Recent Poets and Fiction in NZ

Mary and I thought we might make the last meeting for our intrepid Argonauts of contemporary NZ / International Poetics on Monday at the little bistro Zavitos in Mairangi Bay. It doesn't open till 5.30 pm, but I won't be back from my other course in Auckland before then anyway, so it seemed like a good time to gather.

Zavitos is on the left as you head north through the Mairangi Bay shopping centre, at the head of a little shopping arcade, past Hastings Rd but just before you get to Penzance Street. There are full map details here.

There's a bar and a restaurant, so we can maybe start off with a drink and some pizza bread and then see what we want to do after that.

It's intended as a postmortem on the course, naturally - but also as a discussion of new directions both for your studies and for the subjects we've been discussing all year.

Hope to see you there!

Poetry Session 5: Fiona Farrell

2008-09-06T17:11:00.009+12:00

[Fiona Farrell at Scapa (2002)
- photograph by Jan Kemp]

Genre-bending

Fiona Farrell is a writer who's extremely difficult to pin down to one mode or genre or even tone of voice. As you'll see from her author page, she's published three books of poems, a number of plays, and seven books of fiction (including five novels).

This session is intended principally as an examination of her poetry, but I don't doubt that we'll be straying into the whole question of "genre-bending" -- what it means to straddle different creative forms in this way.

There are, of course, a number of precedents one could cite. Herman Melville and Thomas Hardy, two giants of the nineteenth century -- and, in New Zealand literature, both Robin Hyde and Janet Frame wrote poetry as well as fiction.

Fiona Farrell is the only one of the eight poets we're discussing in this course to have published substantially amounts of fiction (unless you count Anne Carson's experimental verse novels Autobiography of Red and The Beauty of the Husband).

Emma Neale, though, whom we've been reading as a novelist, has an almost equally strong reputation as a poet, so it's perhaps not a particularly unusual trend in New Zealand letters.

I guess what I want to discuss principally is the tendency (I would suggest) for novelists writing poetry to be quite conservative in their conception of poetic form. Whether the same holds for poets writing fiction is another question. The categories tend to merge into each other after a while.

•

Historical novels are never really about the past. They are really about the preoccupations of the time in which they are written.
– Fiona Farrell, Notes on Mr Allbones’ Ferrets (2007)

I wanted to engage the reader in a game – because that is what reading fiction is, after all: it is play, an adult extension of “let’s pretend…”
– Fiona Farrell, Notes on The Hopeful Traveller (2002)

I enjoy rough or unfinished things: preparatory notes, the rough cartoon for a painting, the back of a piece of embroidery, the backsides of buildings …
– Fiona Farrell, Book council blog (2007)

Return to Waimarino County

2008-08-29T08:41:00.019+12:00

Martin Edmond

When I first heard Martin Edmond read some excerpts from his works during his lightning visit to Massey University on August 27, I thought he was reading poetry. His delivery was like that of a poet but he was reading prose. Edmond has written two books of poetry but of late writes non-fiction. This tall, tanned New Zealander is based in Sydney and is the son of the writer Lauris Edmond. He spent his childhood in Ohakune, which lies in Waimarino County almost under the shadow of Mt Ruapehu, and has recently published a book of essays called Waimarino County & other excursions.

Autobiographical essays take up the early part of the book with the opening essay ‘Waimarino County’ dripping in decadent rural imagery. There is something of Eric Lee-Johnson’s artistic vision in Edmond’s descriptions of abandoned farmhouses; something of the melancholia of late Sargeson in the poverty of a region once left to rust (before the opening of the Ruapehu ski-fields revived Ohakune); something of Sam Hunt's On the Road as Edmond revisits small town stations next to the Main Trunk line. The following excerpt from the opening essay says it all:

A wagon load of shattered glass on a siding beneath a sky bright with rain. A two-stroke motor, whining like a mason bee in the cells of my prodigal mind. A cross-eyed railway clerk and an enormous Maori in a Swandri. Two kids ride by on bicycles, weaving between the steel girders holding up the corrugated iron roof of the station veranda. In a forgotten nook between the station proper and the toilet block, a sullen girl in a checked shirt and jeans is whipper-snippering the waist-high grass. Soaking wet stems churn in the teeth of the blade, . . .
The rain gets heavier. I can hear it now on the tin roof of the veranda, the single event inside an immensity of time on a small town railway platform in the back country on a wet Monday afternoon. What am I doing here.

(‘Waimarino County’ p. 3)

Martin Edmond at Albany (27/8)

2008-08-20T09:21:00.004+12:00

Atrium Building
level 3 common room
Massey Albany

Wednesday 27th August
3 to 4 pm

We’ve invited Martin Edmond to come and give a reading / q & a session on campus as part of our regular seminar series.

I'd especially recommend this talk to those of you who are curious about where New Zealand writing is going at present.

Martin Edmond’s latest books Waimarino County and Other Excursions (AUP, 2007) and Luca Antara: Passages in Search of Australia (Adelaide: East Street, 2006) were both nominated for Montana awards, a prize he won in 2004 with Chronicle of the Unsung.

His work in the genre of (so-called) “Creative Non-fiction” is taught in our Massey Life Writing and Travel Writing courses, but he’s also an award-winning poet and fiction-writer. He’ll be reading from his latest book, The Evolution of Mirrors (Otoliths Press, 2008). For further details on that book, please go here.

The other dates in his NZ tour are:

Thursday 21 August, 6pm, Wellington
Writers Read: Martin Edmond
Level D, Room 16, Block 5
Entrance A, (access through "The Pyramid")
Massey University Wellington Campus
Wallace Street
Chair: Ingrid Horrocks.
RSVP: to Jo Fink (j.w.fink@massey.ac.nz or 04 801 5799 x 6696) by Wednesday 20 August.

Friday 22 August, 7pm, Palmerston North
Massey University's Writer Read series
Guest Writer: Martin Edmond
Free entry
Palmerston North City Library
4 The Square

Thursday 28 August, 2.30pm, Auckland
Mollie: On the Track of the Ohakune Elephant 1957-2008
Michele Leggott, Martine Edmond, Mandy Harper, Mary Sewall conduct an afternoon of talks and readings about Mollie, the circus elephant whose death in 1957 drew the attention of zoologist and curator Barney McGregor at Auckland University College. For more information contact Mary Sewall, m.sewall@auckland.ac.nz or 373 7599 x 83758.
Old Biology Building (McGregor 1 Seminar Rm)
University of Auckland

Thursday 28 August, 5.30pm, Auckland
Book Launch
Jack Ross launches Martin Edmond's The Big O Revisited (Soapbox Press). Register attendance with Laurel Walker, i.walker@auckland.ac.nz
Main Foyer
Old Biology Building
University of Auckland

Obviously the last of those dates is of most interest to me. I'll be launching Martin's first book of poems in almost twenty years (Streets of Music won the Jessie Mackay Award for Best First Book of Poetry in 1980, and was followed by Houses, Days, Skies (1988). Michael Steven has done a wonderful job as publisher and designer of this book of poems.

Notes from the session on Mr Pip by Lloyd Jones

2008-08-18T12:55:00.004+12:00

Posted on behalf of Mary -

This post contains lots of interesting stuff but it only relates to one aspect of what were discussing last Monday and I am going to try to explain how i think it might connect. Thanks to Anna for starting the discussion off so well!

Mr Pip is narrated retrospectively by a young woman who is telling about her experiences between the ages of 13 and 15 (‘skinny thirteen year-old’ on the first page). In fiction retrospective narration can work in many ways - sometimes a lot is retrospective assessment set against the past/present experience of the story and therefore moving between different understandings of a situation, sometimes the focus is more on the innocence at the time and although in the past tense reminds us very infrequently of the longer perspective. This latter manner is how Mr Pip is structured - so as you say Greg it is a useful voice in which to tell the events because it can engage readers who are also ignorant of the history and context of this island and because the young perspective is vivid and describes in a detail (the beach, Mr Watts, the stories, etc, etc) that is useful to evoke that world for those unfamiliar with it. Often child perspectives are to bring alive what we no longer see, or judge too much see. (And I agree with what you say about the choice of a girl to tell the story - keeping the narrative out in the open and so on).

However both 'convenient and versatile' imply something else, you seem to be saying that this was a good way for a writer with himself a limited knowledge to tell a story – perhaps, but isn't that worrying: aren't gaps and silences left intentionally in a story to hint at knowledge and understanding that surpasses what is actually included.

That makes me come back to on the one hand the tension between the retrospective narrator and the protagonist - remember Jenny commented on how in Great Expectations Pip comments in complex and often self-critical way on what he is telling. This mix can thicken a fiction - make it more meaningful as we think about the difference between different perspectives.

Another issue is the one raised about Sargeson and the distance between Sargeson's narrators (and often his characters) and the perspective of the implied author. Sargeson's work hinges on this distance - he uses an unreliable narrator ( I don't think Matlida is quite that though we th reader do think beyond her naivete at times) - and the narrator is telling a story (boxes within boxes) of someone he has met or known. It's usually a story which he the narrator is moved by but dosn't quite know why - ie he emotionally feels its significance but can't explain why or what it is. The difference from what greg is suggesting is in Sargeson’s case that this is an extremely conscious strategy for telling a story which is particularly designed to comment on what Sargeson the author thought was a judgmental and impoverished society in which those real experiences of joy, love, revelation, purposefulness were experienced by ordinary working people ( particaularly men)denied and destroyed by a utilitarian and judgmental (puritanical) middle class. Hence he is dignifying a real experience of the world by creating these inarticaulte narrators. He wrote mostly short fiction often - a good genre in which to sustain this tension. You acn of course deconstruct this also -s howing that the desire to show without telling, to hide knowledge and to write plainly is in fact a continuation of the puritanism he was trying to break away from.

So the question comes back to MR Pip - does Lloyd Jones use the naivete of Matilda's to some purpose - other than a useful way to tell a fable or fairystory. Is there a tension between Matilda's new understanding of the world and her first one. I think to give him his due at the end Lloyd Jones is trying to show that story can come via a pathetic example – that is it arises from NZ in the form of a rather lost and undirected actor in an arid community who gets involved with the lonely island girl living next door - Mr Watts.

But somehow I am not convinced both because the narrator's rethink has been delayed without building up a questioning tension as Dickens or Sargeson do in different ways and because the pattern of story- telling in the main part of the book has been so much the pattern of colonial appropiation, misrecognising or leaving out and erasing the culture of the island, and privileging the power of story as it emenates from the Western classic - even if its conduit, Mr Watts, is unlikley.

I hope I have explained this - this last part probably needs better articulation!

The choice to go back to the island is, as Bruce said, also interesting - why? And why escape alone - in the initial plan?

The constructions of parenthood/motherhood in Relative Strangers and its narrative effect on emotional and global terrorism within the novel.

2008-08-14T21:44:00.005+12:00

This seminar was an exploration of my idea for the final essay for this paper. Although some of the questions remain only partially answered, I thought it might be useful to blog the seminar notes. Thanks to everyone for their really great comments and feedback during the seminar.

Global context of novel:

A world in which terrorism is, if not necessarily happening more often, is at the forefront of people’s minds more as it is increasingly happening in settings seen as “closer to home” and under circumstances that would normally be considered safe. The terrorism referred to in this novel is against America: 9/11 and the fictive Honolulu bombings and describes the recent and current (?) moral panic around terrorist attacks. This global context of the novel is important for two reasons: One, it sets the backdrop for the interpersonal emotional terrorism between the characters and secondly it becomes a crisis point event for Chloe, illuminating the essential differences in her and Allen’s views on parenthood and the importance thereof.

Personal Context of the novel:

Chloe and Colin, the central characters of the novel, have been both the victim and perpetrators of what I am choosing to call emotional terrorism. What is emotional terrorism? Quite simply put it is the awful things that people do to one another – either with a specific purpose in mind or to simply cause the other person pain. Examples of this terrorism are sprinkled throughout the novel, but I believe the following are the key events as they centre around the key theme of parenthood:

Colin:

Victim of:

Being denied fatherhood by “fate” and Anna

Perpetrator of:

Denying his father a relationship with his son

Chloe:

Victim of :

(Adoption)

Abandonment by Allan of his parental duties

Perpetrator of:

Forcing a parenthood on an unwilling participant

It is important for me to note at this point that there have been other traumas suffered by the characters which have also affected them, but I am choosing to focus on the specific instances of interpersonal trauma.

Questions:

How does the portrayal of parenthood, particularly motherhood, in the narrative mitigate or indeed heal the effects of the emotional terrorism in the novel? Does it bring about any resolution? Is motherhood therefore privileged in the novel? Can the healing effect of parenthood in the novel be extrapolated to the global context of the novel? Should it be?

Construction of parenthood/motherhood:

Construction of motherhood – see the construction of Rachel vs Anna – Rachel more sympathetic despite her myriad flaws as she was on the way to being a mother compared to Anna who doesn’t want kids.

Motherhood for Chloe:

Has a grounding effect after the emotional trauma she suffers at being given up for adoption.

Is all consuming, what she does. Performative element, given her acting past? Like she is acting like the parent she wanted her birth mother to be.

As Bruce said in his seminar, Toby re-affrims her belief in life.

Colin’s reaction to Toby and Chloe’s relationship:

Has been denied fatherhood twice and so reacts to Chloe and Toby’s relationship.

Makes him re-examine his life and the traumas he has suffered and the relationships he has had/has (Rach; Anna; his father) – effect of parenthood therefore constructed as having a “healing effect”.

Birth parents of Chloe – mirrors Colin in being the unusual figure of a man wanting a baby which is opposite to Allan:

This male desire for parenthood highlights Allan’s shunning of his paternal responsibility within the novel. Allan is viewed as a criminal in the narrative for abandoning his family and not wanting to come back even under circumstances that Chloe views as a wake up call. Additionally, this male desire for parenthood, which is seen to be “unusual” in our society highlights Anna’s lack of desire to be a mother, something seen as “unnatural” in our society.

Overall, then, parenthood and particularly motherhood is privileged in this novel and is imbued with healing properties.

Some other questions I need to consider...

How does this construction of parenthood mitigate or heal the emotional terrorism/trauma mentioned above?

