Tuesday, November 18, 2014

Outpost, by Lindsay Pope

March, 1941.

The coast is a scribble. Stars are stored in a
wooden box on my shelf. It is more black than
white here. Like algebra but colder.

The hut’s walls are a ghetto of mice. Those I
catch become whiskers of smoke in the firebox.

I attend to the scratching radio.

This is not my dream.


July, 1942.

The short days are long here. Morse code
stutters in my aerial.

Every door of the home of the wind has been
thrown open. An albatross turns the world on
a dip of its wing. It has learnt the axioms of the
air. 

Mice crawl in the pockets of my sleep.

I wake, clutching a stick of chalk. Each day a
tally mark.


December, 1943.

The mice have all but disappeared.

Clouds, black as slate, are heavy with names.
They fall upon my roof clutching ash.

On short wave the radio coughs all night long.

I have lost the frequency.


(Published with the permission of the poet and the publisher)


A pleasurable discovery
I became aware of Lindsay Pope's writing only recently, when I bought a copy of Headwinds, (Submarine, an imprint of Makaro Press, 2014), whilst lunchtime bookstore browsing. Most of Headwinds' poems are as rich with metaphor and sparse with verbiage as Outpost is.

According to the publisher, the poems are "the story of a man living ‘on the lower cheek of the world where the tears fall and turn to ice’ who is simultaneously muser and maverick" and "Lindsay Pope’s combination of the domestic and the wild, of fables and personal disclosures, has created a beguiling first collection."

The poem
Of the many appealing poems, Outpost interested me for this post because of its skillful use of poetic technique and its subject matter. Pope, a former mathematics teacher, sprinkles the poem with maths metaphors and similes which startle the reader: "Like algebra but colder" and "It has learnt from the axioms of the air." Mice crawl through the poem like static and disappear off the page. But references to radio, morse code, and aerials also point to context.

When I asked Lindsay to comment on the poem's setting, he replied "Outpost is the imagined diary entries of a Coastwatcher stationed in Auckland Island's Carnley Harbour during WWII".

I had sensed the Coastwatcher aspect from my first reading, but was aware only of their stationing in Solomon Islands and Papua New Guinea, so the appearance of an albatross threw me. According to some research which I then carried out, a secret five-year wartime programme of coast-watching stations was established on New Zealand's more distant and intermittently inhabited subantarctic islands. In the poem, Pope's narrative captures the isolation and virtual imprisonment of the coast watcher - '"each day is a tally mark" - and his slow erosion of sanity in the ambiguous last line: "I have lost the frequency". Considering the Auckland Island Coastwatchers didn't sight a single enemy ship in their five years of scanning the sea, I am not surprised.

The poet

Other than through his poems, Pope is reticent about his past. His very spare biography in Headwinds states "Lindsay Pope was born in Dunedin and lives in Nelson. His poetry has appeared in publications and online literary journals, in New Zealand and overseas."

Although Pope eschews social media, he did give a blog interview in 2012. The interviewer was Victoria University MA classmate, Ashleigh Young. During the interview, the following revealing exchange took place:

Young: Your work is often surreal and heavily metaphorical, as in your poem "Outpost": “Stars are stored in a wooden box on my shelf. It is more black than white here. Like algebra but colder.” And within this world is often a totally singular speaker, someone experiencing a necessary isolation: “The short days are long here. Morse code stutters in my aerial.” What is it about the experience of isolation that you keep coming back to in your writing?
Pope: I think I self-isolate. My personal history is one of betraying a great love. I find myself unable to trust myself to love fully again. Hence “I am more alone than together”.

The book

Headwinds may be purchased at Unity and other good independent bookstores, and online at www.makaropress.co.nz.

The Editor
This week's editor, Keith Westwater, lives in Lower Hutt, New Zealand. His debut collection,
Tongues of Ash (IP, 2011), was awarded 'Best First Book' in the publisher's IP Picks competition.
More of his poetry can be found on his blog 'Some place else'.

