A Slice of the Tasmanian Poetry Festival
2008
Friday evening 3rd October:
Compere Chris Gallagher introduces Ken Bolton. ‘It’s always weird having your
life recounted in this way,’ he responds in acknowledgement, ‘I suppose I’ve
done all those things’. Bolton’s opening poem asks ‘Who else was
there?’ before going on to list the names of friends and colleagues, (Anna, Kerry,
John Jenkins, Nigel, et al). It’s a poem typical of Bolton’s approach to poetry,
implicitly connected with the personal minutae of his life; a simple poem on the surface
but hinting at an underlying and integral consonance. Ken follows with
‘Boundless’, written in memory of Sasha Soldatow – ‘an email from Pam
says Sasha has died’ – at which point there’s a hint of fracture in his
delivery. Or is that my imagination?
Next to read is Janet
Galbraith, formerly of Broken Hill - where for some years she was Director of both the
Broken Hill Regional Writers’ Centre and the annual Broken Hill Poetry Festival
– but now a resident of Maldon in central Victoria. She’s mainly a writer for
performance, admits that writing for the page ‘is quite new for me; but I’m
working on it’. A number of Janet’s poems address the effects of trauma on the
individual; that is, the fragmentation and discontinuity of memory, a need for the
expression of language outside mainstream media representations serving only to
sensationalise and trivialise. Janet settles into a bracket of close to a dozen poems with
an animated and engaging delivery - arms sweep, body bows to emphasise the cascade of
words - her patter between poems (‘this one’s dedicated to my beautiful boy whom
I just adore: my blue heeler’) a natural flow. It’s not a shallow well she taps,
Janet’s explication of ‘Disappearing Darling’ relives the experience of
dwelling for years by the river ‘watching it growing lower and lower, it was heart
breaking to watch’, and a chance meeting with a Melbourne print maker engaged in a
residency in Broken Hill, ‘doing charcoal images which he recorded with a digital
camera … working well outside his genre, really pushing himself … composing a
piece entitled "Slowly Disappearing Darling". From here, my own poem
developed.’
Galbraith’s final poem of
the bracket is ‘Remembering,’ in five short parts, ‘dedicated to someone I
call "My Reader" because he reads me’.
Chris Gallagher remarks that
one of the wonderful things about a festival such as this is that we get to hear poems
instilled with a real sense of place, not just the place we know – ‘and I think
that’s what comes through so strongly in your poems Janet.’
Following a brief open mic
session and a break, Chris introduces Carolyn Fisher to read a poem from her first
collection, The Unsuspecting Sky, due to be launched by Tim Thorne the following
morning. How is it that it’s taken so long for Carolyn’s first collection to
appear in print?
- Their faces are generous like their offering,
-
- Her truth as even as the number of years
- Their country has been at war;
- His smile is the Mozambican sky.
-
- Watching them is to catch sight
- Of a shore within reach, while floundering
- In the deepest ocean.
[From ‘The Gift’]
Next to the microphone is Joan
Webb, with ‘Soul’ and ‘Following the grand old Duke of York’, a poem
inspired by Kevin Rudd. ‘I’m really quite a fan of Kevin Rudd, but didn’t
like his education policy so I wrote this.... ’
Gallagher introduces David
Stavanger whose opening poem features the refrain ‘Beauty is everywhere,
Baudelaire’. He’s full of energy, patrols the floor without recourse to the
page. ‘I’ve just flown in this afternoon from the Newcastle Young Writers’
Festival. After last night, this is such a relief: all they wanted to do was dance. Here,
I can hear the glasses clinking'’.
Stavanger’s lyricism is
clever and compelling. ‘Old poets don’t die / they just get grants’ he
recites, with the aside ‘This doesn’t apply to Ken Bolton’; and ‘Young
poets dream / old poets try to sleep at night’. Stavanger concludes with an
invitation to anyone interested in further mayhem. ‘The mall tomorrow: cane and
tophat!’
Cuz Co take over the microphone
- and adjoining hotel lounge, it would appear: there’s a great deal of interest from
festival and non-poetry patrons alike - with an energetic and brilliantly coordinated
routine the likes of which we see too rarely in Tassie. Cuz Co is South American rapper
Choo Choo, and Wire M.C., a Gumbayngirri descendant from Bowraville in northern NSW who
sees hip hop as the ‘new corroboree’ for young Indigenous Australians. The pair
combine ‘electrifyingly’, which seems as apt a description as any to describe
their work.
scribesisterspeaking, the last
of the guest performers for the evening, is a little disadvantaged in that one of their
number missed the plane down from Darwin. ‘We’re still working out how we can
perform as a duo. Here’s another in a hip hop vein for the fellows who went before
us, they were fantastic!’
- Not sure what it meant
- to be from here.
- Something to do with
- Ken Done, koalas, the Sydney Harbour Bridge.
-
- Justice was something that happened elsewhere,
- Maybe in Africa.
