Helen Hagemann

Thursday, August 30, 2012

Poem for the Day - Old as Cows Are (from the Irish Suite)

I visited Ireland for three weeks in September 2011, and walked along the same roads and laneways every morning while staying in county Monaghan, at a writers' centre. I photographed interesting landscapes and came across this derelict house. It was too overgrown to go inside, but I could see inside, nevertheless.

Old as Cows are

A house sits in a field

uncared for.

Grey calm of slate roof

and a chimney’s cold air, puffing.

Year after year this cottage,

married to weeds, dies in bracken

and an ivy graveyard. Death for life.

Trees holding onto their view,

blackberry vines curl with fruit, saplings

spire by sentinels of wired posts.

A door sits back like a mouth where

no food enters. Windows look out

from a darkness within. A magnolia tree

is the last, healthy touch of a family,

planting. The raw stillness of it.

And they who farmed here, gone,

foisted with the fight of poverty. White-

washed bricks, old as cows are, strengthen

in the sun; a face that sings to no-one, or

for whoever comes.

Poem for the Day - Horses on the Hillside (from the Irish Suite)

Horses on the Hillside

An old world is taking place
just hanging there beside brush & lake.
Two horses, a mare & colt, graze on the
hillside, plumb with the lowering of cows.
They seem content in the softwood swirls
of green, of wildwood terraces.
It speaks volumes for them.
Dark & light brown rumps twitch. Muzzle to air
assumes the guise that no-one is watching.

Leaves fall without weapons. Birds tap
on old growth-rings of trees. This county

goes on the same, wearing its wings of colour
without the noisy flight of airplanes.
Two horses in a paddock, looking at each other,
flaked grass in the corners of their mouths.

Listen, you can hear them whispering.
Do they sense gutter fire, farmhouses alight?
Are the fields shaking off distant rumblings,
where now they live in the hollows
of grave stones? You say, a stream of men
still might come, saddle up, bolt away,
back into a conspiring night
of murder & mayhem.

Review of Arrhythmia by Richard Rossiter

Review by Helen Hagemann

Arrhythmia – symptoms of unreliability

Arrhythmia is a book that contains twenty-six short stories by a West Australian writer, Richard Rossiter. It is also his first collection published by UWA Publishing. Rossiter is a retired academic, having taught literature and supervised postgraduate creative writing students. He has also judged numerous literary and writing awards (including the WA Premier’s Book Awards). He is a consultant editor for Papers and has been the fiction editor for literary journals Indigo & Westerly.
    There are many well-written stories in this collection, including various generational stories of two families (there’s a family-tree legend in the back of the book), with the main family headed by Samuel and wife Ellen. We are led into their farming life with sons Winston and Jack in the first story called The Brother. It's basically a story about the harsh farm life and headaches.
    One of the better stories that evokes pathos is The Boy who Lost Time. This story begins with young Jeremy being given a watch by his grandfather, only to find that his father keeps hocking it to pay for his gambling debts. Prior to a visit by his grandfather and grandmother, and not having the watch (it's in its second cycle of use), Jeremy tries to win a watch at the Claremont Show, attending with his friends. After spending all his money, he eventually knocks a gold watch from a spinning glass machine, but it is not silver like his own, it’s too big for his wrist and he knows he cannot show this watch to his grandfather. When the grandparents arrive, Jeremy runs away to avoid the inquisition and a betrayal of his father’s illicit habits.