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Monday, November 10, 2014

You are nocturnal but I am an insomniac, by Ruth Corkill

At first I thought it might be comforting,
another body breathing in the dark
smelling spiced, content to be awake
reading in the little dome of light
from your night stand that leaves
my side rich in shapes and shadows.

I am heavy on the mattress
head cricked to one side to stare
at the dry pages and harsh hands.
You give me smiles and stroke my hair
sometimes make honey drinks or tea
bring back kitchen crumbs on your feet.

The morning seems to lull you gently
sinking into airy sheets and pastel sounds.
You fall asleep before I leave.


Last time I was the Tuesday Poem editor I chose a poem by James Norcliffe, a well-established poet whose poetry I’ve read many times over the years. This time I’ve chosen Ruth Corkill, a new poet and fiction writer. I first read Ruth’s work when I was lucky enough to edit JAAM31 last year and then we met at the JAAM launch and chatted about poetry and quantum mechanics—Ruth is highly versatile as she’s a writer, an actor and a physicist. Ruth sent over a batch of poems and I’ve chosen this one for its intimacy and understated sense of disquiet.

Poetry can serve to express our most personal feelings and misgivings—here the poet addresses a sleeping partner. They have entered into a new phase of their time together as the ‘at first’ of expectation gives way to the reality of their out-of-synch sleep patterns. These expectations appear to be modest as she—if indeed the persona here is a she—would be ‘content’ to lie in the shadow of her partner’s lamp. The stoniness of ‘cricked’, ‘stare’, ‘dry pages’ and ‘harsh hands’ is counterpointed by the acts of bringing honey drinks and hair stroking. But are these acts half-hearted or perhaps even condescending?

The poem raises an interesting question: how do we behave in bed when we are reading next to our partner? Both my wife and I are creatures of habit and there’s an unspoken agreement between us about when the light has to go off. The notion of staying awake all night while someone else reads is frankly horrific. No amount of back rubs, hot drinks, or hair-stroking could possibly compensate. It seems intolerable, especially given that he—or she—will be sleeping when morning breaks with its wonderful synaesthesia of ‘pastel sounds.’ That final ‘leaves’ in the last line hints of the end of their shared sleepless nights.

The form of the poem--two stanzas of six lines with a final three line stanza—along with the rhyme of ‘stare’, ‘hair’; the gentle alliteration of ‘kitchen crumbs’, ‘light’, ‘little’, ‘lull’ and the assonance of ‘tea’ and ‘feet’ all add to the poem’s song-like quality. I hope that you like the poem as much as I do. This poem is published here with the author's permission.
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Biographical Note:
Ruth Corkill
Ruth Corkill is a physicist in New Zealand working on computer models and analysis for a geomagnetism research team. She has just returned from three months studying poetry and fiction at The Iowa Writers Workshop Summer Graduate Program and she has a Minor in Creative Writing from the International Institute of Modern Letters in Wellington. Her work has recently appeared or is upcoming in New Welsh Review, Natural Bridge, The Feminist Wire, Hue and Cry, Poetry 24, The Bristol Short Story Prize Anthology, The Listener, JAAM, Salient, and Landfall. Her story 'Monkey' was Highly Commended in this year's HISSAC Annual Short Story Competition.

Harvey’s Bio:
Harvey Molloy’s poetry has appeared in Best New Zealand Poems, Blackmail Press, Brief, Enamel, Hue and Cry, Jaam, Lancashire Life, Landfall, The Lumière Reader, NZ Listener, Poetry New Zealand, Snorkel and Takahe. His first book of poems, Moonshot, was published by Steele Roberts in 2008. He has also published non-fiction work on Asperger Syndrome, and is the co-author, with Latika Vasil, of the book Asperger Syndrome, Adolescence, and Identity: Looking Beyond the Label. He is a reviewer for Landfall and New Zealand Books and was the 2013 poetry editor of Jaam magazine. Harvey was born in Lancashire, England, and emigrated to New Zealand with his family as a teenager. He lives and teaches in Wellington.
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Tuesday, November 4, 2014