Does this construction of parenthood bring about resolution in the narrative or does it just open the way for new possibilities?

Is "emotional terrorism" the best way of describing what I am trying to identify in the novel?

Can this or even should this be extrapolated to the global context of the novel? Is Neale trying to infer anything about possible solutions for today’s world’s condition?

Some idea of where this is headed...

For Colin, the resolution (in my view) centres around becoming more self-aware through coming into contact with a child. This is exemplified in his vision for the memorial to 9/11 in Ground Zero - the relevant passage is on page 262-263. This scene of domesticity which culminates with those in the memorial leaning over the baby throws into relief what Colin has experienced. In leaning over the cot in the memorial, people are supposed to wonder “where are the parents?” I think that the implicit answer is that it’s us. Those people leaning over the cot are the parents. This epiphany of self-awareness and need to take individual responsibility, I think, is Emma Neale’s answer to the questions of what can be done about terrorism on a personal and a political scale. By placing this scene of domesticity and parenthood in the centre of Ground Zero links the personal with the political in a powerful way.

Lunching with Michele

2008-08-14T21:39:00.003+12:00

"I hear you've done an assignment on one of my poems?"

Here I am. I am face to face with my favourite poet and one of my literary idols, Michele Leggott. And she's talking to me. Me! So, of course, my mind goes blank at the all crucial moment, robbing me of anything even mildly intelligent to say. Of all the times my mind chooses to stop working (and it does it with alarming regularity), why now!!

Bumbling idiot act aside, this experience of meeting Michele was one of the most outstanding and inspirational experiences of my entire life. She had come to Massey's Albany campus to give a lecture in the Chancellor's Series and what a treat it was. She read us five of her poems which are all the more beautiful when read out by their author; showed us her tokotoko (the ceremonial stick each Poet Laureate is given, each personally designed for them by Jacob Scott) and then spoke about her writing and its current connection to journeys.

If this was the closest I got to Michele Leggott ever again, I would die a very happy woman. However, our wonderful lecturers Mary and Jack (three cheers for Mary and Jack!!) arranged for us to have lunch with her afterwards. Which was where I found myself, directly opposite one of the women I admire most, barely unable to remember my own name, let alone the poem of hers I had written about. It was of course, a woman, a rose and what has it have to do with her or they with one another, a poem I have read many times and love dearly. My most sincere apologies to Michele for my appalling memory.

Over lunch, our group had the opportunity to discuss her work, her teaching, her Laureateship and her inspiration with her. I think the two things that stood out for me the most of all of the things she said were that she takes her inspiration from her journey through life (including trips to the shops as well as Portugal) and that, when I answered her question "Are any of you here writers?" with "I try to be" she said, "No, you say, YES, I am a writer."

So, YES. I am a writer. And I have Michele Leggott to thank for a boost of creative confidence. It doesn't get much better than that!

Poet Laureate's Journey leads to Albany

2008-08-13T17:17:00.014+12:00

Michele Leggott

New Zealand Poet Laureate Michele Leggott was guest speaker at Massey University, Albany, on August 13 as part of the 2008 Chancellor’s Lecture Series. Leggott lectures at Auckland University, but has much in common with the Massey Albany campus, having worked on various literary projects with Drs Jack Ross and Mary Paul. In the picture above, Leggott is holding a fire stick, a ceremonial keepsake for being the Poet Laureate which was carved by Jacob Scott. A special coating on part of the stick is capable of creating fire through friction. Leggott’s tenure as Poet Laureate lasts for two years, and she says that she is already planning her next “journey” once her tenure ends. “As one project folds another unfolds,” she told a near-capacity audience, “I think I know how it’s going to happen.”

Pictured above with Leggott are students and staff from the Massey postgraduate paper ‘Recent Poets and Fiction in New Zealand’. From left, Anna Leclerq, Jack Ross, Michele Leggott, Kathryn Lee, Mary Paul, Bruce Craig.

Authorial Voice in 'Mr Pip'

2008-08-12T15:14:00.008+12:00

Lloyd Jones, author of Mr Pip (2006), has written 14 books since 1991, including novels and children’s stories. In that time frame, he has either been short-listed for or won a dozen or so national book awards, including at least one children’s book award. The latter implies that Jones is adept at knowing how to ‘speak’ to children, which brings us to the question of the authorial voice in Mr Pip: Jones chose a university graduate named Matilda recalling her life at age 14 onwards in a village in Bougainville cut off from the outside world by an encircling war.

Before discussing Matilda, let us backtrack for a moment to an essay called ‘The Godly Roof', which was written by R. A. Copland and first appeared in the New Zealand periodical Landfall in 1968. In the essay Copland discusses the authorial voice in literature, particularly that of Frank Sargeson. For Copland, authors continually battle with what level of intelligence to give their characters without it seeming forced. If we apply that statement to Emma Neale’s 2006 novel Relative Strangers, it was not a huge jump for Neale – who holds a PhD on expatriate New Zealand women writers – to speak in the voice of the protagonist Chloe, who also has an enquiring mind and is continually taking night courses to keep herself intellectually stimulated. Likewise in the 1987 novel Dirty Work written by Nigel Cox, the protagonist Gina Tully is a middle class girl with a college education, so it is not a huge jump for Cox to emulate Tully’s voice, however, crossing the gender divide to speak as a ‘postmodern Ms’ no doubt was.

In short, both the above authors and their protagonists are almost like us. In contrast, Copland writes that Sargeson wrote with his left hand (not literally) to achieve the realism of his characters, so distanced were they from his intellect.

So how does Copland’s discussion about what level of intelligence to give a book’s character transfer to Mr Pip? At age 14, Matilda is at a very convenient and versatile age as a protagonist. She is old enough to comprehend what the adults in the village talk about and has access to the world of children through her classmates. Yet she is still exposed to the violence of war, as can be seen in the segment where her mother sacrifices herself to save Matilda from being raped. But why did Jones choose a female voice? One answer is that if the narrator had been a male from the same age group, he would have been preoccupied with whether he should join the rebels, as other boys around his age had done, or whether he would eventually be forced to. In short, the male world and the war would have overridden the narrative. So by having a young woman as narrator, Mr Pip keeps the narrative out in the open, within the village dynamics, not hidden in the jungle with the fighters. Plus, for much of the time during the book, the narrator appears to be either absorbed in a literary world, or in shock after experiencing close at hand the horrors of war, a condition that in the real world creates a sort of tunnel vision. Both devices are handy veils if the author is not quite knowledgeable about a lived reality.

Finally, in keeping with his previous books targeting children, to some extent Jones is using a author's device that has worked for him before. In 2004 he wrote Everything You Need to Know About the World by Simon Eliot. The book was a finalist in the 2005 New Zealand Post Book Awards for Children. In the book a narrator named Simon Eliot creates a worldview for children in the 9-14 years age group. Sound familiar? The upper level of the target age group is the same age as Matilda, the protagonist in Mr Pip. Jones is familiar with the dialogue of that age group.

Peter Reading's mean streets

2008-07-17T14:12:00.010+12:00

Perduta Gente means Final Demands and is Peter Reading’s fourteenth book of poems since 1970. So it is positioned about halfway through Reading’s oeuvre. This story of England’s dispossessed is woven into a sort of apocalyptic narrative that feels like middle class voyeurism when read from the comparative security of one’s own home. A perusal of the accompanying notes next to the poems would seem to indicate that Reading spent some time observing or listening to the yarns of some of the “old hands” living on the street. According to Isabel Martin in the introduction to Peter Reading: Collected Poems 1970-1984, Reading has a talent for eavesdropping and can mimic a wide variety of spoken registers. So conceivably he could observe or mingle without actually having to doss down with his subjects, who he terms as a legion of the “bankrupted, batty [and] bereft” whose beds he symbolises as a “huddle of papers and rags in a cardboard spin-drier carton”. Meanwhile, we carry on by as though nothing is wrong is because “that is what we [British] are good at”, Reading writes.

Perduta Gente has no page numbers, which implies that it is meant to be absorbed in its entirety, not to be dipped into. It can be read in less than a couple of hours. Isabel Martin writes that Reading’s favourite literature is eighteenth and nineteenth century novels, which would help explain Reading’s comparison with Dickens. Reading apparently got up close enough to his sleeping subjects to read what was written in the newspapers they were wrapped in to stay warm. Or perhaps that was simply an artist’s imaginative focus at work. Whatever it was, it worked well:

Newspaper, wrapped around the torso between the
Fourth and fifth jerseys
(night attire for doing a skipper in icy December
under the Festival Hall),
carries a note to the Editor, from ‘Ex-Soldier of Telford’ ...

Towards the end of the book, Reading turns his gaze directly to the reader, warning us of our potential vulnerability:

And don’t think it couldn’t be you:
grievously wounded veteran of the Battle of Bottle,
jobless, bereft of home, skint,
down in the cold uriniferous subway ...

There’s no getting away from the misery, but by offering these poems to us, Reading is doing a public service, firstly by keeping a huge social problem to the fore, and secondly, by warning others not to fall victim to it. For some respite I flick over to the online edition of the New Zealand Herald and read of the lonely death of Brent Andrew Beattie. ‘The 38-year-old father of two died while living alone under a footbridge on the edge of Hagley Park in central Christchurch,’ the Herald reported. Beattie had lived under the bridge for at least six months and it was almost a month before anyone even noticed that he had died. A fireman had found Beattie’s decomposing body in a crouching position with his knees drawn up to his abdomen surrounded by glue and methylated spirits containers. His mother had indicated she might attend the coroner’s hearing but did not show up. The only people who were there was the coroner, a court registrar, two policemen and a reporter (NZ Herald, 17/07/08).

There is something unnerving about the crouching position the fireman found Brent in. It is as if he simply gave up on life one Christchurch night, and, resting his head on his knees, froze into a macabre statue. For days on end he stayed like that, unnoticed.

Seamus Heaney on Paul Muldoon

2008-07-15T10:38:00.007+12:00

[Seamus Heaney and friend]

A couple of points of interest from the discussion last night:

First, thanks to Gregory for pointing out that Seamus Heaney's review of Paul Muldoon's The Annals of Chile (1994), containing the poem "Incantata," is included in his book of selected essays, Finders Keepers: Selected Prose 1971-2001 (london: Faber, 2002).

The relevant passage runs as follows:

In Paul Muldoon's new book .... personal grief and creative glee keep playing into one another's hands. One of several extraordinary poems here is called 'Incantata', a lamentation for the premature death by cancer of a young and gifted artist. This is both a cry of heartbreak and a virtuoso performance. The higher the lift-off the poem achieves, the deeper the registers it engages ...

'Incantata' commemorates the life and work of Mary Farl Powers, an artist who was much cherished because of the intensity of her striving for spiritual and technical perfection. 'Incantata' is an example of what we might call 'the Lycidas syndrome,' whereby one artist's sense of vocation and purpose is sent into crisis by the untimely death of another. Here Paul Muldoon is possessed by a subject that puts all his brilliance to the test, with the result that he blossoms into truth and humanizes his song to an extraordinary degree. [395-96]

Elsewhere he refers to Muldoon as "one of the era's true originals."

The 'Lycidas' reference is of course to Milton (Shelley's 'Adonais,' on the death of Keats, might be another example - or, for that matter, Tennyson's In Memoriam).

I don't know how Paul Muldoon would have reacted to that "blossoms into truth" phrase - or the one about "humanizing his song" ... Did that have anything to do (as Gregory suggested in discussion) with the tone of Muldoon's own remarks about Heaney in his recent book of essays The End of the Poem: Oxford Lectures (New York: Farrar Straus Girous, 2006)?

One of the poignancies of "Keeping Going" is the speaker's assertion - one we don't expect from a Heaney speaker - ... [of] the insurmountable fact of the limitations of art:
But you cannot make the dead walk or right wrong

This is not to say that a poem ... doesn't have some efficacy in the world, doesn't effect some change. It must change something, as these ... examples so elegantly display. One of the ways in which they do this is to clear their own space, bringin us 'all together in a foretime,' if I may borrow that phrase from section 3 of "Keeping Going" ... This condition of a "foretime" of the poem is, yet again, a version of what I described earlier as the "problem" to which the poem is a "solution" ... We appeal to the "foretime" of "Keeping Going" and recognise ... that to carry itself forward in the world - testing itself, and us, against a sense of how it itself "was / In the begining, is now and shall be' - is indeed the end of the poem.

This almost sounds as if he regards poems as self-justifying, posing a "problem" to which they themselves are the "solution." It's certainly a far less ringing pronouncement than Heaney's.

Oh, and as a footnote, I checked my ownb copy of Graham Lindsay's Lazy Wind Poems, which certainly does contain pp. 25-40. I can make a copy of them if you like, Bruce, but it might be better to send the book back to AUP and get a replacement one with the full text in it ...

Poetry Session 4: Muldoon / Reading

2008-06-12T10:32:00.008+12:00

[University of Iowa, Iowa City]

My sister-in-law Therese Lloyd, who's just been studying at the Iowa Writers' Workshop, tells me that while she was there Paul Muldoon came to do a reading.

The convention was for each of the students to take turns hosting the post-reading party (Therese had to host the one for the novelist John Irving, but that's another story ...)

Anyway, at this one she saw the poet cornered by the three biggest nerds in the whole group, who were quizzing him on the most intimate details of his poetics, and decided that it was up to her to rescue him.

So she went up and told him how much she'd enjoyed his reading.

"Tank you, tank you ... And what accent would that be you have." [You have to imagine all this in a rather more plausible Ulster brogue than I can muster, tempered by the 20 or so years he's spent teaching in the States, at Princeton].

"A New Zealand accent."

"Ah, New Zealand! C. K. Stead, now, he's from New Zealand, isn't he? I remember having to read his book The New Poetic when I was an undergraduate, and a fine book it is, too ..."

Luckily Therese had read the book, and so was able to concur.

They had quite a nice little chat after that, it seems. She introduced him to her fiance, and generally let him off any more hard questions about his poetics ...

The only other detail she had to report was that during the reading he used the word "coyote" in one of his poems. Only he pronounced it: "KOY-oat."

"Is that the correct way to say it?" he mused aloud.

The crowd shouted "Ky-OH-tee."

"Koy-OAT" he said.

"KY-OH-TEE!"