Writing is centuries old. It is a silent honing, a courageous externalization of the internal workings of memory, experience and our connection with the world at large. It is craft that needs daily practice and commitment. Standards, and certainly a moral compass are needed when we convey certain storylines and archetypes to our readers. They will soon become aware of any amorality or unreliability, for example, towards a female protagonist by those who have crafted a male literature. Female readers are also concerned with stories that have an ordinary voice and possibly from the same consciousness. Over time female readers have developed a gender, race/class conscious “ear”. In other words we can hear the disingenuous language if conveyed about our image, especially in language such as “small breasts, lively nipples… her eyes, dark and intense, conveyed whatever men wanted them to do”.
   Shall we say, then, the male writer who purports to understand the mind and body of a woman takes risks. Roddy Doyle’s novel The Woman who Walked into Doors is an excellent example of the male writer taking those risks, especially writing from a female point of view. The story is so confronting and heart-wrenching - yet as a woman’s experience of abuse - it is “believable”. Doyle creates a seamless transition from a male consciousness to a female’s – a writer using his moral compass and training.
    In Rossiter’s The Trophy Girlfriend, the main protagonist Laura is problematic. This is conveyed in the ending which appears ludicrous. Laura having been previously touted as a strong and empowered woman, and decidedly collecting her own trophy by cutting off her lover’s two dog ears, leaves in tears after dining with her female companions. The narrator states, 'she could not control the tears'. This is where the text is incongruous and certainly not a female rationale. As readers we may suspect that either a). The author could not think of a better ending, or b). It is the male narrator’s accretion of the weak, stereotypical female. The narrator, perversely follows Descartes’ mind and body law, provides no criteria by which its scope or reliability can be gauged. (We achieve a moment of consciousness when the narrator is unreliable). There is a rigorous descriptive and fundamentally flawed diversion going on. The male narrator operates from the male mind, psyche, experience, and the academy, and we are thrown off track, brainwashed again by an androcentric point of view, like “Laura’s going off the rails, Laura’s not a virgin, possibly “frigid”, better still a “sexual siren”. If we are consoling or understand the writer’s possible shortcomings, we will remain like an audience in a silent movie house - complicit, bewitched, beguiled and ….1950s stuff. If we say to ourselves, well, it’s just a story, we will pass-over such phrases as “her body was a commodity” in the face of our own characteristically human traits as women who have been conditioned by this dominant patriarchal consciousness. We will evade the system of existence of a male rationale. We will be fooled by the etymology of the “narrative”, the known feminine “weak” ending. Laura is really not empowered (as we are led to believe), she is weak and leaves in tears. I find this scenario rather at odds with the creation of the character, especially being strong within the paradox of taking her own trophy.
   In closing, I have rated this work 3 out of 5. The collection does have many worthwhile stories told in the third-person point of view, where the male characters are believable, and that do offer a reliable narrator. Yet the work is spoiled by the intrusion of the authorial voice that seeks to convey a certain weakness in women. Arrhythmia appears to live up to its name when it comes to a subset of pre-feminism (1950s) and gender issues, i.e. symptoms such as weakness, fluttering, dizziness, being light-headed or feeling that your heart is running away.
    Rossiter is a good writer but one hopes that he might stick to what he knows best, stories from his own experience/memory/male consciousness, without the subliminal academic theory.

Review of Ladylike by Kate Lilley

Ladylike by Kate Lilley - reviewed by Helen Hagemann

Poetry is often a mixed-bag. On the one hand you have lyric poetry which stems from the Romantics to modernism, and on the other - post- modernism - a term mainly aligned by poets who philosophise that not all poets lead eccentric lives, do not embrace "form & feeling", nor are they interested in the personal pronoun "I", or the one true meaning of a text. Hence, post-modernism is meant to free up old restraints to create renewed meaning. Lyn Hejinian and J.H. Prynne (Jeremy) are two main exponents.

As a reviewer as well as a reader of poetry, I am interested in the experimental, the avant garde and a certain amount of l=a=n=g=u=a=g=e poetry. I especially like the American poets, John Ashbery for his topsy-turvy inventiveness and Brenda Hillman who breaks-up language. Kate Lilley's poetry, however, is what I have mentioned earlier - "a mixed bag". More to the point, her poetry in Ladylike appears to be all of the above, i.e. modernism, post-modernism, the lyric, with some wider references and obscurity thrown in.

Taking the first section The Double Session into consideration, and having studied Dorothy Hewett at university, I empathise with Lilley's deep binary of the mother/daughter experience. Lilley questions this association in the Forward's Fifty Minutes, "In the criss-cross of mother and daughter, student and teacher, poetry and criticism, what is mine and what is hers?" I would say many poems enmesh Hewett's story, many intersect as the mother/daughter experience. After all Dorothy Hewett was passionately ideological in her personal life as well as an intense feminist, esp. in her work (novels/poetry). My favourite novel being The Toucher.

Of course Lilley is heavily influenced by Dorothy's oeuvre, but I believe within these kinds of influences she is a poet expressing "ecriture feminine" i.e. the disruption of the phallogocentric nature of language. Lilley, however, and she has to, marks a different position of voice and style, compared to Hewett. The section title poem in "The Double Session" (as a division of two stanzas) appears to be about Lilley's parents - Dorothy and Merv Lilley, both writers. In the last few lines she states: "how it made you feel small and want to leave/ searching for the lift and then the bus-stop,/ the distant clack of typewriters in the night./ Once our work is done these tapes will be yours."

In the section Cleft, When Ladies Meet is an interesting poem that reveals the same angst for freedom and the poet's search for independence (away from Mama).

