse

Si Rongyun: Childhood Playmate | 童年玩伴
Translated by Gu Yiwei and Cassandra Atherton

Bao Huiyi: On Curing Depression | 关于抑郁症的治疗
Translated by Austin Woerner and Bao Huiyi

Zhang Er: Buji River Serenade | 布吉河小夜曲
Translated by Michelle Yeh

Feng Na: Birthplace | 出生地
Translated by Henry Zhang and Amelia Dale

Iris Fan Xing: Canton Holiday | 广州假期
Translated by Iris Fan Xing


Editors’ notes

With thanks to all the Chinese and Australian poets and translators involved; to Paul Hetherington for the overall conception of the project; to the Director of CAWC at Fudan University, Linjing Jiang; to editors Huiyi Bao and Li Dingjun (Hai An); to publisher Ma Fei, Editor-in-Chief of Qinghai People’s Publishing House; and to Wang Yin for his photograph, which provides such an atmospheric frame for the poems in translation here.

Posted in CHAPBOOKS, TRANSLATIONS | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

‘Mix it with grit’: Claire Albrecht Interviews Jill Jones


Photo by Annette Willis.

Adelaide poet Jill Jones sits down 1,525.5 km from me, Claire Albrecht in Newcastle, to discuss her sparkling twelfth book A History of What I’ll Become. That’s a lot of ground to cover – along the way we talk grit, sexuality, anxiety, and the way these might be captured by observations and processed by repetition, hesitations, and formal experimentation into a poem. We dig up the sublime and consider shared modes of composition between poetry and a symphony. We die symbolically on the beach. We write to control. Strap in.

Claire Albrecht: Jill Jones! What a pleasure to kick off this conversation. The last we had was in the back courtyard of a gritty Newcastle cafe, and I’m sorry we can’t be face-to-face again, but here we are. Strangely I feel like I’ve been in contact with you this whole time, as I’ve not only been close-reading your 2014 book The Beautiful Anxiety for my PhD exegesis but also following your Twitter observations, which for a while gorgeously catalogued your impressions of local walks during your isolation. I notice your Twitter account has been deactivated – are you still cataloguing your small observations since restrictions have eased? How does a fascination with the (non-viral) micro hold up when we’re all collectively freaking about the macro?

Jill Jones: Yes, here we are, only able to talk virtually, but it is a pleasure. I’m always up for another gritty café chat if this is ever over. Newcastle seems to be full of poets. But, sure, the micro, the local, sure interests me, always has, but I haven’t been as diligent in my iso-walk notations lately. A combination of the fact of leaving Twitter, so that sense of the constraint (280 characters) has gone, as well as the fact that, at least in Adelaide, my movement is freer around the suburbs and into the city. I have even been back into my workplace office a few times since they unlocked the building.

I’ve been re-reading Lorine Niedecker’s work, a process I recommend in these times, and in both the early and later Niedecker there’s that sense of both the associative and, especially in her mid-to-later works, a sense of that base in the local although her reading and thinking was always very broad. She did a lot of research as well. For instance, she collected together many pages of notes and research and did a road trip to write her poem, ‘Lake Superior’, which consists of only 393 words. Her work continually has that sense of the associative and the assemblage.

To me this all raises questions around improvisational practice. What can I fit onto an A7 notebook that I shove in my pocket as I walk out the door. Or simply a scrap of paper I find in the back of my wallet one day. How then to assemble poems out of such notes. The things you hear – ‘“I win again”, says little girl to daddy in the race up the garden path to the front door’ – or what you see through the streets – ‘Day 31: empty bins – empty croquet club – empty bowling club – empty trailer – empty footbridge – seven magpies at the corner of Ormonde Ave and Lloyd Ave’. I’d often find I could come up with a template for the walk on each day, so I’d only write about animals I saw, or plants, or signs. Or only use three-word phrases for each thing. Improvisation doesn’t necessarily imply lack of structure, in my mind, but seeing and feeling what comes to hand, to eye or ear, and find a way of making it into text.

