Dorothy Hewett

The Wild Workshop: The Ghost of a Brontëan Childhood in the Life of Dorothy Hewett

Posted in ESSAYS | Tagged , ,

Sharon Olds, Gwen Harwood and Dorothy Hewett: Truth, Lies, Poetry

In 2008, US poet Sharon Olds came out about her poetry, admitting that her writing is based on her own life. Since the publication of her first book, Satan Says, in 1980, when she was thirty-seven, she’d been evading questions about the biographical basis of her work. In her rare interviews, she would gently correct ‘personal’ to ‘apparently personal’ as a description of her poems and emphasise with kindly patience that they were works of art, not autobiography.

Posted in ESSAYS | Tagged , , ,

The New Reality in Australian Poetry

The generation of Murray is not my generation. The generation of Adamson is not my generation either. Nor is it Tranter or Kinsella. My generation is a new generation in Australian poetry. In this era of the ‘contemporary’, particularly as a political proposition after the end of history, it is a dangerous endeavour to suggest there is a modernist / social realist debate. And while the actors have undoubtedly changed (as has the world and its labels) we can discern two such derivative realities in the newest generation of Australian poets. These poets are working in ‘deformed realism’ and ‘sentimental radicalism’.

Posted in ESSAYS | Tagged , , , , , ,

Interview with Dorothy Hewett (O’Keefe remix)

Posted in INTERVIEWS | Tagged , ,

The Gendered Gothic: Dorothy Hewett’s Alice in Wormland

Dorothy Hewett and ‘zombies' are not generally found in the same sentence. However, Hewett liberally utilises Gothic tones and imagery in her poetry. These Gothic trappings do not serve only as motifs: they permeate the mood, conflicts and resolutions of Hewett's Alice in Wormland. This collection, published in 1987, combines pseudo-autobiographical elements with parody, mythology, and morbid images to ultimately reach a strangely optimistic resolution.

Posted in ESSAYS | Tagged ,

The Ghost in the Bar

I remember how you used to sit in the bleak light nursing a beer in that pub off Oxford St with the barflies lined up behind you. You would sit there all afternoon and into the twilight sometimes telling a …

Posted in 02: UNTHEMED | Tagged