Goodbye Mama, you made me what I am
Impeccable, light-fingered little Marnie/Margaret/Peggy
You can keep the mink I stole for you
I'm young and if I go now I won't have to lose my mind

The poem, Coil, impeaches pathos no matter whose experience it is, and more so because there is a black & white photograph of the young Dorothy Hewett, the epitome of innocence?

A lilac sheath to cover you
your wardrobe of opening nights
reduced to a simple party dress
snipped curls in plain paper
your bed hacked to pieces for the skip

It is the final line that brings the emotional engagement for the reader as a universal childhood experience. However, we cannot read these two poems as the basis of the collection. The rest of the poetry in the first section highlights the narrator's search for distance and her own ‘desires’. It is in this section that conveys the complex words 'queer/lesbian'. Many of the poems in 'The Double Session' appear as a way in, getting to the heart of the matter.

In the two final sections of the book, Lilley goes far beyond my university studies and knowledge. Both sections 'Ladylike' & 'Round Vienna' have black/white pictures of women, and in the poetry I become lost. The re-reading of these poems over a long period of time may be necessary to interrogate the narrator's implications. Further reading may also help, and in this way understand how Lilley's mind works, the intertextuality, the philosophy, Freud's Dora and the 1673 Mary Carleton, along with other ideas contained in these poems. I find her sparse writing style interesting, insightful, and a poet to admire. But I just can’t engage emotionally with these sections. Lauralude is a poem from 'Ladylike'. You tell me?

Proceed haughty coquette
footling kewpie
gingham haze

Vellum umber rubbermaid
a fair sea of permanent waves
cornflower corrigenda

My review on "Ladylike" by Kate Lilley can also be read here @ http://helenhagemann.blogspot.com.au/p/reviews.html

Poem - Soon on Cordite - Warning to the Gambler

After a long hiatus and many rejections, I can finally add my second publication for 2012 to my list. Warning to the Gambler will appear in Cordite Poetry Review - Jackpot issue #39. Here's a PREVIEW. Check out the PUBLICATION of my poem at Cordite Poetry Review Editor: Samuel Wagan Watson.

Warning to the Gambler

The way in is through thick double doors, between foyered palms, past

elderly stewards kneading hands. Fifty-dollar notes are exchanged for

happy-go-lucky seats, silver-dint-bar-tinkling machines. They lay down

their cards, sit hunched into their rib cage; sink into a consciousness of

play and battle.

In this warning to the gambler, one sees imprisonment and little daylight.

How many gamblers have been trapped in aisled rooms littered

with cigarette ash, zoo noises, furniture oozing years of spilled gin?

How many gamblers have watched two Kings scarper into a barrel turn?

How many have seen the chips scuttle before a fall, that fraction

before a missed fortune?

Poem for the Day - Catastrophe - a storm poem

Catastrophe

We await the path of the storm

Thunder barks overhead like the dog

Next door. She’s up, wailing her grief

When no-one’s home

The evening groans on

Without lights, the kettle’s usurped for the gas’s

Slow metabolic rate

We don’t recognize the path of this cyclone

Never having one this far

Sporadic winds whip and the neighbour’s

Fence is no longer a division

The roads are physical coatings of debris

What turns up when the roof’s gone

How do I know such things?

Knowing is going back in time

To a transistor radio, a bite-size beginning

Shedding those hi-tech conventions

Rain enters like a stormtrooper and alarms

Flick on/ off, clocks tick, but time is soon forgotten

It’s enough to know that a hot cocoa by candlelight

Will herald a woeful sleep

Waiting for the green party lights to blaze

All electrics on

Poetic Graphic of the Day

Poem for the Day - Old Heroes at the Memorial Club

Old Heroes at the Memorial Club

To compose a poem on old heroes at the Memorial Club, which has probably been written before, is much like looking at the faces of men in the cockpit of fighter-bombers crossing over a mountain range. Once when enemy planes flew overhead they dropped bread, not bombs. People scrambled to find pigeons wiping their beaks in the cracks of white stones. At the old Memorial club, the diggers wore rubber-soled shoes where once they trudged through engulfing forests of rain. High lace-ups on the Kokoda Trail. Jack boots amongst the goats on the Isle of Crete. Combats in the trenches of El Alamein.