"KOY-oat," he continued. "I can;'t get that at all. I tink I'd better keep on saying it my way, so, KOY-oat ..."

I don't know what all that adds up to, but it's always nice to rub shoulders with greatness - you never know what you mightn't pick up.

Remember to check out my earlier post, with a link to the Listener interview with Muldoon.

Is he purely a game-player, or is there more to his poetry? "Incantata" seems heartfelt enough, but what of the other poem I've included in your anthology, "The More a Man Has the More a Man Wants" -- what's that about? The troubles? Or postmodernity in general?

As for Peter Reading, I guess it's difficult to judge the success of his technical innovations without reading at least one of his books as a whole. He does seem to have something of the novelist's temperament - or at least an interest in overarching narratives.

Perduta gente (1989) is still probably his most celebrated single volume, with its critique of Thatcher's Britain, the nuclear industry, and the monstrously proliferating cardboard cities in the great cities of Europe.

More recently, in -273.15 [absolute zero] (2005) he's shifted his attention from social engineering to ecology.

He's an angry man, but there's (arguably) a lot for him to be angry about ...

See you on Monday 14th July (Bastille Day), then. Bruce is booked in to give us a seminar. We may have some guests for the discussion, also.

Michele Leggott Seminar

2008-05-22T15:27:00.006+12:00

by Anna Leclercq

[Michele Leggott, "Micromelismata." DIA (Auckland: AUP, 1994) 7].

Introduction

I am going to talk about two of Michele Leggott’s poems, WHERE EXACTLY ARE WE?’ and ‘Micromelismata’. My main focus is on ‘WHERE EXACTLY ARE WE?’, followed by a short commentary on ‘Micromelismata’.

Half way through the preparation of this seminar I had thought of ditching the subject and finding another one which would be less difficult, more straightforward, where I could quote from learned critiques which would give us all a firm understanding of what the poems were about. I found none such critiques in my research for these two poems, but they would not let me go. Like an abstract painting, their very unintelligibility kept pulling me back to have another look in an endeavour to find a meaning, any kind of meaning, to them.

What a person viewing an abstract painting sees in the finished painting is not necessarily what the painter has in mind whilst he is completing the work. Nevertheless, who is to say the viewer’s interpretation is any the less valid. It is on this premise, therefore, that I gave myself license to indulge my own imagination, delve into these two ‘abstract’ poems and ‘make my own connections’.

Michele Leggott’s book entitled DIA, published in 1994, is her third book of poems, the first two being Like This published in 1988 and Swimmers, Dancers in 1991. It comes in a red and white cover with a Minoan* mural done as a Maori weaving, the latter stamping the collection with a New Zealand imprint, however faint or unrecognised.

Like Susan Howe, Leggott has achieved a name for being an intellectual poet, and in her first poem in DIA, namely ‘WHERE EXACTLY ARE WE?’ she makes no apologies for that. She demonstrates her intellect by the use of Greek, French and Latin references, and of abundant use of polysyllabic and Latinate diction; her carefully chosen words are used as much for their beauty of sound and structure as for their meaning. Exactly what Leggott is telling us in this poem is obscure, yet the poem, I would like to think, does tell a story, and, as far as I can see, (which incidentally is another poem title of Leggott’s), on many levels.

"WHERE EXACTLY ARE WE?" was originally a "ribbon text," which first appeared on the walls of the Wellington City Art Gallery, who had commissioned the work in the 70s. In its original form it was interactive in that the reader had to walk to read the poem, and the strung-together words from various discourses invited viewers and readers to make their own connections. I next found ‘WHERE EXACTLY ARE WE?” in a March 1991 edition of Landfall 45(1):3-24 where again it appeared as a ribbon beginning at the bottom of page 3 and continuing on through the pages to its end.

Now, in another incarnation, it has appeared as the first poem in DIA and keeps company with four other pieces, Micromelismata, which I will discuss briefly later, Blue Irises, Circle and Keeping Warm, all of which Leggott calls ‘heart poems, the ones that take one’s breath away or make tears and laughter come’. Blue Irises, Circle and Keeping Warm could well be described as less obscure in their meaning than the first two; but all challenge conventional lyric reading.

Douglas Barbour, in his ‘Essays on Contemporary Poetry’ states that ‘like Leggott’s poem, "Micromelismata,", ‘WHERE EXACTLY ARE WE?’ focuses on its materiality and on the fact of its production, encouraging us to "see" poetry in different frames from those in which we usually receive it’.

The word DIA comes from the Greek and means Goddess; it also means ‘through’ and it means two, couples; lovers, partners. Leggott, faithful to these interpretations, has chosen to display both ‘WHERE EXACTLY ARE WE?’ and Micromelismata in two parts being spread over two pages, and the voices, although both male and female, show a predominance for the female voices.

For ‘WHERE EXACTLY ARE WE?’ Leggott uses large unsophisticated capital letters, some bold, some in outline, some shadowed in parts or in whole, which compel us to view the words and phrases at the same time both ‘as advertising and art’, while requiring us to read them in what Douglas Barbour calls ‘their fragmented engagement with various discourses of power’.

For a number of years now Leggott has been suffering from two diseases of the eyes. Although she was not diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa until 1985, and then macular degeneration in the mid 1990s – long after ‘WHERE EXACTLY ARE WE?’ first appeared – it occurred to me that the unevenness in the density of each typed letter could be a representation of the dawning on Leggott’s subconscious of the fact that her eyesight was already showing signs of the onset of eye disease, and perhaps this was a way of displaying, in poetry, the changes in her vision. This is only a stab in the dark (sorry about the cruel pun), but I could find no other way of explaining this phenomenon .except for emphasis; and this I felt would be too transparent for Leggott. I would be interested to hear what others have to say on this point.

Andrew Johnston, in his work Entertaining Possibilities: Six Contemporary New Zealand Poets, states that Leggott’s poetry ‘explores the power of language to enact experience, rather than to formulate abstractions from experience’. He goes on to say that Leggott’s poetry is a ‘torrent of sounds, sentiments, situations and sensory detail (great alliteration there); it is the most colourful poetry being written in New Zealand.’ Mark Williams said of her earlier work: ‘Leggott is a sensualist of the word. Her poems enact sound, colour, taste, smell, movement’. I have to say I would agree with that, and the poems contained in DIA certainly reflect that point of view.

‘WHERE EXACTLY ARE WE?’ contains no punctuation; the whole poem runs like a river and, were it not to begin with the word IN and end with the word OUT, it could equally appear circular, running back in on itself, like a river returning to its source, a snake wreathed in its own coils, a torque, a helix.

The work crafts wonderful sound pictures achieved by alliteration, assonance and repetition. ‘ALMOND ABEILLE AMYGDALA AH; COELENTERATE SOUP SIP SUP FOLLOW HER UP SPIRULA SPIRULA’. It also has great movement particularly when describing water, e.g. HYDROPHILE PURLING. You will see later what I mean when I give my interpretation of this word coupling.

Leggott appears to be having a good time playing with sound and rhythm, yet the meanings of the words are mysterious, hard to pin down. Once she has finished writing the poem she appears to have finished speaking. She then surrenders the poem, handing it over into the care of the reader who is charged with giving it its new life form.

A number of words written in bold type which, if linked together, read ‘IN DESIRE DESIRE ORAL DELIGHT DELIGHT OUT’ immediately stand out as though they should have some attention., and, like Jane Stafford in her article entitled ‘The panic of O’ (New Zealand Books Journal, Volume 4, number 3 (Issue 15) 1994), I saw them as a reinforcement of love and desire to underline eroticism in the poem. Stafford commented that these words would be ‘enough to get anyone’s hydrophile purling!’.

I wanted to find out if the poem as a whole did have any understandable meaning or message running through it, or whether it was just words strung together to create a sensuality of sound. What could I make of its meaning now that I, as a reader, was charged with giving it its new life form. A Latin dictionary, hardly used since school days, proved invaluable when tackling the Latinate diction. There did appear to be words that could be interpreted as signposts which might lead me to a coherent understanding of the poem. For example, ONTO LOGICAL = ONTOLOGICAL=the study of existence. PELAGIC = sediments deposited beneath deep ocean waters that are rich in the remains of microscopic organisms; INCUNABULA = the early stages of becoming something. Could she be speaking about the beginning of life?

Many complex English word couplings, such as ‘HYDROPHILE PURLING’ added to the poem’s complexity. ‘Hydrophile’, I discovered, is derived from ‘hydrophilic’, a chemical term meaning having a strong affinity for water or being able to dissolve in, or be absorbed or mixed easily with, water. ‘Purling’ has, as one of its meanings , flowing with a curling or rippling motion, and a soft murmuring sound, as a shallow stream over stones.

INCANDESCENT LACUNAE FLUORESCE AT A TOUCH DESIRE TORQUES DILOQUENT PEARL CURVES LUMENS CON BRIO ALIGHT. Doesn’t it sound wonderful? It is a torrent of sound, it is sensual, it has an atmosphere of love. But does it actually mean anything? A loose translation created the following:

GLOWING POOLS FLOW AT A TOUCH DESIRE SPIRALS UPWARDS THE SIGHT OF PEARL CURVES ILUMINATED BY RADIANT LIGHT ALIGHT (sets fire to).

I won’t go through the meaning of every word here, but if my amateur translation is correct, this poem appears to describe, the process of attraction, copulation and fertilization from the moment the male sets eyes on the female to the end of the process where fertilization takes place. The poem is layered: that is to say the story is told not just on one level, the human level, but also on a botanic level (DELIQUESCENCE describing the release of the spores from the mushroom, for example), and from a marine level ‘FISHTAILS DEEP TROPES SQUIRT SQUID SUCH OCTOPI PULL ANEMONES GULP; eroticism over Latinate structure over biology, over botany over storytelling of beginning of life (life as we know it having its origins in the creatures that crawled out of the sea on to land).

The unconventional presentation of the poem and the complexity of the words did hinder a smooth reading; and instances of words such as ‘sanglots’ (sobs – French), for example, refused to allow me to tease out the reason for being there. Perhaps they were there for their sound as much as their meaning. The lack of a smooth reading and difficulties with some of the words did take away a little of the poem’s magic. Not being able to find an official interpretation of it is also unsatisfactory.

Nevertheless, if I had to describe this poem I would say it is a celebration of words, rhythms, sounds which all relate to the process of procreation and the rhythm of life/death in the natural world. Whether I am correct or not in my interpretation we shall probably never know. My interpretation could be dismissed as pure whimsy; I can only say in defense of my conclusions that it does have a certain validity because Michele Leggott herself states, as I mentioned above, that we must ‘find our own meanings’.

‘Micromelismata’ .

Taking the words ‘BEE DESIDERATE MOUTH’ from ‘WHERE EXACTLY ARE WE?’ moves me conveniently on to Michele Leggott’s next poem in DIA. "Micromelismata" is an example of ‘concrete’ poetry. ‘Concrete’, historically, is a particular moment, largely in Europe, but extending to Britain and the United States also, within a wider context of shaped poetry, going back to the work of George Herbert (died 1633) in England. Herbert himself knew of at least one predecessor for his work, an edition of The Greek Anthology, Theocriti Idyllia, printed by P. Brubacchius, Frankfurt, 1545. This information comes from an essay entitled Poetics edited by Joel Kuszai.

‘BEE DESIDERATE MOUTH’ reminds me of the Marilyn Monroe type bee stung lips which the type forms within the two poem balls that constitute ‘Micromelismata’. The balls are identical in shape; the first ‘ball’ being made up entirely of Xs and the second made up of words, the letters of which correspond accurately to the placement of the Xs. According to Elizabeth Caffin in issue 4, September 2007 of ‘A New Zealand Journal of Poetry and Poetics’, indentation, spaces between words, use of italics or small caps were all matters affecting meaning and taken with great seriousness by poet and publisher.

There are many voices, many more female voices than male, in this poem: many ‘Is’, Iris is there (Robin Hyde), mother, mama, you, them, her, the female, Isis the Egyptian female deity, the goddess of myths and life. There is dance and music in this poem: Melisma, in music, is the technique of changing the note (pitch) of a single syllable of text while it is being sung. Music sung in this style is referred to as melismatic, as opposed to syllabic, where each syllable of text is matched to a single note; melodiously.

There are kisses, lips, berries, flowers….. This poem is like a reverie, dreams coming in flashes of a single word. It is emotional and reflective; again it celebrates sensuality – reflections on kissing - and nature; the beauty that is around us.

In regard to both WHERE EXACTLY ARE WE? and Melismata - which could be said to be bordering on the unintelligible,- Leggott has been accused of ‘sophism** , elitism and pretension’ (Jane Stafford The panic of O). I would like to be much kinder and put them under heading of experimental. I greatly enjoyed the challenge of delving into these two poems which represent my first experience of works of such unusual construction.

Although I am sure many codes and allusions contained in the poems have eluded me, and not being able to find an official meaning left me somewhat frustrated, as I said earlier, I remain astounded by her mastery of language, captivated by her dexterity of word placement, and seduced by her lyricism.

* Minoan: relating to the Bronze Age civilization on Crete that lasted from around 3000 to 1100 BC.

**An argument or explanation that seems very clever or subtle on the surface but is actually flawed, misleading or intended to deceive.

Sources

Allan, Guy. New Zealand Herald 3: 6; 8 Oct 1994.
Barbour, D. Lyric/Anti-lyric: Essays on Contemporary Poetry (Edmonton: NeWest, 2001).

Direen, Bill. Listener 146(2849): 65; 19 Nov 1994.
Jensen, Kai. Printout 9: 88; Autumn 1995.

Leggott, M. DIA. Auckland : Auckland University Press, 1994.
Landfall, 45(1): 3-24, March 1991

Mead, P. Landfall 189: 121-125; Autumn 1995.
Sharp, I. Evening Post p.7; 7 Oct 1994.
Stafford, J. New Zealand Books 4(3): 10-11; Sept 1994.

Weston, Tom. Press Sup.p.14; 17 Dec 1994.
Wilson, Janet. Quote Unquote 24: 31-32; June 1995.