-
- Full stop. Next chapter.
[from ‘full stop. next
chapter’]
Launceston Poetry Cup 2008: Sat 4th Oct
Steve Davis stands solitarily
at the bar, buying a drink. A woman approaches, waits beside him to order, eyes Steve
appraisingly. ‘Excuse me,’ [opening gambit], ‘you wouldn’t happen to
know who’s in charge of the gong this evening I suppose?’ [knowing full well
who’d be holding the hooter].
‘That’d be me,’
Steve replies equably, knowing full well she’s aware who’ll hold the hooter,
hasn’t he been doing it for yonks? [Counter gambit].
A brief silence, another
appraising glance and a grin. ‘Could I buy you a drink?’ [Too late, Steve’s
drink arrives].
Steve suppresses an involuntary
smile as he turns to leave. [En passant].
The Poetry Cup’s drawn
twenty-two entries, about average for the festival. It’s been preceded by a
performance from scribesisterspeaking as well as by hip hop duo Cuz Co. ‘Welcome to
the Launceston Cup section of the Tasmanian Poetry Festival,’ intones Festival
Director Cameron Hindrum. ‘As you may have noticed, we’re competing tonight with
a very important sporting event: the sheep dog trials being held next door at York Park.
Every poet has to jump through a hoop on their way out the door! And don’t forget
that after the Cup you can make your way to a party – not at my place – where
Tim Thorne will regale you with his catalogue of rather colourful festival stories.’
Hindrum outlines the rules for
the Cup, including the popular, singularly conceived rule four. ‘There is no rule
four’.
‘You guys –
collectively, as one – get to decide who is the winner,’ he concludes.
‘Bribery isn’t going to work, though feel free to try.’
A hand dips into a hat. First
cab off the rank is Luke Zyl. Luke heads stagewards – falters, retrieves his glasses
– and advances to the microphone to launch into ‘Face Off’. Contestant
number two is defending champion Yvonne Gluhas; an early appearance for the cup holder,
thus a big hurdle to overcome. ‘How could you do this to me?’ she implores with
her opening line which leaves open the question of who’s doing what to whom.
‘You’re out of here,’ (sounds serious), ‘cavity and decay….’
(aaaah! the cookie crumbles - or is that the tooth?) ‘Out damn tooth / out.’
Yvonne earns strong support but it remains to be seen whether she’s been drawn too
early.
Joan Webb’s focus is on
government changes to the legislation on trespass. She invites the room to join with the
reprise after every fourth line ‘don’t wander in the bush tonight’, a
clever strategy assuring an active audience involvement.
Bruce Penn laments the early
departure of his father from his life. This poem ‘is probably / the most honest thing
I’ve ever written /,’ Bruce admits. It’s called ‘Things I learnt from
my father….’ Then follow long seconds of stony silence, greeted initially with
sporadic chortles of amusement that build to a crescendo of applause. Penn rocks back and
forth, glances left and right, up to the ceiling and down to his shoes. H-o h-u-m. He
checks his watch, fingers tapping coincident to the passage of time, before turning
beatifically to Steve Davis to be rewarded by the screaming of the hooter in his ear.
Marie Stannus remarks on the US
social system’s singular lack of compassion. ‘America, God save your heart /
your purse is now open wide’. Perhaps Obama will win in November and change the
country’s course, Marie. Christine Attwell’s contribution is similarly
politically inclined, refers obliquely to recent Tasmanian poltical occurrences, to the
plotting and bullying that’s left the ‘poor little mate in a terrible
state’; while Colin Berry passes judgement on an unsavoury aspect of religious faith,
remarking on the way a poem sometimes comes at you ‘like a priest in speedos / like a
priest in my speedos’.
Next contender is Ross Clark.
‘Q-u-e-e-n-s-l-a-n-d-e-r!!!’ ‘Sometimes I’m kept awake,’ Clark
admits, ‘by your bare skin, ‘ ‘by the jazz of your breathing and
heartbeat’. A serious poem, a love poem; it goes against the grain of the usual
punning poems entered in the Cup, the ‘out there’ attention grabbers.
Clark’s is a tender declaration of love: ‘sometimes I’m kept awake / by
knowing the day will claim you / too soon too soon’.
Kim Neilsen-Creely’s ditty
of a dalliance between a young woman and ageing farmer draws an appreciative response, but
nowhere near the level of support for Taz, the next competitor, who introduces a subject
viewed vexatiously by most in the room. ‘… and all the while, the mills are
pulping’, she reads. Hindrum suspects something must be wrong; ‘we’ve had
about a dozen readers and that’s the first poem about the pulp mill’.