On Twitter the 280-character constraint was also a useful container. And in a longer poem based on the notes, I tried a couple of approaches, like a certain number of phrases per line, or a certain regular mix of syntax. I even tried some kennings: ‘Day 23: shivergrass – mulchcrackle – yellchild – hissbike – dogpuff – crowsight’. Of course, as soon as you rewrite and rearrange you’re changing the thoughts you might have had out there in the street. The kennings, for instance, are both observational and conceptual, as well as sonic constructions.

I think about the observational as simply taking note of what’s before me. But how that becomes a poem depends, for me, on the associative, the juxtaposed, even the accidental. Observation is one part of that complex act of perception and organisation of making a poem, but it does get you, or me at least, to take notice of things outside myself, especially in this time. What are my neighbours doing? What birds are in this area? How to write that. And not just as notes or reportage.

To me, it’s observation as compositional practice, not as consumption or stage setting. It involves listening and seeing whilst passing through and with a place. It’s both passive and active, receiving and translating, as well as being in the place as one among many entities, sentient and non-sentient. The Objectivist ‘thing itself’ is more than that, it’s the thing or things, including me as a human thing, in a situation that also isn’t just singular.

It also has a ring, to me, of something Veronica Forrest-Thomson wrote about in Poetic Artifice, the ‘hesitation between empirical and discursive modes’. I recast that (not sure what she’d feel about it, though), to think about hesitations created through caesura, line endings, page position, punctuation, parataxis, assemblage as well as changes in poetic modes. Forrest-Thomson says that ‘that hesitation is not unproductive’.

And is hesitation a kind of anxiety? Maybe. I think it’s productive, for me. And there’s that first line of yours from ‘annexiety’ in your book pinky swear: ‘anxiety is the millennial condition, says a clickbait article’. So I wonder if you do?

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‘It is a gift for you’: Danny Silva Soberano Interviews Manisha Anjali

In my mind, Manisha Anjali is most neatly described as a ‘poet’, though her body of work cannot be so neatly classified: she also works in visual and performance art, she produces Neptune: A Dream Archive which is currently collating and publishing pandemic dreams, and she has worked tirelessly as an editor.

This interview began as a conversation one day in early December 2019. I had come to visit Manisha during a period of grief in my life. She welcomed me with a beautiful meal of purple cauliflower baked with spices, chilli oil on the side. After our meal, we walked down Brunswick Street in Fitzroy, when I asked her what she was working on. Her chapbook, Electric Lotus hadn’t been released yet, but Manisha was finalising everything for a late-January launch in 2020. She talked me through her meticulous process of choosing the exact paper and colours she wanted for her collection; publishing with Incendium Radical Library had allowed her to have a say in such decisions. We talked about religious euphoria and music. We talked about our dreams. I’d been having nightmare after nightmare. Manisha’s dreams were much gentler.

Our interview has now transformed into a clean transcript. Our exchange took place over the course of many months across email and Google docs. Here it is now, a record of Manisha’s abiding calm as she speaks of slowness in poetry, being an artist with multidisciplinary interests, and the divine – and – it is a record, also, of my deep awe at her artistry.

Danny Silva Soberano: What is your relationship to editing your poems over time? Does a poem ever really feel finished to you?

Manisha Anjali: Poems can never be complete, because like us, they are alive. They are growing and aging. Poems outlive us by travelling through mouths and ears through time and space. For this moment, my throat and tongue are instruments for cultivation of expression and revision over time.

I am in love with the ephemerality of performance. The poem wants to move a different way each time. I move with it. I put myself in a trance by embodying the rhythm of the poem. Whatever I share in the public space is informed by an act of listening to the poem itself. I found impermanence so pure and thrilling that I avoided publishing anything for a long time.

I now recognise the importance of publishing, for a poem to travel and for it to communicate with future minds. The written word is the blueprint. It is a version of the work, not whole in itself, at least not for me. It can be translated and performed by anybody who reads it in any way they like. I am becoming more comfortable with permanence; it is akin to me becoming more comfortable with my own death.