Poetry Session 3: Graham Lindsay

2008-05-16T10:10:00.008+12:00

[Photograph: Bill Lindsay (nzepc)]

If you've read the interview with Graham Lindsay which I included in your course anthology, you'll remember that he talks about his "notebook process":

"I started writing and publishing when I was in my late teens, and that’s twenty, twenty-five years ago [the interview was conducted in 1997]. Over that period of time I’ve been using a kind of notebook process. When something occurs to you, you have a notebook handy so that you can actually put down some approximation of that idea or thought or feeling at the time, whilst you’re hot, whilst you’re familiar with it. So, having adopted that approach, I’ve found that I don’t really know at the time that I’m writing something, whether or not I’m going to be able to do anything more with it. I’ve got to go through it, perhaps months, years later, to see what is of interest there, what I can do something more with.

At this point Graham got up to show me the notebooks in his desk. The bottom drawer was packed full of red, hard-backed 4B1 notebooks. Above was another drawer, perhaps slightly less full. There were, he told me, 132 of them.

During their third birthday symposium in July 2004, Graham was presented with one of the nzepc's special Tapa notebooks. He returned it to Auckland University Library's Special collections for archiving in July 2005. Here's one of the pages:

[10-2-4T]

she said they get some
weird people off the street
during the writing courses
I said I'm one of those people
pretty soon she made a gesture to the effect
'the purpose of my visit had been met'
maybe she shifted in her chair

Yeah, Graham! I fear I'm one of those people, too ...

only two or three weeks ago we said to each other,
How long has she got? and agreed
two, maybe three years at the most.
The following week she was dead. That last night,

following her up the stairs (my job in case she fell -
he daughter pulling her by wrists) I said the usual
encouraging things like Shake a leg, Granny, and
Go Granny, you're doing well (she had lost the ability to retort).

She put everything into it,
as if it were the last leg to the summit.

Graham also provided an introduction to the notebook:

I felt really honoured to be presented with my tapa notebook. Stephen Innes's choice for me turned out to be a good one too. The cover looks to me to suggest a cosmological scene or one to do with navigation, a dark star seen over the shoulder of a solar flare or above an outrigger sail.

I decided to use my notebook to present a selection of notes from my time as the 2004 Ursula Bethell / Creative New Zealand Resident in Creative Writing at the University of Canterbury. Michele indicated some graphic elements would also be welcome so I began sketching signs on roads and pathways on my cycle route to and from the university.

I've been keeping notebooks for ages, but I've never tried to develop a handwriting style. Occasionally, I've been impressed when a 't' makes a sort of mast or the looping tail on a 'g' looks pretty wild. But I've always considered notebooks as places to catch thoughts and language rather than aesthetic objects or places where thoughts are completed. I usually go back to see what still interests me to see if I can do anything more to it to make it publishable.

So the idea of making a selection from my notebooks, even though it seemed straightforward, caused various performance anxieties, like having my teaching inspected, or replicating a 'spontaneous' conversation.

Which is why I thought Murray Edmond was onto it when he used a ringbinder for his 'tapa': if he made a mistake, he would be able to have another go. I'm not saying he did, just that he could.

In fact I was given two tapa notebooks, I used the other one to do dummy runs in. (It has a cover that vaguely looks like a handmirror with a pixie face in it.)

I did some drafting on my computer too. Though I often went back to the original wordings and constructions because of not having an open-ended amount of time. In the interim I came across this quote from Toss Woollaston: 'Smoothing over work you have just done is going backwards. Tidying up is the devil—you don't touch that in painting. If relations are wrong you make huge alterations, you don't tidy up—you repaint the whole thing every time you touch it.' (From Gregory O'Brien's book Lands & Deeds). I think that's relevant? Also I roughed out a layout on my computer.

I had thought about making my own 'tapa' notebook using locally made paper and learning how to bookbind. I had thought about learning calligraphy. I've always admired my father's handwriting, he used to transcribe his favourite poems by Chinese poets onto a newsprint block. He had a beautiful hand. I've hankered for years to have a go at painting my poems. These thoughts were all part of that. When I accepted Michele's invitation to meet a deadline though I had to get on with it and so the originally intended format was retained.

The title The Priests of Nothingness comes from a quote, which I have included in the notebook, about these Japanese monks called Fuke monks who used the flute as a meditation tool. As the quote says, 'They would walk through the streets . . . trying to play the one note that would enlighten the world.' That's partly what I think poets try to do. I think poets are priests of nothingness.

curtains shifting in light air

shaft like a lift well
on its side:

at the near end
blue light playing along its edges

the far opening on smokey-grey
star clouds

~

It's this "notebook process" I'd like to start off with at our session on Monday. You'll note that the tapa notebook process was far more elaborate - almost staged, in fact. The spontaneity of a notebook can hardly be evident when you've done "dummy runs" in another notebook first, and even done some drafting on the computer first.

I guess that's the reason why Graham had provided that semi-apologetic introduction to "The Priests of Nothingness," as he ended up calling the collection as a whole.

I guess I'd like to talk about the Beats (Ginsberg, Kerouac et al.) and their cult of spontaneity in word in deed. Then go on to Black Mountain (Olson & Creeley) and the "open form" they introduced to NZ poetry in the 70s, when Lindsay first started writing and publishing. I'd also like to talk about Zen, domesticity, George Oppen, and a host of other subjects -- but we'll see hwo far we get.

In any case, this conversation can segue over into the discussion of Peter Reading and Paul Muldoon we're timetabled to have after mid-year break (note the change in the timetable: two poetry sessions in a row, sandwiching the holidays, and then two fiction sessions in a row).

Prelude

2008-05-06T20:46:00.015+12:00

Professor Fred Inglis

The thrust and parry of high intellectual debate reached a zenith on Monday and Tuesday of May 5-6 when visiting Professor Fred Inglis from Sheffield University (UK) presented two seminars at Massey University, Albany.

The first lecture called ‘The Performance of Celebrity’ targeted a student audience; the second, ‘The awfulness and necessity of Cultural Studies’, was for the academics of the Cultural Studies department. Any academic addressing and challenging his peers must be prepared to accept as good as they give, and in the second seminar the good-natured professor seemed to revel in the interaction between minds almost perfectly matched. But next time put the lecture notes down and talk to us from the outset.

Black

2008-04-27T19:01:00.006+12:00

I'm off for a week, so thought I should post this, inspired to do so by Kmeista.

Stays Black

Kiwi

The sun competes for my soul; the moon betrays my longing.

I stand here in the dark, waiting for my footsteps to begin.

If I lack courage and luck, I will hesitate, and surely miss the call to wander out, surely lose the chance to learn, surely ignore the edict to grow.

But when, as I step out into time and space, time and space envelop me, I can discover all I need to know, all I need to become.

I need to fulfil my destiny.

I know that waiting won’t make me brighter, but dying won’t make me wiser. I know what I know; what I don’t know, I can’t help, but at least I know what I know.

Energy matters, and action spikes my belief. Deep inside, I want that my life will embrace the meaning of an instant. This desire concentrates my ambition. Yet I’m motionless. But don’t confuse my stillness for hesitation. I wouldn’t do this without a reason.

Kiwi Logic

Simple, I stand still for a reason,

I move for a reason, and

I live, and

I breathe, and

I cry

for a reason.

I smell a rat!

I smell a rat before I hear a rat.

I hear a rat before I see a rat.

I tell myself I see a rat, because I smell a rat.

This rat must surely smell me too

Rat v Ratite

The rat reeks of hunger and predation: an odour heralds the advent of a warm-blooded killer, a smell promises violence, a stench proclaims, “Murderer on the loose!”

I don’t acknowledge him.

He doesn’t belong here.

He claims a moral right to be in my world. He will do what he must do to satisfy his need.

But I know what I know.

I see the Hawk’s eyes scanning the ground.

I wait with her.

But the rat doesn’t know waiting. His concern is what he can smell, see, hear, touch, and taste. For him, there are no other senses. He makes meaning of life this way, fresh blood and easy prey. So he moves as quickly as his short legs allow him to move. He races toward me, teeth bared.

I crouch in the darkness, knowing he will soon see me, knowing what he doesn’t know.

He jumps from a distance. He sees me now, lunging toward me. His breath reeks of stale death, his eyes wide, white, and wild. With my heart pulsing red shards of lightning in my arteries, and my eyes burning space into the darkness, all I can do is crouch lower still. Stillness becomes me.

I see his feet in the air, and there they stop, and they drop down for a moment, then they take off from the ground,

and they rise higher and higher.

I hear his cry of shock, disappointment, surprise, understanding; disbelief fading into terror.

Peering out from my hiding place, looking up, I thank Tane Mahuta for the Hawk as she disappears into the tall trees with her new best friend, predator and predator, epicure and entrée.

Now, I must move on. My love waits for me.

On and On

My love waits for me with beauty beyond my expectation.

How could I not fall in love every time we meet?

I need to love, to be loved, to forever be falling in love. We keep our romance aflame without social contracts, or constructions. Simple together, we want only that we carry on into eternity. And, to that end, we copy ourselves onto the fabric of this dimension.

Some parents dread the future and regret the past. We can’t do that; we don’t possess that luxury. Instead, we live inside the instinct of the present. We remain grateful for our offspring, for anyone’s offspring. For what is the future without children? It becomes a pointless discussion, a round of gossip between our hopes, our dreams, and our solid reality.

As we journey along sincerity’s path, humility and gratitude satisfy more than our desire for love, more than our need for companions, more than our instinct for compassion.

Generations of kiwi enter the universe of eternal possibilities. We recognise the responsibility of immortal ambitions. We place our hopes in the hands of what is now forever, and forever now.

Kiwi Creed

Black, black, black

All black is gold.

Black means safety,

Black means victory,

The night pumps black blood through my soul.

But inevitably, the night bleeds into daybreak.

*****************

On and on, the sun competes for my soul. But this lonely sun competes with the universe of time, the universe of space, the universe of no code. Ultimately, the sun must concede defeat to the owner of a higher dimension, the owner of no contests, the owner of no surrender, the owner of no side, the owner of the black.

Always, although the light pierces the black, the black stays intact, stays black.

“Stays Black” Explanation:

This writing came about after reading the beginning of each of the four novels in the paper. By the time I’d finished it, I’d read all the poetry readings, and finished Within the Kiss, Dirty Work, and gotten most of the way through Relative Strangers.

I couldn’t escape a feeling of “blackness” in the pieces. I don’t mean bleakness. I mean blackness. Blackness for me is an appreciation of the black side of the universe and it can involve humour, wit, sadness, happiness, stupidity, hope, despair, anything the author wants. What separates it from other writing is something that may be peculiar to kiwi writing. It’s a knowledge that there’s always something you can’t see, always darkness.

You can shine a light, and that’s a good thing, but what I enjoy about the NZ writers I’ve read so far is their ability to keep some things in the dark.

I haven’t tried to do that in my piece. Instead, I opted to tell the story from a bird’s perspective. This bird can’t fly, can’t escape predators, and can’t enjoy the light. I feel a kinship with the bird.

I’d like to explore the idea of darkness more, moving it out of a kiwi context into a universal area.

Writer forges creative link with photographer

2008-04-27T17:38:00.009+12:00

Tina Shaw

By Gregory Wood

The creative link between photography and writing came under scrutiny at Auckland Art Gallery on Sunday, April 27, when author Tina Shaw was keynote speaker at the Laurence Aberhart photographic exhibition.

Shaw has written five novels and co-edited a book with Dr Jack Ross. For Shaw, every Aberhart print represented a short story, and proceeded to rattle off with ease a handful of plot scenarios with any print she cared to focus on. Shaw added that sometimes the detail in the black and white prints is so fine that gallery staff provide magnifying glasses for visitors to borrow. Better still, take your own to study the work of this reclusive photographer, aged 59, who lives in Russell.

Photography has always been the elusive ‘other’ in the arts because of the difficulty placing it in a niche, as it traverses art, media and documentary. But for one small hour in the centre of Auckland photography and writing melded as one.

Anzac Day upstages Anne Carson

2008-04-25T17:04:00.019+12:00

Above: "Because he's our Dad!"

By Gregory Wood

Thoughts of Anne Carson and her classical poetry led me to Auckland War Memorial Museum on Friday, April 25. But those thoughts did not last for long as the museum was putting on Anzac Day. If ‘putting on’ sounds too much like a stage-managed event, you had better get used to it. Anzac Day 2008 in front of the museum’s classical columns was a slick 45-minute show complete with a female announcer, three bands and a speech by the Defence Minister Phil Goff before an audience of about 2,000. And it didn’t rain, for once.

Anzac Day is becoming one of the success stories in New Zealand’s myth making. It is now not just an annual event but a daily encounter with your past. Key into your home computer the name of a relative who went to any war since the New Zealand Wars and the museum’s Anzac Day database will give you a readout of what happened to that person, male or female.

I found a soldier named Edward Albert Wood, a tailor. In 1916 he sailed with the New Zealand Expeditionary Force from Wellington. When he returned he did not run down the gangplank into the arms of his loved one. He was carried off a second gangway for the wounded at the rear of the ship, having lost a leg. However, his loved one stood by him, my grandmother.

Forget any notion of Anzac Day dying away with the old soldiers. Technology is letting it reach out to each new generation. It only gets bigger.

Eyesight is not vision

2008-04-20T15:35:00.008+12:00

This picture is my creative response to "a woman, a rose, and what has it to do with her or they with one another". I'll bring it in to class for people to have a closer look.

For me, this poem is about the horror of the descent into blindness. The page is divided into three sections. The top section represents what is being/has been lost: surefootedness (seen in the dancers in the maze), colour (seen in the flowers) and a place in the world – a place of independence, ease of enjoyment and words. For this reason I chose to paste in the line “Do you see me? I am falling out of a blue sky.”

The middle section, shaped like an eye, represents the blindness that Michele has. I used white tissue paper to create the feeling of blurry white, at the edges of the top and bottom sections can still be seen. Around this eye I have pasted the lines which I thought were most evocative of the loss of sight to this blindness: “Then a pair of taxis went head to head in a distant country so suddenly I didn’t see the difference but it was a wide white threshold.”

The bottom section is the horror of this blindness. It is hard to imagine what it would be like to lose sight and the ability to easily navigate this world, but the final line of this poem, for me, captured that sheer panic: “She is in the dark, perhaps four years old and the future does not exist, screaming and screaming and screaming.” When I first heard this line read out in class, it sent ice cold chills down my spine. The swirling darkness therefore is not the blindness itself but the panic and terror it evokes.