Here we give thanks (after Gregory O’Brien) by Mary-Jane Duffy



Because the jugs spring
from the mind of Mary (or is it the angel?)

visible over the hills
of the promising land, we begin

to gather them to us.
Now they crouch

in the kitchen light—a crowd
of well wishers that pitch

and list in the weather of the house.
A tall jug reassures

a woman ‘on the brink
of something’; another

buzzes lips between the sighs
and lows of the percussion

section. One has a handle
so generous it may

run the cup over.
Ah, little congregation of jugs

how you pout
over pregnant bellies.

Who is the father?
Elsewhere jugs

live beside the hills,
the lamp, the tau cross,

the kumara pit. A speech
bubble appears. We guess

at its finely crafted message
not wanting to assume the obvious.


Here we give thanks (after Gregory O’Brien) is one of my favourite discoveries of 2014. I wrongly but indulgently pretend that Mary-Jane might have written it actually for me. She didn’t. But each couplet unfolds into an image that satisfies some of my longest-held and deepest interests.

To me, images and words have always been inextricable and I’m often frustrated by an inability to articulate precisely how (inter)semiotics play out in the mind. But this poem helps sooth that dilemma from the title to the last lovely couplet. (writer and painter) Gregory O’Brien’s very name might be one way to articulate the marriage of word and image, so there’s the promising start.

Religious imagery (another ongoing obsession) continues with ‘the mind of Mary (or is it the angel?)’ and flows beautifully into the landscape. So I think of Colin McCahon. And then the domesticity of a kitchen, the softly growing noise of ‘buzzes’ and ‘percussion’, the comforting gathering of jugs and light in a house surrounded by weather (as I write this, the wind is whirling outrageously over the southern coast). And finally a speech bubble appears – a singular metaphor for word as image, voice as image. By the end of the poem the completed picture is so warm, fertile and painterly that I want to leave it as that – an image full of potential, not wanting to try to interpret it any further and assume my interpretations are final, just as the poet instructs. Much better to allow this poem/painting to be re-read over again.

http://www.litcrawl.co.nz/

I’m delighted that Mary-Jane Duffy is part of a session in LitCrawl that I, at first quite nervously, created, called ‘A single hurt colour’. The title of the session is from Tender Buttons by Gertrude Stein, a brilliant example of the potential of word as image. I was nervous in approaching writers who I felt were writing in a way that to me is ingenious like Stein – art and fiction, art and non-fiction and fiction speak to each other – and who I hoped would want to give substance and life to a session I selfishly had to include in the programme but had no idea would pan out … Thankfully Mary-Jane agreed to be part of ‘A single hurt colour’ along with Mark Amery and Megan Dunn. Together they are exploring those lines between word and images, non-fiction and fiction at The Young among the work of Iain Cheesman and Robert Cherry.

Mary-Jane Duffy is a writer and art curator. Her recent freelance writing and editing work includes poetry, essays on artists for the Real Art Road Show Trust, and work for Te Papa Tongarewa, New Zealand on Screen, and an exhibition on the history of Surf Lifesaving in New Zealand. She has a wide background in art exhibition and gallery management, as well as art historical research. Millionaires’ Shortbread, poems by Mary-Jane Duffy, Mary Cresswell, Mary Macpherson and Kerry Hines, was published by University of Otago Press. Mary-Jane has a BA and an MA in Art History (Canterbury). She is currently working on her own collection of poems.

This week’s guest editor, Claire Mabey, is co-director of LitCrawl Wellington. LitCrawl brings words to the streets of Wellington on Saturday 15 November starting at 6 pm. ‘A single hurt colour’ is one of 14 sessions that celebrate Wellington and New Zealand’s vibrant and diverse literary community. All sessions focus on the performance of writing and on bringing listeners together in some of Wellingtons best-loved venues.