DSS: Poetry can be a medium that encourages slowness. Your considered way of releasing work stands out in an art culture that can sometimes emphasise quick releases of art. There is so often a rhythm to your performances.

MA: For me poetry does not necessarily encourage slowness. Its lawlessness and freeform supports the speed at which I throw my ideas around. The way I have been writing and performing thus far has mirrored my non-committal and capricious way of being which I feel like is beginning to change. I have always loved being in a state of overstimulation, juggling a thousand concepts at once. Now, I want to embrace slowness and stillness. I want to do this by committing to a big long slow-cooked body of work, such as a novel or epic poem. I feel ready.

DSS: The first poem of Electric Lotus is a list of songs and a QR code that links to the Spotify playlist. I get the sense that this is the soundtrack to the chapbook. Does music tie into your critical interest in spirituality and the sublime?

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‘Multiple things at once’: Hana Pera Aoake Interviews Jackson Nieuwland

Jackson Nieuwland is a writer born and based in Te Whanganui-a-Tara, New Zealand. They studied writing at the International Institute of Modern Letters (IIML) at Victoria University, graduating in 2015. Together with Carolyn DeCarlo they run Food Court, an ongoing zine and reading project. Jackson is one of the most special and important young writers in New Zealand, namely for their clever, experimental writings, but also for the enormous support they give many other writers and the community they uplift. Earlier this year they released their first collection of poetry, I am a human being with Compound Press. Over August we discussed their book, ways of (re)imaging our bodies, and the power and limitations of language.

Hana Pera Aoake: Ngaa mihi o te poo Jackson, I just wanted to begin by saying congratulations and that I think your book is really special. Mihi atu ki a koe me to pukapuka ataahua.

I guess what I love about I am a human being is how you frame the body as being expansive and able to be reimagined and reconstituted. It speaks to ways of imagining and understanding ourselves and our world that feels very pertinent to this current moment. To start our koorero, I wonder if you could comment on this and how it resists the very patriarchal and colonial mode of oppressing our bodies and relation to other living beings into categories?
Jackson Nieuwland: Kia ora Hana. Thank you so much for your generous reading of my book. It means the world for a person and writer who I admire so much to engage with my work with such depth.

I’ve spent much of my life feeling out of place and uncomfortable. I’ve never really felt as though I fit in anywhere. I’ve only recently begun to gain an understanding of why this is.

The patriarchal, colonial, capitalist society that we live in is obsessed with categorisation. People need to be categorised in order to be productive. People need to be categorised in order to be controlled. We are always being pushed to be just one thing. In order to be a valued member of society you need to work a full-time job in a socially accepted field. Outside of work you can have one hobby or interest that matches your gender/socio-economic status/education. Some people seem to thrive within this system, or at least make it work for them. These people are usually straight white cis males. This system of categorisation is harmful and dangerous for those of us who are not just one thing; those of us who are many things or straddle the lines between things.

Even before I had the language and concepts of non-binary gender, I have always pushed towards being multiple things at once. I remember when I was a serious basketball player: for the vast majority of people I played with basketball was their whole life, but it was never my whole life. I wanted to write and make music. That’s actually how I began using the name Jackson Nieuwland. My full name is Thomas Jackson Nieuwland du Chatenier. That was too long for everyday use, so I grew up using the name Tom du Chatenier. Everyone from basketball knew me as Tom. So I decided to write under the name Jackson Nieuwland. That was how I would trick the world into letting me do two things. I haven’t touched a basketball in years. Now almost everyone knows me as Jackson.