Sasha Keeler-Coe entertains
with an intense piece about warm embraces and sacred places. ‘Birth with
me…’ she invites, but her final words are cut off by the raucous note of Steve
Davis’ hooter and his accompanying cryptic glance of amusement. Mala
Anthony-Ranu’s introduces a variation on an old nursery rhyme. ‘One two buckle
my shoe’ ... it’s clever and entertaining, interposed with topical political
references. ‘I’ll make Obama a has-been’, and ‘Seventeen, eighteen,
nineteen, twenty / you may think I’m shifty and nifty / but I’m all
novelty.’
Melbourne visitor Philton [Phil
Ilton] draws on the metaphorical to disclose how ‘my explorer googled your
accessories’, and ‘entered your inbox / but crashed’. ‘Hmmm … all
kinds of things I could say, but I won’t’ Hindrum adds reflectively before
introducing Lois Hoffman whose concern this evening is with hot house love …
broccholis, tomatoes ... seeds all sprouting ‘lustily, vigorously’.
Tim Thorne, contestant fifteen,
reads a gem about poor Father O’Leary ‘cracking the fat again’, and whose
techniques are ‘far from inferior / according to Cardinal Pell’. As always,
Thorne draws strong support, as well as the obligatory disparagement from a cockily
confident Bruce Penn. Steve Davis plumps for a change of mood with a serious reflection on
watercourses dying in the sunshine, on credit markets being tight; his departure paves the
way for the appearance on stage of Reverend G, aka David Stavanger.
David’s performance is
unrestrained, his poem comes in a rush of words; he’s got lewd and lusty on his mind,
hints at swinging upon the vines of her valley ‘just to hear her soaring sighs’.
He traverses the room as if it’s his, deposits his coat across the shoulders of a
female observer and his body on the lap of another. In the melee a handbag flies to the
floor while Stavanger - unwaveringly, still within his sixty seconds - presses on.
Drawn to read next is
Stavanger’s victim, Ella. ‘Consolation prize?’ soothes Hindrum. Hers is a
sceptical piece that sees ‘the word’ as ‘absurd’
- Words in God’s kitchen
- Are always pared back
- Fire and brimstone meal
- Swallowed hook, line and sinker
Chaya Mickey projects sinister
shadows flickering to and fro across the page, and then it’s Nathan
Shepherdson’s turn - ’Queenslander!!!’ - to take the floor. Shepherdson
stands stock still, says not a word; watches the second hand traverse the dial of his
watch. ‘Do you need a friend?’ someone asks from the audience, parodying Tina
Fey’s spoof of Sarah Palin. ‘We don’t need daylight saving!’ comes the
jibe from another. Shepherdson’s effecting a ploy memorably trialled by Ian McBryde
at the 2005 festival and wins points for audacity, but is it enough to swing the evening?
‘If you find the corner in the circle / you’re dead,’ Shepherdson
concludes.
‘How long did it take you
to write that?’ asks Hindrum offhandedly before introducing Joy Elizabeth. Joy’s
been troubled by the dilemma of deciding on a topic for her cup piece. Try something
original? Something topical? Sex? Politics? The ‘Cup’s a bloody setup / cos if
you speak Mandarin / you’re destined to win....’ she decries. The hooter
interrupts before she manages to finish and she sits down, deflated. ‘Next
year,’ she sighs. ‘Yeah,’ adds Hindrum soothingly, ‘yeah: you were
speaking my language’.
Vicky Riette, the final
competitor for the evening, offers a lament about the traffic confusion caused by one-way
streets and by roundabouts. ‘And that, ladies and gentlemen, is that,’ concludes
Hindrum with finality.
The room remains awash with
gaily coloured cardboard cutouts of poetry from this and previous festivals. ‘Please
feel free to take a poem home with you, along with the flowers on the tables.’ Mala
Anthony-Ranu’s offer of a complimentary plant with each purchase of her
newly-launched collection ‘to reduce the book’s carbon footprint’ is a nice
touch, a much-appreciated environmentally-friendly gesture. The absence of poems dealing
with the proposed pulp mill up the valley suggests a general comfort with its fate,
perhaps googling ‘gunns asx’ has taken the sting out of the argument, seen it
succeeded by other concerns - takeovers, interest rates, recession. In its place are the
old stalwarts: sex and debauchery, politics and religion. Colin Berry and Tim Thorne have
trodden similar ground with their forays into religious misdemeanour, but this year
it’s Thorne who is triumphant. Tim also won the event in 2006. ‘He’s
clearly making up for lost time,’ opined Festival Director Cameron Hindrum. ‘He
didn’t win it at all in the seventeen years he ran the poetry cup, but has won it
twice since I’ve been Director.’
‘What’s really
disappointing is that I probably never will surpass Colin Berry’s record of two cups
in two different millenia,’ Thorne says, regretfully. ‘But by God, I aim to
try’.
‘Maybe you can settle for
winning in two different decades,’ Hindrum concludes. ‘Now - did I mention? -
there’s the traditional post-cup party at the Thorne’s residence once we leave
here. Tim will probably be drinking champagne from the cup he’s won this evening, but
don’t mind him….’