My Uncle Charles once visited the now defunct Memorial Club on the Central Coast. It was nearly midnight before he turned one hundred-and-nine and only a few patrons were playing cards. Perched high on a stool at the bar, his only company was a busty blonde who kept referring to him in intimate terms. Earlier, he had moved amongst the lanes of machines, talking to some old diggers who were hesitant to respond, elbowing each other at the sound of his Kiwi accent. When he found a sympathetic ear in an old bloke called Herb, he proceeded to tell him about his days in the Great War, ducking sniper fire in the desert. The heavy backpacks he had to carry. And in a sideways hold to his head, he demonstrated loudly how a bullet whooshed past like a jet fighter plane. He had found the night amorous and immortal, getting to know Sid and Barney, two war veterans who had supped into their own heroics. With winnings from the poker machines, he shouted beers all around and handed out Churchill cigars, telling them, that he had recently read, War and Peace and Les Miserables. How they smirked and laughed, how they misused their newfound friendship by slapping him hard on the back to a suicidal fall on the floor. Lucky for uncle he didn’t suffer any further indignities. He was cushioned, so the family story goes, inside the soft breasts of the waitress blonde, who called a taxi with the wisdom of her lovey-dovey words.

NYC - Publishing Opportunity - SQUAWK BACK

Online publishing opportunity
Squawk Back - We are interested in stories that threaten, provoke, mildly irritate, tickle, inspire, stimulate, penetrate, nauseate, horrify, embarrass and put to shame.

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Poem for the Day - On Entering the Big House (from the Irish Suite)

On Entering The Big House

The drumlins of County Monaghan lie cool

in acreage earth. Moist air meets the wind, as it

mutters along. Its tall façade, far above eye-level,
pinks in certain light, smooths a grey slate roof.

This is how it looks beyond its flashing. Conical

spires and gables filled with rich attention. The

side door is an entrance to staff, couriers on their

rounds, rummaging in the backs of vans.

Perhaps, large shoulders of a Nobel winner have

already moved in. Stooped to touch the floor for a

green scarf. The poet’s coat simply falling off, one arm

first, the tweed shouldered from the right.

You imagine a quiet Gaelic tune inside, keys

tinkling in the piano room - a practice for sound.

The office ladies welcoming in the hall, saying,
Come in. Come in! Tis good you’re here.

Ah! there at the top of the stairs, linen and towels,

and with every good sense an oak desk, mirrors
to double your view, a chaise lounge, brass bed

tall and plumped for a three-week comfort.

While you, by day, settling on a selection of books

for an evening read, will walk in the afternoon

beside the lake, beside hedgerows, the way forward
with a greying, energetic kelpie-cross racing ahead.

Poetic Graphic of the Day

Poem for the Day - Ode to Grandparents

Ode to Grandparents

Your faces shine like oval moons

over the green gate,

rose blossoms at your feet.

You left, marking a passage of time

forced through the sea
in grey light.

Your voices return through
the silence, spreading coins

on a kitchen counter.

Us, mischievous kids
bypassing the deli

for shrinking waves at Manly

our feet rushing back

in their thunderous return.

The blossoms are swept away, gate

abandoned. Curvature of tin roof
and pepper pot chimney, gone.

Such moments to think back on

as history, as youth ―

a world of watercourses that held

a fun pier, green sea divers

with knives like missing teeth.

Yet, pines still spread their mass

along the esplanade,

seas drip from children's hands

while carnivals reel in Sunday marches.

Grandma, Grandpa, you seem to have

sunk into silence, but I did notice
early this morning

red rose blossoms

falling at my door.

Fairly proud of myself, even if I do say so myself! Check out my reading of an excerpt from a chapter called "Stealer of Secrets". This is from my novel-in-progress 'The Ozone Café.' - Oh, deadlines, deadlines, must get on with it. Varuna, Writers House Blog

Hilarious Graphic for the Day - Lost Dog!

Poem by Bob Adamson

David Aspden's yellow tree

by Bob Adamson

The yellow tree's
a shadow so dark it's invisible

we know it's there
oh we know exactly where

the painting will sail on to meet
its maker's grandchildren

one day in a stainless museum
they'll look up and say

nothing but turn inward
as the tree seems to be asking us to do

so that you may perhaps meet some traveller
there and walk awhile

some unknown
place

talk will smudge the air
and float from your mouths

you will shine
with a light the painter

knew
was there

inside
somewhere

Aspden's drawing "yellow & orange" 1976 in the NSW Art Gallery can be viewed here...

Poems for the Day, Driving to the City, Dublin 2011 (from the Irish Suite)

Driving to the City, Dublin 2011

On route to the M1, doubt is released

as verges widen, and a diesel

tractor bumps off its hay.

I hand over one euro-eighty to uniforms

who witness and laugh at my accent

and loss at the Rugby match.