As a child I danced around in front of my family wearing nothing but a pink tutu. In primary school, I wanted to play netball, but I wasn’t allowed to because I was a boy. Girls made fun of me for wearing tights. For a while ‘Barbie Girl’ by Aqua was my favourite song. Friends questioned why my nails were painted and I came up with excuses. Only this year have I regained the confidence to wear skirts again. I’m still nowhere near to dancing in front of people.
I wrote the poems in I am a human being as an escape. They were a way of not being human anymore, not living in this world anymore, not being myself anymore. But I always knew that the characters in these poems were a part of me. Each one is a version of me. The speakers in these poems are simultaneously me and not me. Together they add up to some sort of self-portrait. It’s a portrait that couldn’t be created solely through concrete description of my body and actions. Language and imagination are such a key part of who I am that any depiction of me that doesn’t include metaphor, simile, wordplay, and puns is incomplete. The reason that I say I am all of these things is because I AM ALL OF THESE THINGS, no matter whether society accepts that or not. I am a dog. I am a river. I am a cone of blue light. I am a liar. I am a bottomless pit. I am a mermaid with a cock.

HPA: As I understand it, your tattooist also contributed illustrations to your book, could you talk a little about your decision to do that?

JN: It was a pretty simple decision for me. I’ve always enjoyed books having pictures in them, I’ve even gone as far to say that all books should have pictures in them. In my mind it’s just another tool that we can use when making a piece of writing, the same as font, colour, layout, etc. If we have these tools available, why not use them?

I had a few different ideas about possible illustrations for I am a human being over the years. At one point I thought it would be cool to make it a flipbook, with a little stick figure at the bottom of each page, interacting with the page numbers, but I never got organised enough to make that happen. Later I thought I might illustrate it myself with some of my terrible drawings of human beings, but I didn’t end up having enough faith in those pictures. I’ve always wanted to draw but I get too frustrated by my lack of skill and I don’t have the drive to make myself practice enough. Then for a while I just accepted that the book probably wouldn’t end up having pictures in it until my publisher Chris Holdaway brought up the possibility.

The idea of the tadpole morphing into a butterfly is just something that popped into my head one day. I also thought about having a caterpillar transforming into a frog. They both seemed like perfect metaphors for transness to me. Steph Maree was the first person I thought of when considering who to get to draw the images. She’s done several tattoos for me and her style matches what I imagined for these pictures. It was really cool to be able to offer her some paid work during lockdown when she wasn’t able to tattoo people. And then as soon as we got out of lockdown, I got her to tattoo them on my lower back.

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Buji River Serenade | 布吉河小夜曲

Translated by Michelle Yeh

Sunset, grey rain and railroad tracks blockaded by the river
power lines gather concentrated daylight, clouds grow dim
till they are swallowed by boundless silence
as if they had sunk into a counterfeit continent

Someone meditates while jogging on the other side
maintaining the standard for an outsider’s sense of shame
afterwards, an even longer negotiation
like a golden retriever that has gone missing lifting his hind leg
under the night sky

A few rainbow Mobikes1drive out of the abandoned lumber
processing plant
drawing near from a distance, carrying on their backs a docile
economy on the wing
After the rain the torrent in the river gains speed
leaving behind a shared rhythm and chemistry in vain

A fisherman takes out a searchlight from his vest and aims resolutely
Under the arch bridge, a startled white heron draws in an
instant a parabolic arc of urgency in the sky
His pregnant wife leans on the railing and gazes down

at the feast in the fish basket; barefooted children
holding toxic, sick fish in their hands vie to take pictures
On the triangular island, lovers steal kisses in the dark
The hurried tangling of limbs looks like a graceless Tango

The night curtain is filthy and alarming
Raindrops wash the calcium-deficient city and its clustered buildings
A green-coated train touches the track exposed by earth
its rumbling ploughs open a tune of hidden rests

Posted in HOMINGS & DEPARTURES | Tagged ,

Get Ready with Me: 6 Poems by Jini Maxwell

Lazarus

I see it seemed obvious: four days, and some man cups
his hands around a god, eager
to prove his miracle. Sure, wake the dead,
there’s always more room in the din.

You can prophesy all you need; on the unmade bed
are all the stranger’s clothes laid out.
Some things get buried deeper than a body,
with no point of entry marked.

Heavy oiled cloth fell on my waking skin: the dark
pulsing of a world
as I geolocate my footprints, and retread.

I still miss the interim: that feeling like a
a morning between stations.
Soft lights and bells sounding
as if through water.

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