Within the middle of the eye-shaped whiteness however, is the idea that runs as an undercurrent through this poem: Eyesight is not vision. At first I thought this was a hopeful idea, but within this poem it is a terrible burden. The gift of vision, which must come at the cost of eyesight, is unasked for and feared, but is nevertheless a destiny. The journey towards the destination of this gift is laid out in this picture: the falling and then the panic. But what does this vision see? It lays behind the veil of blindness and it as yet unclear.

Hustlerville

2008-04-14T15:14:00.034+12:00

Sir Ed's statue

IN MEMORY OF NIGEL COX AND DIRTY WORK

By Gregory Wood

Welcome to Hustlerville, a small seaside town at the end of Auckland’s northern motorway. For over half a century Hustlerville has fought to retain an image as a holiday town. But with the growth of Auckland and the extension of the motorway, Hustlerville is fast becoming just another satellite suburb of the metropolis.

Back in the early days however, the leading figures of Hustlerville must have had noble ambitions for this place. They erected an imposing statue of Sir Edmund Hillary in the future town centre and named it Hillary Square. Today, Sir Ed’s statue is surrounded by a little garden in the midst of a car park. Council workers clear away from the small shrubs a daily build-up of fast-food wrappers blown in by the sea breeze. Sir Ed’s statue faces the beach and the sunrise, and nearby there is a small plaque marking the death of Princess Diana. But any ocean outlook has long gone, blocked by beachfront houses, a block of shops and a Macdonald’s drive-in with its endless queue of cars.

Behind Hillary Square is a short dead-end street called George Lowe Place, which is named after George Lowe, who was a member of that famous 1954 expedition when Sir Ed and a sherpa named Tenzing became the first to climb Mount Everest. George Lowe Place ends at the doors of two panel-beating shops, an auto electrician and a tyre depot. Car wrecks in various stages of restoration line the street, its tar-seal scarred by tyre skid marks.

Leading off George Lowe Place is an alleyway called Tenzing Lane, which is named after the sherpa Tenzing. Here, there is a second-hand shop and a parking lot lined with industrial waste bins at the rear of shops. The names of these two mountaineers, Lowe and Tenzing, are used on street signposts to show the way to a semi-industrial area, a dumping ground for car wrecks and unwanted furniture.

“So what is the problem?” a small voice inside my head asked. “Walk one block back from the main street in any town and you’ll always find industry and ugliness. The tourists only see a façade and come away smiling, while the rest of us get on with making money. That is the way it is.”

Seeking some sort of respite, I went to Sir Ed’s statue and paused for a moment to ponder the great man, and Lady Di’s memorial. “Surely they wouldn’t put a statue of Sir Ed in such a prominent position just to attract tourists to be photographed next to?” I thought. “He is not a prop; he stands for something.” Just what I did not know, but had to find out for some peace of mind.

I resumed walking along the road engrossed in my thoughts and found a small path, which led to an estuary, where small wading birds gathered. Approaching female walkers nodded a greeting as if relieved that my walking shoes, drink bottle and cap signified a ‘safe’ man.

Further up the path a woman walking a beautifully kept longhaired spaniel pulled off the walkway a long time before I was even near her to let me pass. She was of average height, reasonably attractive, but gave me only a furtive glance. I saw anguished eyes on a drawn face. About fifty metres behind her walked a tall man of solid build and a shaved head. A pair of wraparound sunglasses hid any touch of emotion on the face. He did not acknowledge our passing but stared impassively ahead, not taking his eyes off the woman with the dog, keeping pace with her as if he held on to her with an invisible leash. He seemed to be walking the woman just like she was walking her beloved pet. After reaching a safe distance I turned to watch them disappearing around a small headland. For a sad and fleeting moment the path had become a stage, and two actors were playing out the final scenes in a tragedy play called End of an Affair. My heart went out to the woman; the man looked incapable of changing. He also looked threatening.

Finally, the walkway led to the beach and that first initial blast of salt air. Just beyond the water’s edge, kite surfers skimmed across small waves attached by lines to kite-like sails hovering high above them. At times, they would rise into the air with the force of the wind against their sails. Black-backed gulls reeled overhead, dropping shells onto the sand until they split open, even if it took half a dozen attempts before revealing that treat of fresh shellfish.

The wind strength was perfect for these large seabirds. Once aloft, they can swoop and dive as easily as the tiny common gulls, and turn in huge arcs, their bodies freed by an invisible velocity. When that happens, a walk along the water’s edge is like taking part in an aerial ballet. Look up, and a moving tapestry of sailcloth mingles with the outstretched wings of the black-backed gulls, which seem to revel in the company of an even bigger ‘bird’. One’s senses are overwhelmed with the roar of the wind and surf, and a screeching as the gulls commence diving runs in mock air battles before arcing back around for another game.

III

As the sun went down and cars again lined up outside McDonald’s, I found myself back at Sir Ed’s statue. During that time, someone had placed a red posy of young pohutukawa stems at Ed’s feet. It seemed that the statue was being used as a site of solace, a place to remember and dwell on a distant past with a different set of values.

The wind had died now. Tomorrow, I must bring some flowers for Lady Di. Now, that is progress. And while I’m there, perhaps that first faint touch of a sea breeze will again caress my skin as if being touched by a phantom lover. When that happens, it will be time to heed her siren’s call and leave this modern world for those soft sensuous sands. There, we will hold each other close, her silken hair swirling in the wind as the tempest encircles us and takes us up, soaring and sharing in that incredible celebration of life between Nature and the human spirit.

Poetry Session 2: Carson / Harlow

2008-04-14T14:44:00.005+12:00

Orpheus

"Classics" is the theme of the session, and what I principally mean by that is the Greek and Latin classics -- particularly the former. Anne Carson is a professor of Classics, and has written some prodigiously learned books on the subject. Michael Harlow is part-Greek, and lived in the country for a while in the 1970s.

So much for the superficial connections, at any rate. Does this tell us anything useful about the two poets, or is it just an arbitrary juxtaposition? Watch this space -- this is where we'll be starting off at our session next Monday.

I hope you've all been listening to the cassettes I made you and getting more familiar with our poets in that medium as well as on the page ...

*

Some excellent backwards readings of Harlow were made at this session (Kath, take a bow). In general, the Jungian nature of his inspiration came up for a good deal of attention.

For further thoughts on ways into the classical epics, see the latest post on my own blog, The Imaginary Museum.

Reviews: Fiona Farrell

2008-04-07T12:07:00.007+12:00

One or two of you have been asking me to put up the texts of some of my reviews of authors included in the poetry section of our course. So here they are, without significant revisions or afterthoughts, as they appeared in (respectively) Landfall, brief and JAAM:

The Need to Gather Stones

Geoff Cochrane, 84-484. Wellington: VUP, 2007. ISBN 9780 86473 5584, 87 pages, RRP $25.
Fiona Farrell, The Pop-Up Book of Invasions. Auckland: AUP, 2007. ISBN 978 1 86940 388 1, 104 pages, RRP $25.

‘Four things are required by every work of art: a Place, and a Time, an Author, and a Cause of Invention.’ – The Speckled Book

And he’s feeling teetery and predisposed, and he feels it in the air like a fuzzy pastel buzz: the need to gather tools and summon energies, the need to try to start a new book. The need to gather stones and start again.

The first quote is from Fiona Farrell’s new book The Pop-Up Book of Invasions, written while she held the inaugural Rathcoola Writers’ Residency in County Cork, Ireland, in 2006. The second comes from Geoff Cochrane’s new poetry collection, 84-484, written (to all appearances) as he wandered around his old haunts in Wellington and, especially, Island Bay.

The two books are very different. So different, in fact, that it’s staggering that two writers of roughly the same generation could have such diverse outlooks and personae. “Pain distilled” was the description applied to Cochrane’s work in the Oxford Companion to NZ Literature. Farrell, on the other hand, paints herself here as a relaxed, somewhat garrulous travel companion, effortlessly at home with the craic, the pleasant meanderings of Irish life and culture.

Home & Abroad, then – pain / pleasure – male / female. A set of facile dichotomies could easily be established between these two poets’ latest projects, but I’m not sure that they would get us much nearer to understanding the essence of either book. It would be easy to argue that they were mutually exclusive. I prefer to see them as complementary: each supplying something the other lacks.

Let’s begin with Fiona Farrell. The most immediately striking thing about her book is the extensive body of notes included at the back. Farrell comments engagingly (and a little disingenuously?):

Poems should stand for themselves – and I hope these do – but when I go to readings I like the asides, just as I like the footnotes in books and the marginal scribblings of an irritable scribe.

Most of the time, I’d have to say that I couldn’t agree less. When I go to readings I like people to get to the point, read out the poem straight away, leave out all the lengthy explications altogether. So, as you can imagine, I came to these notes full of incipient disapproval. Only to be won over totally. The little comment about the “marginal scribblings of an irritable scribe” is a case in point.

In her introduction Farrell expounds on her choice of title, talking of the original Book of Invasions, “a compilation of eleven manuscripts describing the discovery of Ireland following the Creation and the Flood.”

The book is written in vellum by several hands, notably by a scribe called Muirges MacPaidin who grumbles in the margins that the light he is working in is bad or that he has lost the piece of pumice he uses to smooth the vellum or that the ruler he has been given to line the page is too thin. He died, probably of irritation, in 1543.

A more determined and driven author might have had no space for Muirges MacPaidin. But he would be quite a loss, I’d have to say. Especially as he’s clearly a model for Farrell herself in her marginal musings on so many evocatively (and somewhat absurdly) named texts: The Book of the Dun Cow, The Speckled Book, The Battler, The Yellow Book, The Black Book, even the Book of Kells …

But do the poems suffer from our growing need to turn to the back, check out the commentary before one can come to terms with the text itself? In some cases, I’d have to say, the back of the book does begin to overshadow the front. “The Way of the Dishes,” for instance, meant little to me until I’d read the notes. After which it fell perfectly into place.

And yet so many of the poems do stand so perfectly, so definitively, “for themselves,” that I’d prefer to see this as an outline rather than a critique of her method. The idea of a book which combines to form a complex whole, like a tessellated pavement or Byzantine mosaic, surely deserves ungrudging admiration.

Which poems would I single out as freestanding compositions? Well, somewhat surprisingly, given the author’s own reservations (mainly over her lack of Irish), I think her translation of “The Lament of the Nun of Beare” an absolute delight:

Bony my hands now
that once touched
splendid men.
Too bony to rise over
sweet boys again!

There’s a strange, syncopated energy in these irregular stanzas:

I was wanton in youth
and I’m glad I was bold!
If I’d been more cautious
I’d still sit here: old

in my ancient cloak –
when the bare hills’ covering
is the fine icy cloak
flung down by the King.

In her own voice, too, there are some triumphant pieces here: “Genealogy,” for example, which cries out to be quoted in full, flowing as it does from the two dismissive quotes about the Irish at the poem’s head: “a ready-made nucleus of degradation and disorder’ (Carlyle); “ a tribe of squalid apes” (Froude):

Vermin begat Squalor
who married the fourth son of
Hunger who fathered the Pig-
child and the Rat-daughter who
mothered Filth who bore
Raggy Mary who wed an
Empty Glass who was the
son of not-enough-land whose
wife was Dull Superstition …

There’s a certain kind of verse which arises from one more residency in one more evocative spot. This is not it. Farrell’s immigration has clearly been pricked and energised by her six months away from Otanerito, where the previous owners “spelled out ‘Long Bay’ in daffodils across the steep hillside. The flowers come up every spring, growing more blurred and chaotic by the year as the plants multiply.”

What more perfect image for this whole iconography of assimilation and invasion? Like the daffodils, when one closes Farrell’s book one’s abiding impression is of a whole rather than a collection of disparate pieces: “It’s hard to make out the individual letters now.”

Geoff Cochrane’s 84-484, one has to say, lacks the unity and focus of The Pop-Up Book of Invasions. It also lacks Farrell’s light tone and engaging delivery. Cochrane’s is a grimmer, more existential enterprise – part of an ongoing project running through his last few books of poems from VUP.

In fact, if one wanted an international analogue for the demands Cochrane makes of his reader, one would have to look to a poet like grim old Peter Reading: the sudden shifts of register, the refusal to explicate a pattern once it’s been formed.

I have been to Wellington, and to Island Bay (to Ireland, for that matter – even to County Cork); reading Geoff Cochrane, though, I begin to wonder if I’ve ever been to me … The central title piece of the book, “84-484,” begins in an offhand manner by recalling that “84-484 was my grandparents’ telephone number in the 1950s. Absent from my head for donkey’s years, it made its return last night as I was watching Antiques Roadshow.”

My parents and myself
lived with my father’s parents.

Oh, no, I thought – not another genealogy poem ...

I remember Eileen’s sewing patterns,
Percy’s pink Free Lances,
the marzipan mice and Napoleon cake
of my fifth or sixth birthday.

Wait a minute, though – as the finely judged details of a Lowell-esque life-study begin to appear:

If and when it suits me,
I can also recall breaking a window,
poohing wickedly on the wicker chair in the shed,
slicing my finger open with a razor blade.
(The neat white tick of the scar
is still quite visible.)

Now the true form of the poem comes into focus, the inimitable lines of a Cochrane original – “poohing wickedly on the wicker chair …” – the almost compulsive honesty of shameful recollections most of us would be happy to suppress.

And so it goes on. Because, like Farrell, Cochrane too is a novelist. In a very different vein, admittedly, but with the same finely-honed skills of pacing and cumulative detail. We learn more about his grandparents; then, as his grandfather Percy drops out of the picture, more and more about the “troubled and troubling and troublesome” Eileen: “An ageing Ophelia determined to remain dismayed by sex.”

Percy had been dead for seven or eight years, but he woke me up one night by trying to strangle me …

Eileen had ceased to sleep,. but we rubbed along together like a couple of shrewd old crooks. I’d come home boozed in the wee hours and she’d let me in without protest. …

Odours of dripping and gas. A stove of Transylvanian blackness. Stubby flames of turquoise and cerise.