For more Tuesday Poems, check out the links in the sidebar to the left.

Tuesday, October 28, 2014

'No rough verses' from I, Clodia, by Anna Jackson


No rough verses, but like a surf‐tossed sailor
wielding wisely his gaff‐rigged fore‐and‐aft sail,
so shall I keep your favourite of Greek metres
to steer my way free of your storm of curses.
What I owe you – these claims you make are madness –
but to counter them one by one in order:
first, consider, what we owe Aphrodite –
your voyage here, as plunder of my husband,
your change of plans, your brother left unaided,
none of this can be laid as charges on me,
all was fated, and I merely received you.
Oh, I loved you, and being loved by me did
you not take more than you could ever give me?
Your ‘exile’ here – to live in Rome is living,
I don’t see you, in thrall to me no longer,
rushing back to your farmhouse in Verona, or
setting sail to do business in Bithynia.
Had you stayed put, a poet of the provinces,
not one person would know your name – or care to.



'No rough verses' is from Anna Jackson's about-to-be-published sixth collection of poetry, I, Clodia, and Other Portraits (Auckland University Press). More specifically, it's from the first section of that book, a long a sequence of poems - 'I, Clodia' - which takes as its subject and narrator one Clodia Metelli, an ancient Roman woman who was (almost certainly) the lover of the poet Catullus.

I didn't know much about Catullus or his poetry - which doesn't take away from the enjoyment of the sequence as far as I'm concerned (it contains everything you need to know to in the way of facts). But if you know anything much about Catullus, you'll know that he wrote a celebrated series of poems to his lover 'Lesbia' (Clodia), many of which were in reply to her poems. But his poems have survived, while hers (like a lot of women's history) are lost to us. One of the things Anna is doing in this ambitious work is to reconstruct the woman's side of this story, and to breathe life into the vibrant, quick-witted, not always likeable but rather admirable character of Clodia. As the AUP blurb says 'Jackson honours and subverts her source material in lines that are a marvel of ventriloquism.'

It was difficult to decide which poem from this sequence to share, partly because they are written to be read together. I chose this one because I think it can stand alone, but also because I'm really drawn to the strong rhythm, which I especially noticed in the first lines - don't you just feel like you're being tossed about by the waves, 'like a surf-tossed sailor'? Like several poems in this sequence that use tight forms and metre, this one is in hendecasyllables, which Anna tells me was one that the Romans adapted from the Greeks, and which was the form Catullus used most often. In English it isn't a flowing, natural rhythm, like iambic pentametre, which makes it well-suited to this boat lurching, to this proud, hurt narrator spitting out her bitterness at her lover, with whom she has such an up and down (and up and down) relationship.

Anna also let me know that this poem borrows from the play Medea, by Greek playwright Euripides, where Jason (of the golden fleece) tries to justify his abandonment of Medea (his wife, who had helped him nick the golden fleece). While not necessary to know, it adds another layer of richness to the poem. And these are really rich poems, which are just crying out for in-depth study.

I, Clodia fits with my strong interest in both narrative poetry and biographical poetry. The second half of this new collection continues with an interest in portraiture, but with shorter, more 'modern' poems, including some of my favourites of Anna's recent work, such as 'Sabina, and the chain of friendship' and the 'Pretty Photographer' poems. And some poems I haven't read yet, and which I'm rather excited about meeting.

For more Tuesday poems, check out the sidebar on the left.

Anna Jackson teaches English at Victoria University of Wellington. Her sixth collection of poetry, I, Clodia, and Other Portraits, will be launched in November. Two of her previous collections, Thicket (2011) and The Pastoral Kitchen (2001), were shortlisted for the New Zealand Book Awards. She has also published short fiction and academic books, and is part of the team (along with me) that is organising Truth or Beauty, Poetry and Biography - a conference about biographical poetry - in November.

