I was thrilled to see Australian poet (and patron of the Melbourne Poet’s Union) Kevin Brophy is featured in the Guardian’s Poem of the Week. Link here.

Reading: “Penguin Modern Poets 17 - David Gascoyne, W.S. Graham, Kathleen Raine”
Listening: “Everybody Has To Eat” - The Triffids
Playing: GTA IV and 2 games of futsal this evening.

I hope, dear readers, that you have a magnificent new year awaiting you!

If you are planning to make new year resolutions (like I am), may you lie comfortably in the bed that you’ve made.

I just submitted some work, hopefully they’ll find their way into my success column. I’ve also had a rollicking time editing some of my favorite pieces. Sadly not in time to submit them where I had intended (got about 1/3 done there), oh well, nobody’s fault but mine.

See you next year.

I’m very sorry to hear the news that Dorothy Porter passed away today. She is missed by many for whom she was a teacher and an inspiration.

Notice in The Australian here.

Went to Passionate Tongues last night and had a marvellous old time catching up with people and enjoying the work of the features Ian McBryde and Amelia Walker. The open stage was also a good opportunity to hear the work of poets I know from around the scene, but had yet to hear properly. Ben “I.Q.” Saunders and Jo Mundy spring to mind here.

This was written last week and is currently in the mid-polish state.

Thirteen Hours Into Summer
 
Melbourne. We are
thirteen hours into summer
and I have not seen the sun.
Have you lost it? Did you look?
 
The clouds rolling overhead are
too busy, too majestic to help find
what you are looking for.
Did you ask them? Did they respond?
 
We are running out of time.
We have only ninety days, eleven hours
but you seem unconcerned.
Aren’t you worried? Do you care?
 
Unemployed shadows are
jammed into cracks and corners.
Wait nervously for their cue
how long their wait? when can they breathe out?
 
Put your name on the sun, Melbourne,
when you find it. This time put it down
in the first place you would look,
not the last.
 

Reading: “Penguin Modern Poets 17: Gascoyne, Graham, Raine”
Listening: “Don’t Send Me Onions” - Miles Hunt

So, here’s my response to D. H. Lawrence’s Bat.
Continue Reading »

I was recently on holiday in Katoomba where I found an anthology of poems called “The Poet’s Voice”. Printed in the 30s and edited by John Garrett and W. H. Auden, it contained, amongst others, the following poem by D. H. Lawrence.

While I rather liked the poem, especially the description of bats as “Swallows with spools of dark thread”, I felt I couldn’t let the opportunity pass to speak up in defence of an animal that I’m rather fond of, having become accustomed to their presence in the parks around Melbourne.

So, here is D. H. Lawrence’s poem, which will be followed in short order by my response.

Bat
 
At evening, sitting on this terrace,
When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of Carrara
Departs, and the world is taken by surprise …
 
When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowing
Brown hills surrounding …
 
When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio
A green light enters against stream, flush from the west,
Against the current of obscure Arno …
 
Look up, and you see things flying
Between the day and the night;
Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together.
 
A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches
Where light pushes through;
A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air.
A dip to the water.
 
And you think:
“The swallows are flying so late!”
 
Swallows?
 
Dark air-life looping
Yet missing the pure loop …
A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in flight
And serrated wings against the sky,
Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the light,
And falling back.
 
Never swallows!
Bats!
The swallows are gone.
 
At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats
By the Ponte Vecchio …
Changing guard.
 
Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one’s scalp
As the bats swoop overhead!
Flying madly.
 
Pipistrello!
Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe.
Little lumps that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildly vindictive;
 
Wings like bits of umbrella.
 
Bats!
 
Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag, to sleep;
And disgustingly upside down.
 
Hanging upside down like rows of disgusting old rags
And grinning in their sleep.
Bats!
 
Not for me!

Reading: “Cultural Amnesia” - Clive James
Listening: “Ocean Of You” - The Blackeyed Susans

Now I knew of David McLauchlan’s tireless work behind the camera, and his marvellous record of the Melbourne poetry scene that airs on Channel 31 on Thursday nights. For one thing, it’s hard to miss a chap with a proper TV camera asking you to sign release forms after you’ve read.

However, it took a conversation with a colleague at work who saw me on the show (I can’t get Ch. 31 where I live), followed with more talking to fellow poets to discover that not only does the show have a website, but the website has video! He recently put up the Candy Stripes gig that I was part of and you can see it there, along with a bunch of others, some of which include me and a plethora of other magnificent poets.

Red Lobster. Channel 31, Thursdays at 11:30pm or see the website!!

Reading: “Cultural Amnesia” - Clive James
Listening: “Strategy” - Something For Kate

Winter rush hour train:
A box of black pencils
reading this poem.

Reading: “Cultural Amnesia” - Clive James
Listening: “Change” - Tears For Fears

Last night, I dreamt
the sea shaped by hurricanes;
each wave a shark’s tooth.

Actually, dear readers, while I’m enjoying putting this up in the name of new content I’d appreciate not only feedback but grammatical correction if it’s required. I’m not 100% certain that I have it right.

Reading: “Cultural Amnesia” - Clive James
Listening: “The Point Of It All” - Amanda Palmer

Tim Hamilton reading at Candy Stripes

Well, I had an excellent evening being part of a great performance at the Candy Bar on last Thursday night. Anthony O’Sullivan (of Spinning Room fame) was an excellent host as per usual, presiding over an enthusiastic turnout.

I was grateful to find that I was opening as it meant I would be less stressed and could enjoy the show in its entirety. This was handy as, apart from Josephine, I had seen little to no of my co-stars previously, knowing them only by reputation, and was able to enjoy their work with fresh ears.

The set list for me was: If Poetry, Mokita, Ballard Days, Eulogy for the Cassette, Eulogy for the Polaroid, Tomorrow’s Ghosts, Concerto in B-Flat for Piano and Phlegm and I finished with XXI - The World

If the night made anything clear to me, it was that I really need to learn how to perform without my notes! Apart from seeing some marvellous performances being done by people who were free of having to look at paper every couple of seconds, it felt a lot better being able to concentrate purely on what I was saying without having to read at the same time.

Photos of the night were taken by Michael Reynolds, who has kindly shared them to the world on this link.

Overload this year produced something of a record for me. Five gigs in one week I think is something of a record in the decade-and-a-bit that I’ve been attending and reading in open stage gigs. By the time Sunday’s closing event rolled around, I was too tired to attend. Hats off the Overload organising committee for bringing in festival number seven!