“In the end, of course, the cops took an interest.” But even that wasn’t quite the end, one more scene remains, from journey’s end, the old people’s home Day Room:

Eileen waits until her daughter is talking to a nurse, then turns to me and winks. “The next time you visit, bring a little car and I’ll come away with you!”

But I have no home to take her to. No car, no flat, no money. “I’ll see what I can do,” I say. While smiling a bum’s ambiguous, impotent smile.

It’s a lacerating journey, this one, through distant hells of memory. Cochrane spares himself nothing – one reason why we forgive him such harsh, accurate judgements on others. But how is this different from any other slice-of-life realistic short story? Cochrane’s unerring sense of language illuminates the whole with strange flashes of manic, electric brilliance: that “bum’s ambiguous, impotent smile,” the white-haired heads that “tip and loll.”

In one sense, then, Cochrane’s poetic has got looser, more inclusive over the years. His sense of form has enlarged to include short stories, “Worksheet” poems, haiku-like images in the same kaleidoscopic mix. His sense of style has got ever more acute and deadly, though. He’s a risk-taker, noting anything and everything which might contribute to a poem, then leaving us questioning what the poem actually was.

The ambiguous hero of “How it Begins:” Ray Green, 48, “the unembarrassed author of four rectangular novels of modest thickness,” is a little younger than his creator, the – hopefully proud, rather than simply “unembarrassed” – author of two novels, two books of short stories and ten poetry collections , but he appears to have a similar philosophy of life: “All you can do is tend your own patch, order and illuminate your own little corner of the world.”

We used to use amphetamines ourselves, back in the seventies, but with this difference: we didn’t know we were meant to get tooled-up and riot, raid banks and slay pizza-delivery boys.

Cochrane’s is a poetry of survival – a report on the human condition from one of its furthest outposts, bulletins from the barricades of the inner-city.

It is, admittedly, a far harsher voice than Farrell’s, with fewer solutions and more hard questions. And yet what I admire about both is the ability to include the violence and disorder of our past and present without being choked into silence.

Farrell talks of the potato famine and its aftermath, the Irish hegira, with the grace of a distant descendant. Yet she’s well aware of the dangers of pure evocation:

Then the poet comes and / sees in the flop of failure / the outlines of some old / hero whom another poet / made from grunt and stab / on some muddy hill.

Cochrane puts it more simply: “The need to gather stones and start again.”

- Jack Ross, Landfall 214 (2007): 175-79.

Reviews: Michael Harlow

2008-04-07T12:06:00.006+12:00

Michael Harlow. Cassandra’s Daughter. ISBN 1-86940-332-0. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 2005. RRP $21.99.

The things that are good here are the things that are always good in Michael Harlow’s poetry: the intricately hypnotic diction, the elegant evasions of what anyone else would think to say about some particular theme or character. The title-poem seems particularly strong in this respect. Who else would have thought to make Cassandra’s daughter, (“Cassy for short”): “in love with how / one word wants another / with astonishing ease” (p.2). The rest of us, I fear, would have concentrated (like W. B. Yeats’s “Leda and the Swan”) on “how last night / in her dreamtime a wooden horse / appeared.”

Perhaps that’s what the book as a whole is about, also. At first sight it seems more of an instalment and less a finished thing than, say, Giotto’s Elephant (1991), his previous collection – despite having had (presumably) such a long gestation. Even the blurb seems to convey this uncertainty. “A series of lyric poems and prose-poems in which the ‘persistent imaginal’ goes in search of a language to articulate something of the curious and surreal strangeness of the everyday,” is hardly the most specific of formulae.

“A sudden blow: the great wings beating still / Above the staggering girl …” I wouldn’t trade that Yeats poem for anything. “A shudder in the loins engenders there / The broken wall, the burning roof and tower / And Agamemnon dead.” And yet, and yet, Harlow’s Cassy actually sounds like a small girl chatting to an elderly stranger: “Would you like to / hear me sing? I can almost dance, / too.” Yeats’s heroine, by contrast, seems a mere foil, a mask he uses to interrogate his own fantasies of power and sexual fulfilment.

It’s nice to have both, I guess. Perhaps the most encouraging thing about the lack of a clearly-focussed theme in Cassandra’s Daughter is that it implies that the persistent imaginal in still in quest of that elusive language of expression, which might lead us to hope for another instalment in the very near future. In the meantime, a lot of the poems here will shortly be as dog-eared as their counterparts in my battered old copy of Yeats’s Collected Poems.

- Jack Ross, brief 32 (2005): 105.

Reviews: Michele Leggott

2008-04-07T12:04:00.007+12:00

Michele Leggott. as far as I can see. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1999.

It’s always difficult to review books whose authors have undergone extraordinary or painful personal experiences. Wystan Curnow’s Cancer Diary springs to mind – or, going to a further extreme, the work of Paul Celan. I suppose, in the final analysis, it really highlights the dilemma of writing a review in the first place: the (inevitable) aching, raw, exposed nerves that characterise almost anyone who’s gone to that much trouble to communicate; the blasé indifference of the average reader. But a review is a reaction, really – description of a work, a reading in progress. The more magisterial it tries to sound, the less it does justice to the shifting moods and sensibilities which inform any reading of any book.

Michele Leggott is losing her “eyesight to the condition called retinitis pigmentosa,” she tells us on the back of this, her fourth book of poems, fourth in that stellar sequence running from Like This? (1988), through Swimmers, Dancers (1991), to DIA (1994). “Standard print is impossible, and I have found other ways to read.” On the personal level, the only possible reaction to this is sympathy: horror, too, at the prospect of losing one’s own access to the visual world. On the intellectual level, one wonders how the poet can deal with this in her work. Will her imagery shift from predominantly visual to tactile? Will memory take over where bibliography has left off?

The questions seem almost frivolous, but they have to be asked. I love Paul Celan, but the Nobel-Prize-winning Nellie Sachs, another concentration camp survivor, leaves me comparatively cold. Homer, Milton, Borges … and John Heath-Stubbs: there seem to be almost as many precedents for the sightless poet as there are ways of invoking the muse.

Do you see me? I am falling out of a blue sky where my days were as dancers in a maze, sure-footed and smiling. I stood in my garden pulling loquats off the tree and eating them to be full of spring.

These lines, from the sequence of prose-poems “A woman, a rose, and what has it do with her or they with one another?” are perhaps as good a place as any to start trying to read her new book. I say trying to read because I’m still not entirely sure how to read a Michele Leggott poem. To read these poems, at any rate. Nor have I found the other reviewers much help. Comments abut “exquisite sureness of touch” and “virtuoso command of language” may well be true, but they’re not really concrete enough to be useful.

Her phrasing fills me with questions. Why are dancers in a maze especially “sure-footed and smiling”? I suppose because they can see where they’re going (“Can you see me?”), so the cramped hedges don’t impede them. I don’t, myself, eat loquats to be “full of spring” – scrubby little yellow things. That reads like a cliché to me: imprecise and Tennysonian. I have to say, though , that those are the kinds of phrases the book is full of. They tumble out of the “book of tears”:

“the grasses of summer … together we make morning” (p.56)

“In their faces were our faces all dewy at the centre of the world.” (p.53)

“An afternoon flight. Hot rain. I spent months getting that right.” (p.54)

“All dewy”? It’s not so much Biblical – “the sons of the morning shouted together for joy” – as pseudo-Biblical: reminiscent of Thus Spake Zarathustra, or (more to the point) Robin Hyde’s pseudo-Nietzschean Book of Nadath. Why is “I spent months getting that right” in italics? Is it a quote (or “sampling”) from the Iris Wilkinson [Robin Hyde] papers at the University of Auckland (a procedure foreshadowed on her acknowledgements page)? DIA, too, was full of quotes, but more integrated into the texture of the poems. I take it, actually, that “I spent months getting it right” is a stepping outside the frame by the author, a way of getting us to look more closely at “An afternoon flight. Hot rain.” But it’s difficult to know.

So what? Do we have to know? This book of tears is undoubtedly full of things that are easy to understand (even in discussing it it’s notable how one’s critical vocabulary gravitates towards metaphors of sight: “vivid flashes” – “precise imagery” – “exact vision”):

At the ticket office my documentation was examined. Are you blind? The fuller’s boy asked. He was in charge of the fare. Yes I said I am. In the change was a small silver leaf.

This comes at the end of a long list of little-known constellations (Tucana, Vela, Volans) addressed to a “second person so recently singular”. Is this someone else who is bereaved, separated? Or is the poet simply speaking to herself? I worry, too, about that “fuller’s boy”. No doubt he was rude, insensitive, but he was hardly to know that he’d got it so terribly wrong. I feel a little sorry for him, despite the pain he undoubtedly caused. A terrible scene, but it’s described with such serenity, such poise. The silver leaf seems more personified, really.

Perhaps I’m making difficulties for myself where there are none, but I find myself curiously uninvolved in Leggott’s world of apples, beautiful children, boats, stars and sea. It seems, yes, imprecise and over-poetic. “The poet,” Hermann Broch tells us in The Death of Virgil, “is heeded only if he extols the world, never if he portrays it as it is.” I don’t really feel I meet many other people in there. The other characters are mostly reflections of some mood of the author’s (“second person so recently singular”). Sometimes there are word invocations which I recognise: “take me to the river” from a Talking Heads song, or “dance me to the end of love” from Leonard Cohen, but even then the point isn’t obvious to me.

“Much of what I have written here is an effort to remember seeing, something to put against the dark while I searched for other ways of understanding where it has put me,” she tells us, but the anguish of this experience seems masked, distant. That Fuller’s story has more the tone of anecdote than parable. Leggott, then, is no Borges the memorious, deep in the library of Babel, no Homer losing himself in gods and bright-greaved heroes, no Milton waiting in his armchair to be milked. Does she have to be? Of course not. She’s chosen to write this way for a reason – perhaps in order to sidestep the long twentieth century Modernist reaction to Romanticism. I can’t say for sure, but I think that Leggott is a natural Modernist (all those years spent poring over Zukofsky?) trying to construct a Romantic from within herself. Which is presumably where Ursula Bethell, Robin Hyde, and Mary Stanley come in – as important precedents.

Undoubtedly that’s an interesting project. But I’ll not resort to describing these as women’s poems, though they are obviously the poems of a woman. This heightened diction, combined with her usual formal complexity and inventiveness don’t really fit into any clear category of classification. She is aiming, I suspect, at no less than a new voice of feeling accessible to all.

I am a dream best left to the ache
and space of letters virtual
upon a screen

is how the first poem in the book begins. “Letters virtual” to me is like fingernails on a blackboard – that unidiomatic inversion of noun and adjective (“No poetic inversions!” thundered Ezra Pound in his famous letter to Harriet Monroe). What’s the point of a book, though, if it only tells you what you already know? Michele Leggott’s book challenges my notion of poetry to the limits – not by being hard but soft, not by being anguished but decorous.

That poem concludes:

yes wake

Perhaps this is our long-promised awakening. I would like to end more confidently, but questions remain. I feel a little distanced still, kept at arms-length; and yet there is so much here – sharpnesses of phrase, ingenuities of texture – that compels admiration. I’m afraid the reading has only begun.

- Jack Ross, JAAM 13 (2000): 158-60.

Michele Leggott. Milk & Honey. ISBN 1-86940-334-7. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 2005. RRP $27.99.

My first impression of this book (once I’d got past James Fryer’s very cool cover: stark colours, hieratic tarot imagery, ceremonial theatrical profusion) was that it was nice to see so many old friends gathered together. A great deal of this work, including some pretty major pieces, has appeared in brief over the last few years. I was, however, a little disappointed that the “Cairo vessel” illustration we included in #29 (2004): p.6, had not been included. Turning to the elegy “I dreamed your book was written …” (included in brief 28 (2003): 103-4) I also missed the context given by our Brunton memorial issue: the Egyptian paraphernalia of his previously-unpublished short play “The Excursion:” Book of the Dead rhetoric and imagery.

That, then, was the second impression: maybe some of the pieces needed more back-up and explanation, of the type that their brief printings had been able to supply.

After that, I turned to and read the book through again: carefully, from beginning to end, instead of simply picking out the plums one by one, and began to see Michele’s design more clearly. The poems here are conceived on a large scale, and they’re very “poetic” poems indeed – Michele allows herself an enthusiastic rapturous diction which would be anathema to any card-carrying Modernist. Her interest, clearly, is in a poetry of transcendence, heady invocations of sex and romance, sun and sea and sand. Taken as a whole, I was astonished to find even cynical old me surrendering to it. The “I dreamed your book was written …” poem takes clearer shape as a joint Robin Hyde / Alan Brunton piece (the title, after all, comes from one of the poems included in Michele’s edition of Hyde’s Collected Poems), but also as a more general point of celebration on a kind of graph of the emotions charted by her book’s entire trajectory.

Longer than any of her previous collections, this one also strikes me as the most assured and relaxed. It’s hard to imagine her writing a better book than this, which might tempt us to hail it as a swansong. Actually, though, it leaves me keener than ever to see just what this poet will do next.

- Jack Ross, brief 32 (2005): 103-7.

Reviews: Graham Lindsay

2008-04-07T12:02:00.005+12:00

Graham Lindsay, Lazy Wind Poems. Auckland: AUP, 2003. ISBN 1-86940-285-5. 72 pp. RRP $21.99.

All of the books in this issue of brief deserve far more space than I can give them, but that goes particularly for Graham Lindsay’s latest. It’s nice to see the old master at work again, and to see assembled the inspired domesticity poems which have been appearing here and there over the last few years. I actually wrote Graham a fan letter when I read the painfully brilliant “ballad of Fanny Grace” in brief 16, but seeing it in context now makes me think even more of it: “Love your mother-in-law / when her daughter / (finally coming to bed) / tells you how she was / just tucking her mother / in for the night” [56-7] – it’s tempting just to go on reciting from this succession of mad, pointed anecdotes about senile dementia and the love and good humour that make it possible to endure it.