This week's editor, Helen Rickerby, is a poet and publisher from Wellington. She has published four collections of poetry – her most recent, Cinema, was published by Mākaro Press in March. She runs Seraph Press, a boutique publishing company with a growing reputation for publishing high-quality poetry books, and she is co-managing editor of JAAM literary journal. She blogs irregularly at wingedink.blogspot.com and has a day job as a web editor.





Tuesday, October 21, 2014

This is the way the world ends by Helen Rickerby


This story is about remembering
and forgetting

Not knowing where you are
or if it's real

But you can die with a martini in your hand

*

The girl in pink, skating towards you
has an automatic weapon
behind her back

and this drug will take you to Jesus
if Jesus is a chorus-
line of short-skirt nurses

*

There is too much sun in California
for shadows

*

There are other people
in this story:

the bride and groom who laughed themselves to death

the boy who lost hope

the pirate soldier, the man with two souls

the porn stars, the family

the whole city

the whole world

*

This is an apocalypse 

in an ice cream truck

*

Twiddling his fingers
While LA burns

'He's going to die,' says one blonde, sadly
'There's nothing we can do,' says the other

as they dance cheek-to-cheek
hand in manicured hand

There's nothing they can do


from Cinema (2014, Makaro Press Hoopla series). Reprinted here with the kind permission of the poet and the publisher.
Editor: Andrew M. Bell.

One of the benefits of being a Tuesday Poet is that you enter into a family of excellent poets, a family that extends across the world thanks to the wonderful world of the world-wide web.

This is how I came to be introduced to the work of Helen Rickerby. Helen has even read her poetry in Vienna - how cool is that!

The poem above is from Helen's latest collection, Cinema, which (Shameless Plug Alert) is well worth acquiring. I could have posted any of the fine poems in Cinema, but this poem has an enigmatic quality that really appeals to me. I don't know if I'd be so bold as to say I "understand" it, but I do "get it". Sometimes understanding a poem is less important to me than absorbing the poem. And I kept coming back to this poem.

It might be (as Basil Fawlty would say) "stating the bleeding' obvious", but this poem is very cinematic. It moves through a number of arresting images like the frames of a film. The images put the reader in mind of a spy/thriller noir film, but it has a sense of being very modern and up-to-the-minute. And because "There is too much sun in California/ for shadows", we might have to invent a colour version of the noir genre. Perhaps this poem represents a spy/thriller "couleur" film.

What more can I say? I love the boldness, the freshness of this poem and the humour. "This is an apocalypse/in an ice cream truck" makes me smile every time I read it.




Helen Rickerby is a poet and publisher from Wellington. She has published four collections of poetry – her most recent, Cinema, was published by Mākaro Press in March. She runs Seraph Press, a boutique publishing company with a growing reputation for publishing high-quality poetry books, and she is co-managing editor of JAAM literary journal. She blogs irregularly at wingedink.blogspot.com and has a day job as a web editor.

This week’s editor, Andrew M. Bell, writes poetry, short fiction, plays, screenplays and non-fiction. His work has been published and broadcast in New Zealand/Aotearoa, Australia, England, Israel and USA. His most recent publications are Aotearoa Sunrise, a short story collection, and Clawed Rains, a poetry collection.

Andrew lives in Christchurch with his wife and two sons and loves to surf.  He is about to “drop” (as they say in the music industry) a new poetry collection soon called Green Gecko Dreaming.

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Lines excerpted from Bentleyisms: by Nelson Bentley

Quick acts of thievery are essential in this business.

Without poetic vision there is no love.

Everyone should write an outhouse poem.

Poets invent the language. There would be no language if it weren't for us. People would just go around grunting.

One extra word can ruin a whole poem.

Visualize your metaphor!

Avoid self-pity like the plague.

Support onamatopoeia.

There's no such thing as a cliché image — any more than there's a cliché maple tree. You don't walk by a maple tree and say "Oh God, there's another maple tree!"