My diminishing fuel is mea culpa.

I've made an appointment at County Rentals

ending a kind of chaos opening the tank.

Near the airport, I enter

and reappear, losing my bearings,

the fuel tank near to empty.

I enter Dublin, a cavern

of one way streets, glares and crowds.

The River Liffey moves under my feet.

I find the tourist bureau, tell a

Melbourne assistant I need directions

to County Rentals from the other side

of the city. I act nonchalant, first stop Grafton

Street, buying camera parts, books. I disguise
my morning hell over Hahn beer, this nervous

entry into a city, as simple as an awkward tourist.

Where I'm Staying

The Centre sits on 450 acres of a bequeathed estate.

There are wide lawns, stone paths,

potted fushias and cool country lanes.

Behind my apartment of five rooms, stairs

to a balcony, the woods are a miasma of hills

and dales, and across the road in front of

The Big House nears a lake they call Annaghmakerrig.

There is a boat ramp and a seasonal fishing spree

with cars, dogs and restless maggots.

Today early, I will walk down to the fishermen

and talk about their miniature jetties, fixed and

splayed as iron chairs in water.

Some men stand in their wellington boots, others

pin their hopes on their jackets, all manner of

tackle, hooks, glasses bonded to their nose.

Each day I will walk under the canopy of maples,

an avenue at dusk with only small troughs of cloud

passing through. The season is warm and mild,

an Indian summer, the radio says. And I can only

think of the shamrock buried in my hands before

I left, a very lucky wish from my Oz-Irish friend.

Paradelle to Irish Women

I can't forget your warm, singing smile

Always baked ready in the morning kitchen rush

Morning smile, I can't forget the warm rush

Always singing, I baked in the ready smile.

It is time for me to write your poem
It is time for me to write your poem

Praise your friendly, culinary skills at the stove

Praise your friendly, culinary skills at the stove

You're at the stove for me to skill the poem

Praise time, it is for me to write your poem.

The aprons on, your old world, familiar.

The aprons on, your old world, familiar.

Your talks remind me of your bread, pasta and sorbet

Your talks remind me of your bread, pasta and sorbet

The familiar pasta and sorbet as tasty as your bread.

Your old world of aprons on, remind me of your talks.

I always praise the morning stove, the familiar poem.

Sorbet, pasta and bread of your tasty talks.

Your warm smile I can't forget, your culinary skills.

It is time for me to skill the poem, your old world.

Singing, and aprons remind me to rush, to write.

Kitchen-friendly, I baked it for you, it is ready.

The Paradelle was invented by Billy Collins. It is a poem of four six-line stanzas in which the first and second lines, as well as the third and fourth lines of the first three stanzas, must be identical. The fifth and sixth lines, which traditionally resolve these stanzas, must use all the words from the preceding lines and only those words. Similarly, the final stanza must use every word from all the preceding stanzas and only those words.

I found the paradelle to be just as challenging as the villanelle. It was also fun to write, thank you Billy Collins!

10 Questions to Ask Before you E-Publish

Article about e-publishing

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Read on..

Saturday Poetry at the Grove Library, Peppermint Grove

Helen Hagemann’s Saturday Poetry Workshop this week 3rd March @ 1.30pm-3.30pm is called ‘Motherland’. The class will look at ways of writing the heartfelt and personal aspects our own country. Class involves further writing exercises on the patriotic/ political & historical heritage of one's original "motherland'. We will be reading and discussing poems by Dorothea Mackellar, Hyllus Maris, Amy Witting, Jo Shapcott (UK), Dennis O'Driscoll (IE), Michael Crummey (CA), e e cummings (US), and Marina Tsvetaeva (RU). Cost: OOTA $15, Non-OOTA $20. All welcome!

Poem for the Day - Visiting Loughcrew (from the Irish Suite)

Visiting Loughcrew

Shock of blue in the sky
after light misty rain.
The fields and drumlins
are a skin of green.

It's warm today for a hillclimb
to a strange cairn
of Megalithic art.

The woman at the kiosk
hands me the key, tied to
a large orange flashlight.
As if this is a passage
back in time.

I've half-circled Ireland
before arriving. Swerved trucks,
narrow bridges, my new hire car
saving my skin.

At the tearooms, cows with pink snouts
share the aroma of my morning
coffee, then send out a message
with the breath of mist.

Over the fields, I look down
on more Friesians, craggy hillsides,

dunes of hidden houses, clouds billowing
out like the plumping of bed sheets.
I take the first steps to unknown art

and fall in love with Ireland.