The book’s divided into four parts: “making love,” which takes us from an ultrasound scan of the new baby, through childbirth, birthdays, first words: “ ‘Bye bye dart’ [17]. There’s a lot of babytalk in there, and a lot of household detail of the kind which I’d normally skip, but Graham makes it work in two ways: firstly through the sheer fervour of his surrender to parental love: “Close the little papa’s eyes / close’m eyes, close’m eyes” [11], and secondly by his skill in ambushing us with the disconcerting detail:

He’s the only

person in the world
I’d let use my handkerchief
then put it back in my pocket. [19]

The second section, “you are here,” begins with “cab dub,” a brilliant and disconcerting series of discourses from the backseat of a taxi-cab, then moves through rugby to a strangely dislocated local version of Peter Rabbit. “Big feet,” the third section, consists largely of family poems (including the mother-in-law one quoted above), and finally “swingdoor” takes us back around into the poet’s more conventionally introspective territory: “All this beauty fading away.” [72] This really is a book to die for.

- Jack Ross, brief 29 (2004): 82.

Reminder: Reading on Wednesday 26/3

2008-03-22T11:56:00.004+13:00

Firstly, I'm pasting in this email I've been sent by Michele Leggott, to remind you of her open invitation to the first in her ongoing series of readings by local and student writers:

POETRY READING
AT OGH LOUNGE 26 MARCH, 5-7 PM
ALL WELCOME!

LOUNGE #1 WEDNESDAY 26 MARCH
Old Government House Lounge, Princes St and Waterloo Quadrant, 5-7 pm

Featuring local poets and student writers:

Rosetta Allan
Helena Dunn
Rowan French
Bernard Griffen
Joanna Grochowicz
Tim Heath
Dena Pezet
Chris Price
Jack Ross
Kirsten Warner

Free entry. Food and drinks for sale in the Buttery. Information:
Michele Leggott
m.leggott@auckland.ac.nz
373 7599 x87342
POSTER: http://www.nzepc.auckland.ac.nz/events/lounge01_poster.pdf

The LOUNGE readings are a continuing project of the New Zealand Electronic Poetry Centre (nzepc), Auckland University Press and Auckland University English Department in association with the Staff Common Room Club at Old Government House.

Secondly, I've made a poetry tape for each of you to supplement the Course Anthology. I can pass them on to Mary to give to you at our next session, on Monday 7th April. Or, alternatively, if you'd rather not wait that long, I can bring them along to the reading on Wednesday. Whichever suits you best.

Poetry Session 1: Howe / Leggott

2008-03-18T10:13:00.006+13:00

[Holloway Press]

"Into the Archive" was the theme of the session, and that's one reason why I brought quite so many books and papers along with me.

A close parallel can be seen between Susan Howe's work on Emily Dickinson and other "submerged" New England women writers and visionaries (not to mention ambiguous figures such as Charles Peirce and Herman Melville) and Michele Leggott's work on New Zealand equivalents such as Robin Hyde, Ursula Bethell and Lola Ridge (not to mention the sixties and seventies writers she and her fellow-editors Murray Edmond and Alan Brunton unearthed for Big Smoke (AUP, 2000)).

Susan Howe's complex layouts, visual sensibility, and methods of poetic sampling also proved useful when we attempted to read some of the more experimental pages in Leggott's DIA (1994), though the differences between their poetic projects become more and more apparent from this point on. Howe's obsession with the bloody implications of past repression and normalisation are quite tonally distinct from Leggott's more affectionate celebration of an overlooked past of gardens, beaches, family albums and romantic love.

We discussed, in this connection, "Dear Heart," from Leggott's second book Swimmers, Dancers (AUP, 1991), but then went on to examine her own version of the Ishtar / Persephone myth: the seven gates of the underworld in the form of meditations on her growing blindness in "a woman, a rose, and what has it to do with her or they with one another" (from as far as I can see (AUP, 1999)).

At this point, paradoxically, we noted an opening up and enlargement of Leggott's poetic work, in the expansive Milk and Honey (AUP, 2005) and (more recently) the deluxe art-book Journey to Portugal (Holloway Press, 2007). Gretchen Albrecht's colourful collages in the latter book also emphasise how much Leggott has continued to concentrate on the visual arts, rather than moving her poetic palette into imagery of touch and sound - as some reviewers seemed to expect of her after as far as I can see.

This - rather astonishing - enlarging of her poetry is the note we ended on. The next session will be on Nigel Cox, so make sure you've read Dirty Work before then.

[NB: I've put up some new links to sound recordings of Susan Howe and Peter Reading. Recordings of the New Zealand poets are all accessible in the AUP collections Classic and Contemporary NZ Poets in Performance (2006-7).]

Interview with Paul Muldoon

2008-03-17T15:21:00.005+13:00

My plan is to put up a post after each session, giving a rough overview of what we covered, and also any further points you might like to explore over the next fortnight.

There wasn't time for much more than the "Make yourself a Susan Howe poem" exercise in our first, introductory, meeting, but I'm hoping to make up for that tonight.

There's an interesting interview with Paul Muldoon in the Listener for February 23-38 (pp.36-38). There are various points there about the influence (or, rather, the long shadow) of Seamus Heaney over his work which will be helpful for our purposes, I think.

One critical expression to ponder might be the anxiety of influence, a theory outlined in Harold Bloom's classic 1973 book of the same title. I quote from his own summary:

Every poem is a misinterpretation of a parent poem. A poem is not an overcoming of anxiety, but is that anxiety. Poets' misinterpretations of poems are more drastic than critics' misinterpretations or criticism, but this is only a difference in degree and not at all in kind. There are no interpretations but only misinterpretations, and so all criticism is prose poetry.

This very influential idea is found throughout Muldoon's recent book of essays, The End of the Poem (2006), where he appears to argue that every other poem that ever existed can be cited as a clue for understanding the one under discussion ...

Administration Guide: Further Reading

2008-03-04T11:43:00.008+13:00

Prescribed Texts:

Fiction:

Cox, Nigel. Dirty Work. 1987. Wellington: VUP, 2006.

Jones, Lloyd. Mr Pip. Auckland: Penguin, 2006.

Neale, Emma. Relative Strangers. Auckland: Vintage, 2006.

Randall, Charlotte. Within the Kiss. Auckland: Penguin, 2002.

Poetry:

Book of Readings [available from student notes in Quad Block B basement]

Suggested Further Reading:

[More specific lists of relevant secondary reading will be posted here during the course of the year]

Poetry:

Broom, Sarah. Contemporary British and Irish Poetry: An Introduction. Houndmills, Basingstoke & New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2006.

Classic New Zealand Poets in Performance. Ed. Jack Ross & Jan Kemp. Auckland: Auckland UP, 2006.

Contemporary New Zealand Poets in Performance. Ed. Jack Ross & Jan Kemp. Auckland: Auckland UP, 2007.

New New Zealand Poets in Performance. Ed. Jack Ross & Jan Kemp. Auckland: Auckland UP, 2008.

Martin, Isabel. Reading Peter Reading. Newcastle: Bloodaxe, 2000.

Administration Guide: Assignments

2008-03-04T11:43:00.006+13:00

NB: This is a 30-point paper, 100 percent internally assessed.

Submit assignments either in the Assignment slot on level 2 of the Atrium building, or directly to either Mary or myself during the workshop.

The work you hand in should adhere to the following guidelines:

Typed.
Double-spaced.
Written on one side only of A4 sheets.
Margins at least 2.5 cm (1 inch) all around (including top and bottom).

The marks will be divided up as follows:

Creative Response

Worth: 20 %
Due in: Session 4
Length: up to 3 pages

This is the first piece you will be handing in. We invite you to take off on a creative tangent from one of the authors or pieces presented in the course. Your own piece might take the form of a poem or poetic sequence, a piece of fiction, a script, or even a picture or pagework. Let us know what you have in mind, and we can discuss it further.

Journal

Worth: 20 %
Due in: Sessions 4 & 12
Length: up to 4,000 words in final form

This should be a series of thoughts and reactions to the materials and ideas covered in the course kept throughout the year. We expect at least some reaction to each of the authors, presented either as straight journal entries or in the form of an online blog. you’re welcome to contribute to this blog.

You may wish to set up your own linked companion blog instead, however.

You will be asked to submit your journal twice in the year. The first time for general reactions and comment, the second time for assessment.

Seminars

Worth: 20 %
Due in: by Session 10
Length: c.4-5 pages

You will be asked to give two seminars in the course of the year – one on themes, ideas, or texts primarily associated with the poetry section of the course and the other predominantly on issues associated with fiction. You should aim at giving one in each semester, but we’ll try to be flexible when it comes to scheduling the presentations.

The seminar should be roughly fifteen minutes long, with an additional fifteen minutes set aside for questions, making up a full half-hour.

The seminars will be assessed in terms of content and presentation but you will not be required to present them in written form. It is envisaged that you will develop one of your seminars into your Research Essay. In the seminar you should: aim to interest other students in the text and topic, outline the issues raised by your topic, indicate some interesting ways of looking at the question, and find ways to engage your audience in active exchanges concerning the topic.

Preparation of the seminar should act both as brainstorming and a plan for your eventual Research essay.

Research Essay

Worth: 40 %
Due in: 17th October
Length: up to 5,000 words

This is your major piece of work for the year:

It can be an extended literary-critical examination of one (or more) of the authors, works or themes discussed during the year.

If you wish, you can present your research essay online – on the model of one of the essays linked to author pages on the nzepc – and link or attach it to the course website.

Alternatively, you might like to take a more creative approach and do a piece of writing (perhaps in the manner of Susan Howe or Anne Carson) which incorporates research and innovative form.

The seminar (whether it be the first or second that you give) in which you discuss the scope and ramifications of the project you have in mind, must have been presented to the class by session 10.

Administration Guide: Timetable

2008-03-04T11:41:00.005+13:00

Meetings: 3 hours Fortnightly (Monday 4-7 pm / AT 3.49).

WEEK:

1 - (3/3): Introduction [MP / JR]

2 - (17/3): Poetry: Howe / Leggott [JR]

(21/3-4/4): [EASTER]

3 - (7/4): Fiction: Dirty Work [MP]

4 - (21/4): Poetry: Harlow / Carson [JR]
Creative Response (20%)
& first presentation of Journal

5 - (5/5): Fiction: Within the Kiss [MP]

6 - (19/5): Poetry: Graham Lindsay [JR]

(30/5-11/7): [MID-YEAR BREAK]

7 - (14/7): Poetry: Reading / Muldoon [JR]

8 - (28/7): Fiction: Relative Strangers [MP]

9 - (11/8): Fiction: Mr Pip [MP]

(25/8-5/9): [MID-SEMESTER BREAK]

10 - (8/9): Poetry: Fiona Farrell [JR]

11 - (22/9): Fiction [MP]

12 - (6/10): Conclusion [MP / JR]
Journal (20%)

(17/10):
Research Essay (40%)

Suitable dates for each of your two Seminar presentations (each worth 10% of the final grade) should be chosen in consultation with Mary Paul or Jack Ross, depending on whether the major focus is on fiction or poetry.

Reading, Peter

2008-01-19T14:44:00.004+13:00

[Lannan Foundation]

Peter Reading (b. 1946)

Author Pages

Bloodaxe Books

Contemporary Writers

Sound Recording

Bibliography:

POETRY:

Water and Waste. Outposts, 1970
For the Municipality's Elderly. Secker & Warburg, 1974
The Prison Cell and Barrel Mystery. Secker & Warburg, 1976
Nothing for Anyone. Secker & Warburg, 1977
Fiction. Secker & Warburg, 1979
Tom O'Bedlam's Beauties. Secker & Warburg, 1981
5 x 5 x 5 x 5 x 5. Ceolfrith Press, 1983
Diplopic. Secker & Warburg, 1983
C. Secker & Warburg, 1984
Ukelele Music. Secker & Warburg, 1985
Essential Reading. Secker & Warburg, 1986
Stet. Secker & Warburg, 1986
Final Demands. Secker & Warburg, 1988
Perduta Gente. Secker & Warburg, 1989
Shitheads. Squirrelprick Press, 1990
Three in One. Chatto & Windus, 1991
Evagatory. Chatto & Windus, 1992
Last Poems. Chatto & Windus, 1994
Collected Poems Volume 1: 1970-84. Bloodaxe, 1995
Penguin Modern Poets 3 (Mick Imlah, Glyn Maxwell, Peter Reading). Penguin, 1995
Collected Poems Volume 2: 1985-96. Bloodaxe, 1996
Chinoiserie. Bay Press, 1997
Work in Regress. Bloodaxe, 1997
Apophthegmatic. Bay Press, 1999
Ob. Bloodaxe, 1999
Repetitions. Cleveland State University, 1999
Marfan. Bloodaxe, 2000
Faunal. Bloodaxe, 2002
Collected Poems: 1997-2003. Bloodaxe, 2003
-273.15. Bloodaxe, 2005

Randall, Charlotte

2008-01-19T14:43:00.006+13:00

[NZ Book Council Writers Pages]

Charlotte Randall

Author Pages:

NZ Book Council

Bibliography:

Novels:

Dead Sea Fruit (1995)
The Curative (Penguin Books, 2000)
Within The Kiss (Penguin Books, 2002)
What Happen Then, Mr Bones? (Penguin Books, 2004)

Neale, Emma

2008-01-19T14:43:00.005+13:00

[NZ Book Council Writers Pages]

Emma Neale (b.1969)

Author Pages:

Aotearoa New Zealand Poetry Sound Archive

NZ Book Council

Bibliography:

POETRY:

Sleeve-notes. Auckland: Godwit, 1999.
How to Make a Million. Auckland: Godwit, 2002.
Double Jointed. [with Rob Allan, John Allison, Claire Beynon, John Dolan, Larry Matthews, Martha Morseth, James Norcliffe, Peter Olds, Jenny Powell-Chalmers and Trevor Reeves]. Wellington: Inkweed, 2003.
Spark. Wellington: Steele Roberts, 2007.

FICTION:

Night Swimming. Auckland: Random House, 1998/Australia: Anchor, 1999.
Little Moon. Auckland: Random House, 2001.
Double Take. Auckland: Random House, 2003.
Relative Strangers. Auckland: Random House, 2006.

EDITED:

Creative Juices. Auckland: Flamingo, 2002.
Best New Zealand Poems 2004. Wellington: IIML, 2004.
Swings and Roundabouts. Auckland: Godwit, 2008.