Being against rhyme or villanelles is about like coming out against symmetrical trees.

Taking a chance is a very important thing. In literary magazines you'll find hundreds of poems that are overly cautious. What you need is reckless abandon balanced by a fine sense of phrasing.

Critics have a terrible fear of laughing.

It's not easy to fit a giraffe into a villanelle.

The bad kinds of pathetic fallacies are the ones where the sun is giggling and chuckling and waving hello and eating ham sandwiches. All amateur poets have a ghastly tendency to anthropomorphize everything It's like Walt Disney everywhere.

You should be an all-out romantic to listen to much Chopin. You should be dying of tuberculosis.

Every time I deliver a long speech against fragmented sentences, I compel fourteen more people to start using them.

What this world needs is fewer important poems.

Roethke's last words to me: Beefeater all right?

-->
©  Sean Bentley, with whose permission this is reproduced.

The "Bentleyisms", "straight from the lips of Nelson", were collected by members of Nelson Bentley's poetry workshop at the University of Washington in Seattle, from 1978-81. Born in Elm, Michigan in 1918, Nelson Bentley was a poet and professor at the University of Washington from 1952 until his death in 1990.
I first encountered Nelson in 1974, at a summer writing seminar at Cornish College of the Arts. At the impressionable age of 17, I had no idea the impact this man would have on my life. As one of the dozen or so high school students in the room, I sat in awe as this gregarious man brought in a different poet every day to read to us from his/her work, and talk about the writer's life. Those two weeks made poetry real for me, began to build the foundation of a life with poetry at the center, something unfeasible to even imagine prior to this.
At college, I went on to study with Nelson, met my husband in one of his classes, and we named a son after him. 
For many of us, these "Bentleyisms" became the mantras we repeated to ourselves in the long solitary hours of writing, when the rejection slips seemed to far outnumber the acceptances, when this business of writing poetry began to feel superfluous. Because of Nelson Bentley, we kept going. We wrote poetry. And we published it.
Sitting in his workshop was at once an entertainment and an illumination. His terrific sense of humor, and his kindness, were foremost. If the only thing he could find that worked in a poem was the placement of a comma, by god, he found that comma, and pointed it out. He impelled us to go out into the world and live everyday lives: get married, go to church, have kids, do good work — whatever it is we needed to do: do it. And keep writing. And keep sending work out to magazines.
Over his 37-year university career (without a single break or sabbatical), 20,000 students came under his tutelage. I recall him telling us that the number of his current and former students who had gone on to publish was something of a record among university professors. To encourage us, every quarter he typed up a lengthy, many-page list of literary magazines, and instructed us in the protocols of submitting work. I can still see the purplish-blue ink of the ditto machine, the single-spaced lines. Nelson was a co-founder of one of those magazines on his list — Poetry Northwest — which exists today (with only a 3 year hiatus in its 55 years) as a leading publisher of contemporary poetry.
Nelson Bentley is the author of nine collections of poetry, including Divertimento, The Lost Works of Nelson Bentley, which I had the honor to publish in 2002 with Floating Bridge Press. He was a recipient of two Hopwood Awards at the University of Michigan, a Distinguished Teaching Award from the University of Washington, and a Washington State Governor's Award for Service to the Arts. As well as Poetry Northwest, he co-founded Seattle Review, and was a poetry editor for The Seattle Times. He hosted the long-running Castalia Reading Series at the University of Washington, as well as series on KUOW radio and KCTS television.

Here he is in his office — a welcoming presence always, despite the ever-looming stacks of papers.



















This week's editor, T. Clear, is a founder of Seattle's Floating Bridge Press. She has been writing and publishing for nearly forty years; her work has appeared in many journals and magazines, including Poetry Northwest, Cascadia Review, Fine Madness, Poetry Atlanta, Cirque Journal, The Moth and Switched-On Gutenberg. She can be found blogging here.