Meredith Wattison

Wright Vociferous – ‘Birds’ and ‘Skins’ – Physiognomy, Identity and the Wild Spoken Word

Our presentations organically generated overlays. Had I had more time, I would have brought in her first recognition of ‘I’ experienced at around three years of age.

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Virginia Woolf’s Incidental Pilot, Marianne Wex’s Legroom and the Dancing Man

I first read Virginia Woolf’s short – just six pages – essay, ‘Flying Over London’ (Selected Essays, Oxford University Press, 2009), in a café in Sydney. The barista deftly worked a rising swan into the frothy surface of my coffee.

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Antonia Pont Reviews Meredith Wattison

I am reluctant to divulge for how long I deferred reviewing Meredith Wattison’s Terra Bravura. It languished with me during the later months of the first half of 2015, then, as I left the country in late June it joined the other analogue reads in my suitcase. Before my departure, I’d plunged in, but was unable to assemble for myself a sense of the individual poems and their relation, with the purpose, of course, of saying something about them that would do the work justice. Like a stern and observant child, the work insisted on a ‘doing justice’. Perhaps rather than opinions, what was gathering for me was a series of unrepresentables; atmospheres.

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The Film Student’s Shoes

Under the sole of each size 12 shoe is a large egg-shaped hole. The lost layers grade inwards to a clean pared edge. Cross-legged, his proof of purchase on Sydney’s streets, footpaths, lanes and alleys shows itself. His polished uppers …

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World’s End and Gadigal

I share a café table in Redfern with a young man whose bitten nails are lacquered scarlet, or Hunter’s Pink, like a London bus, then roughly scraped at by his teeth. Let’s call him Dorian. His hands are large, pale …

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A Writing Surface of One’s Own

A waitress here has The Owl and The Pussycat tattooed on her goose-pimpled biceps. They sweetly peek from the hem of an unseasonable short sleeve. Indigo-inked, theirs is a nursery frieze’s block print detail. She is all at sea in her ravaged pea-green tights. Her roughly made skirt abounds with floating, shifting dice. It retains its looped yellow fringing, a faded tangelo backing, from its vintage past life as a painted velvet souvenir cushion cover. She has a ring at the end of her nose, her nose, a ring at the end of her nose. Her girlfriend’s lips, hair and boots are cerise. With honey, she sweetens – and makes a meal of – her sweetly gratis hot tea, blushes like a peach, purrs. The illustrated waitress hovers, calls ‘Who?’ and, like a zephyr, swoops with a cloth, a notepad and a fluffy rainbow-haired Troll Doll-ended pencil.

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Sunlight and Finches

Slipping through frosted wombat runs, like an animal, I recoil where the dead deer lay. As naked as Bellow’s mares. Her flanks and rump to be had. She is a photo taken by headlights, a Shoah archive, ‘Results of search …

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Armstrong’s Zeitgeist Visor

The geese on our dinner plates hung but implied progression. Would bear with me as I declined, protested, held fast. Would still be there next morning under a cold meal, ‘I’m going to pretend it’s a fried egg’, I’d announce, …

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Felicity Plunkett Reviews Phyllis Perlstone and Meredith Wattison

Phyllis Perlstone's the edge of everything, which was short-listed for the 2008 Kenneth Slessor Prize, is an imaginative cartography, its careful perceptions laying out ways of looking at the crucial ideas the book returns to: ideas about love and the ways it might fade or be lost; about violence and humanity; about perception itself, and how words work to map its contours.

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