Muldoon, Paul

2008-01-19T14:42:00.008+13:00

[Princeton University]

Paul Muldoon (b. 1951)

Author Pages

Contemporary Writers

Official Paul Muldoon Homepage

Poetry Foundation

YouTube Video clip 1

YouTube Video clip 2

Bibliography:

POETRY:

Knowing My Place. Ulsterman Publications, 1971
New Weather. Faber and Faber, 1973
Spirit of Dawn. Ulsterman Publications, 1975
Mules. Faber and Faber, 1977
Names and Addresses. Ulsterman Publications, 1978
Immram. Gallery Books, 1980
The O-O's Party, New Year's Eve. Gallery Books, 1980
Why Brownlee Left. Faber and Faber, 1980
Out of Siberia. Gallery Books, 1982
Quoof. Faber and Faber, 1983
The Wishbone. Gallery Books, 1984
Selected Poems 1968-1983. Faber and Faber, 1986
Meeting the British. Faber and Faber, 1987
Madoc: A Mystery. Faber and Faber, 1990
The Annals of Chile. Faber and Faber, 1994
The Prince of the Quotidian. Gallery Books, 1994
Kerry Slides. Gallery Books, 1996
New Selected Poems 1968-1994 Faber and Faber, 1996
The Last Thesaurus. (illustrations by Rodney Rigby). Faber and Faber, 1996
Hopewell Haiku. Warwick Press (US), 1997
The Noctuary of Narcissus Batt. (illustrations by Markéta Prachatická). Faber and Faber, 1997
Hay. Faber and Faber, 1998
Poems 1968-1998. Faber and Faber, 2001
Moy Sand and Gravel. Faber and Faber, 2002
Medley for Morin Khur. Enitharmon, 2005
Sixty Instant Messages to Tom Moore. Modern Haiku Press, 2005
Horse Latitudes. Faber and Faber, 2006

DRAMA:

Shining Brow. Faber and Faber, 1993
Six Honest Serving Men. Gallery Books, 1995
Bandanna: An Opera in Two Acts and a Prologue. Faber and Faber, 1999
Aristophanes. The Birds (adaptation). Gallery Books, 1999
Vera of Las Vegas. Gallery Books, 2001

TRANSLATED:

The Astrakhan Cloak / Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill. Gallery Books, 1992

EDITED:

The Scrake of Dawn: Poems by Young People from Northern Ireland. Blackstaff Press in association with the Arts Council of Northern Ireland, 1979
The Faber Book of Contemporary Irish Poetry. Faber and Faber, 1986
The Faber Book of Beasts. Faber and Faber, 1997
The Oxford and Cambridge May Anthologies 2000: Poetry. Varsity/Cherwell, 2000

PROSE:

The End of the Poem: 'All Souls Night' by WB Yeats. Oxford University Press, 2000
To Ireland, I. Oxford University Press, 2000
Reverse Flannery: Magical Tales of Ireland. Random House, 2003
The End of the Poem: Oxford Lectures in Poetry. Faber and Faber, 2006

Lindsay, Graham

2008-01-19T14:42:00.007+13:00

[NZ Book Council Writers Pages]

Graham Lindsay (b. 1952)

Author Pages:

Aotearoa New Zealand Poetry Sound Archive

NZ Book Council

nzepc

Bibliography

POETRY:

Thousand-Eyed Eel. Taylors Mistake: Hawk Press, 1976.
Public. Dunedin: Ridge-Pole, 1980.
Big Boy. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1986.
Return to Earth. Christchurch: Hazard Press, 1991.
The Subject. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1994.
Legend of the Cool Secret. Christchurch: Sudden Valley Press, 1999.
Lazy Wind Poems. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 2003.

EDITED:

Morepork. 1-3. Dunedin: Ridge-Pole (1979-80).

Howe, Susan

2008-01-19T14:41:00.012+13:00

[LINEbreak Electronic Poetry Center]

Susan Howe (b. 1937)

Author Pages

Poetry Foundation

Poets.org

Sound Recording

Bibliography:

POETRY:

Hinge Picture, Cherry Valley/Telephone Books (Cherry Valley, NY), 1974.
Chanting at the Crystal Sea, Fire Exit/Corbett (Boston, MA), 1975.
The Western Borders, Tuumba (Willits, CA), 1976.
Secret History of the Dividing Line, Telephone Books (New York), 1978.
Cabbage Gardens, Fathom (Chicago, IL), 1979.
Deep in a Forest of Herods, Pharos (New Haven, CT), 1979.
The Liberties, Loon (Guilford, CT), 1980.
Pythagorean Silence, Montemora Foundation (New York), 1982.
Defenestration of Prague, Kulchur Foundation (New York), 1983.
Articulation of Sound Forms in Time, Awede (Windsor, VT), 1987.
A Bibliography of the King's Book, or, Eikon Basilke, Paradigm (Providence, RI), 1989.
The Europe of Trusts: Selected Poems, Sun & Moon (Los Angeles, CA), 1990.
Singularities, Wesleyan University Press (Middletown, CT), 1990.
The Nonconformist's Memorial, limited edition with illustrations by Robert Mangold, Gren Fell Press (New York), 1992, New Directions, (New York), 1993.
Frame Structures: Early Poems, 1974-79, New Directions, 1996.
Pierce-Arrow, New Directions, 1999.
The Midnight, New Directions, 2003.
Souls of the Labadie Tract, New Directions, 2007.

PROSE:

My Emily Dickinson, North Atlantic (Berkeley, CA), 1985.
Incloser, Weaselsleeves Press (Santa Fe, NM), 1992.
The Birth-Mark: Unsettling the Wilderness in American Literary History, Wesleyan University Press (Hanover, CT), 1993.

Leggott, Michele

2008-01-19T14:41:00.011+13:00

[NZ Book Council Writers Pages]

Michele Leggott (b. 1956)

Author Pages:

Aotearoa New Zealand Poetry Sound Archive

NZ Book Council

nzepc

Bibliography:

POETRY:

Like This? Poems. Christchurch: Caxton Press, 1988.
Swimmers, Dancers. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1991.
DIA. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1994.
As Far As I Can See. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1999.
Milk & Honey. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 2005; Cambridge: Salt, 2006.
Journey to Portugal. Collages by Gretchen Albrecht. Auckland: Holloway Press, 2007.

PROSE:

Reading Zukofsky’s 80 Flowers. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1989.

EDITED:

New Zealand Electronic Poetry Centre. 2003–
Robin Hyde, The Victory Hymn, 1935–1995. Auckland: Holloway Press, 1995.
[with Mark Williams]. Opening the Book: New Essays on New Zealand Writing. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1995.
Robin Hyde, The Book of Nadath. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1999.
[with Alan Brunton and Murray Edmond]. Big Smoke: New Zealand Poems 1960–1975. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 2000.
Robin Hyde, Young Knowledge: The Poems of Robin Hyde. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 2003.

Jones, Lloyd

2008-01-19T14:41:00.010+13:00

[NZ Book Council Writers Pages]

Lloyd Jones (b. 1955)

Author Pages:

NZ Book Council

NZ Literature File

Novels:

Gilmore's Dairy. Auckland : Hodder and Stoughton, 1985.
Splinter. Auckland : Hodder and Stoughton, 1988.
Choo Woo. Wellington : Victoria University Press, 1998.
Book of Fame. Auckland: Penguin, 2000.
Here at the End of the World We Learn to Dance. Auckland: Penguin, 2002.
Paint your Wife. Auckland : Penguin, 2004.
Mister Pip. Melbourne : Text Publishing Company, 2006.

Stories:

Swimming to Australia and Other Stories. Wellington : Victoria University Press, 1991.
This House Has Three Walls. Wellington : Victoria University Press, 1997.

Non-Fiction:

Biografi: an Albanian Quest. Wellington: Victoria University Press, 1993.
Last Saturday; by Loyd Jones and Bruce Foster. Wellington: Victoria University Press for the National Library of New Zealand, 1994.
Beach. Photographs Jocelin Carlin ; essay Lloyd Jones. Auckland: Bateman, 1999.

Edited:

Into the Field of Play : New Zealand Writers on the Theme of Sport. Edited by Lloyd Jones. Auckland : Tandem Press, 1992.
On Getting Old. By Kevin Ireland. Series Editor Lloyd Jones. Wellington: Four Winds Press, 2005.
On Going to the Movies. By Peter Wells. Series Editor Lloyd Jones. Wellington: Four Winds Press, 2005.
Next to Gods: a Cleaner's Story. By Don Franks. Series Editor Lloyd Jones. Wellington: Four Winds Press, 2005.
etc.

Farrell, Fiona

2008-01-19T14:40:00.008+13:00

[NZ Book Council Writers Pages]

Fiona Farrell (b. 1947)

Author Pages:

Aotearoa New Zealand Poetry Sound Archive

NZ Book Council

nzepc

Bibliography

POETRY:

Cutting Out. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1987.
The Inhabited Initial. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1999.
The Pop-up Book of Invasions. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 2007.

PLAYS:

Passengers. Wellington: Playmarket, 1986.
[with Paula Boock and Renee]. Song of the Shirt: Three One-act Plays for Young Actors. Dunedin: McIndoe Publishers, 1993.

PROSE:

The Rock Garden: Stories. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1989.
The Skinny Louie Book. Auckland: Penguin New Zealand, 1992.
Six Clever Girls Who Became Famous Women. Auckland: Penguin New Zealand, 1996.
Light Readings: Stories. Auckland: Vintage, 2001.
The Hopeful Traveller. Auckland: Vintage, 2002.
Book Book. Auckland: Vintage, 2004.
Mr Allbones' Ferrets. Auckland: Random Huuse, 2007.

Harlow, Michael

2008-01-19T14:40:00.007+13:00

[NZ Book Council Writers Pages]

Michael Harlow (b. 1937)

Author Pages:

Aotearoa New Zealand Poetry Sound Archive

NZ Book Council

nzepc

Bibliography:

POETRY:

Poems. Agora Press, 1965
Edges. Athens: Lycabettus Press, 1974
Nothing but Switzerland and Lemonade. Eastbourne: Hawk Press, 1980
Today is the Piano’s Birthday. Auckland: Auckland / Oxford University Press, 1981
Vlaminck’s Tie. Auckland: Auckland / Oxford University Press, 1985
Giotto’s Elephant. Dunedin: John McIndoe, 1991
Cassandra’s Daughter. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 2005

TEXTS / LIBRETTI:

Devotion to the Small (1980/81). Wai-te-ata Press, 1988.

PROSE:

Take a Risk, Trust Your Language, Make a Poem. Edited by Christodoulos E.G. Moisa. Christchurch Teachers College Press, 1985

EDITED:

Frontiers. Christchurch 1968-69.
Omphalos. Athens 1970-73.
Events, Greece 1967-1974. Athens: Anglo-Hellenic Publishing, 1975.
Landfall (Associate and Poetry Editor) Christchurch 1976-84.
Caxton Press Poetry Series. Books by Tony Beyer, Murray Edmond, Bernadette Hall, Rob Jackaman, Hugh Lauder, Michele Leggott, Gregory O’Brien, 1985-90.
Say It With Words. Christchurch: Caxton Educational Press, 1991.

Cox, Nigel

2008-01-19T14:34:00.003+13:00

[NZ Book Council Writers Pages]

Nigel Cox (1951-2006)

Author Pages:

NZ Book Council

NZ Literature File

Novels:

Waiting for Einstein. Auckland: Benton Ross, 1984.
Dirty Work. Auckland: Benton Ross, 1987. Reprinted, Wellington: Victoria University Press, 2006.
Skylark Lounge. Wellington: Victoria University Press, 2000.
Tarzan Presley. Wellington: Victoria University Press, 2004.
Responsibility. Wellington: Victoria University Press, 2005.
Cowboy Dog. Wellington: Victoria University Press, 2006.

Carson, Anne

2008-01-19T14:22:00.004+13:00

[Poetry International Web]

Anne Carson (b.1950)

Author Pages

Poetry Foundation

Poets.org

Play Gallery Video clips

Bibliography:

POETRY:

Glass, Irony, and God. (New Directions Publishing Company, 1992)
Short Talks. (Brick Books, 1992)
Plainwater: Essays and Poetry. (Knopf, 1995)
Autobiography of Red: A Novel in Verse. (Knopf, 1998)
Men in the Off Hours. (Knopf, 2001)
The Beauty of the Husband. (Knopf, 2002)
Decreation: Poetry, Essays, Opera.(Knopf, 2005)

TRANSLATION:

If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho. (Knopf, 2002)
Grief Lessons: Four Plays by Euripides.(Knopf, 2006)

CRITICAL:

Eros the Bittersweet. (Princeton University Press, 1986)
Economy of the Unlost: Reading Simonides of Ceos with Paul Celan. (Princeton University Press, 1999)

Welcome

2008-01-19T13:21:00.003+13:00

Welcome to:

139.795: Special Topic in English

The Massey University Calendar prescription runs as follows:

Recent Poets and Fiction in NZ

Campus: Albany (Auckland)

Mode: Internal

The purpose of the course is to set some selected contemporary New Zealand poetry and fiction writers in an international context. Too often, "New Zealand" and "World" literature are seen as mutually exclusive categories. Actually, we would argue, it's difficult to understand the innovations and technical demands of our most challenging local writers without some knowledge of where they're coming from - who their influences / pet hates are; and also without the added rich theoretical explanations of globalization and the postcolonial.

This blog is meant to supplement the Course Anthology and Administration Guide by giving you a forum to share your discoveries and insights throughout the year.

Assignments:

Journal (20%)

Seminar (20%)

Creative Response (20%)

Research Essay (40%)

Poets:

Michael Harlow (b. 1937)

Susan Howe (b. 1937)

Peter Reading (b. 1946)

Fiona Farrell (b. 1947)

Anne Carson (b. 1950)

Paul Muldoon (b. 1951)

Graham Lindsay (b. 1952)

Michele Leggott (b. 1956)

Novelists:

Nigel Cox (1951-2006): Dirty Work (1987)

Lloyd Jones (b. 1955): Mr Pip (2006)

Emma Neale (b. 1969): Relative Strangers (2006)

Charlotte Randall (b.?): Within the Kiss (2002)