L.E. Truscott's Blog, page 33

Book Review: The Ern Malley Affair by Michael Heyward

I’ve read this book before but The Ern Malley Affair is such a complex and interesting story populated by the most impressive array of real-life characters that reading it again is like reading it for the first time.

The Ern Malley Affair chronicles the mid-World War II literary battle between Australian writers exploring modernism and Australian writers convinced that modernism was a bunch of boo-hockey. In 1943, Max Harris, co-editor of the Angry Penguins literary journal, received a number of poems from a woman named Ethel Malley. She wrote in an accompanying letter that they were the work of her now dead brother and wondered if there was any literary merit in them. Max Harris was bewildered and ecstatic, believing them to be the stuff of genius.

Instead, they were the stuff of a hoax. Written in a single afternoon by poets Harold Stewart and James McAuley to expose Harris as unable to recognise truly worthy poetry, the poems and the non-existent poet nevertheless took on lives of their own.

The story of Ern Malley and Max Harris, if portrayed as fiction, would be dismissed as requiring too much suspension of disbelief. The fact that it is a true story makes it delicious, even as we wonder – seventy years later – how something that was intended to enable a moment of jumping up from behind a couch and shouting, “Surprise!” has managed to maintain such a grip on the literary industry of an entire country.

Probably because the poems, which were intended to be specimens of bad poetry display moments of evocative brilliance. “The black swan of trespass on alien waters.” “It is necessary to understand / That a poet may not exist, that his writings / Are the incomplete circle and straight drop / Of a question mark.” “O far shore, target and shield that I now / Desire beyond these terrestrial commitments.” “I have split the infinitive. Beyond is anything.” Good poets trying to write bad poetry might not be able to shed the influence of themselves as easily as they had hoped.

The story itself deserves five stars but the writing of Michael Heyward is dense at times and sometimes requires momentary diversions to the dictionary. In fact, sometimes his writing suffers from the same insensibility that some of the poetry of Ern Malley does, requiring the reader to ponder it much longer than would have been necessary had it been written simply.

There are also a lot of tangents explored as the author seeks to develop a wider sense of the literary community, the diverse literary feelings and the broader societal expectations of the time. It’s a triumph, particularly when you consider how far Australia and the world has come in terms of literary exploration. This hoax could not be perpetrated now and if it was, it would not receive anywhere near the same sort of attention as it did back then (broadsheet newspapers covered it with as much fervour as the Pyjama Girl murder trial happening at the same time).

This book won’t be of any interest to anyone who doesn’t care about or enjoy poetry. It’s very much for a niche audience. But if you fall within that niche, you’ll be fascinated by a story that enfolds John and Sunday Reed (patrons of the arts at the time), the famous painters Sidney Nolan (who deserted the army and changed his name for a time) and Albert Tucker, and a huge cast of supporting players. Special mention must go to Detective Vogelsang, who investigated Ern Malley under the obscene, immoral and indecent provisions of South Australian law at the time, and Magistrate Clarke who found some references to be indecent and thought it might be possible for certain plays by Shakespeare to be prosecuted under the same laws if anyone was so inclined.

The book includes all the Ern Malley poems, so you can make up your own mind about whether they are any good or not. I doubt any two people will come to precisely the same conclusion. Which is an apt description of how literature has evolved. It is a deeply personal thing and being asked to justify why you love a piece of poetry is like being asked to justify why you love your significant other. Why one poem (or one person) speaks to someone is a great mystery of life.

The events are also a cautionary tale for writers. Because once they publish, they will forever be associated with their writing. Harold Stewart and James McAuley were never able to shake their tags as the authors of the Ern Malley poems and they ended up resenting it. Perhaps they would have faded into obscurity without Ern Malley. Perhaps they would have gone on to develop reputations independent of him. But they never got to find out.

The Ern Malley Affair is a story that is greater than the sum of its parts and I have no doubt I will read it again because it made me think about many more things than simply poetry. And if this review seems vague, it’s not intentional, it’s just that it’s difficult book to do justice to within such few words.

4 stars

*First published on Goodreads 21 December 2015

The Last Great Shame – Song Lyrics

Verse One

A girl wading out to sea

Praying there is no baby

And hoping she’ll be able to forget

A guy bragging to the boys

Didn’t leave her with a choice

Left her with bruises and a threat

Verse Two

And now she has finally guessed

Nothing more than second best

Nothing less than worthy of his hate

She can’t forgive the violence

So she balances her silence

With a blood red circle round the date

Bridge

What happened to utopia?

The vision proud and grand

This sure as hell don’t look

Like the promised land

Chorus

Void the moon and blind the sun

All evidence would suggest

Count infinity and clone the one

A world of conformed unrest

Outside it’s raining

Inside it’s the same

But no-one’s complaining

This is the last great shame

Verse Three

Exactly one year to the day

What does he have to say?

Now the gun is held to his head

Remember last year’s touch

Doesn’t really mean that much

Took back everything he did and said

Verse Four

What is there to do

Now that it’s just them two?

No friends for him to hide behind

Will it help to see his death?

Watch him take his last breath?

To find the peace she needs to find

Bridge

What happened to utopia?

The vision proud and grand

This sure as hell don’t look

Like the promised land

Chorus

Void the moon and blind the sun

All evidence would suggest

Count infinity and clone the one

A world of conformed unrest

Outside it’s raining

Inside it’s the same

But no-one’s complaining

This is the last great shame

Coda

Her first memory gives her the drive

And the journey into darkness won’t take her far

Her worst memory twists the knife

As she focuses in the distance on the mourning star

Her last memory ends her life

Fallen friends and hazy honour but nothing in particular

Verse Five

Too late but still the deed is done

And now her conscience on the run

With scars that only candlelight will show

His leaking blood is on her hands

Just like her blood was on his pants

And yet fate must strike the final blow

Bridge

What happened to utopia?

The vision proud and grand

This sure as hell don’t look

Like the promised land

Chorus

Void the moon and blind the sun

All evidence would suggest

Count infinity and clone the one

A world of conformed unrest

Outside it’s raining

Inside it’s the same

But no-one’s complaining

This is the last great shame

Perfection – Song Lyrics

Verse One

Someday long ago

Tears for a tale of woe

And smiles for what you perceive

Never right now

Silence as you take a bow

And voices as you prepare to leave

Advocate devil’s advice

Lies you can’t hear twice

And truths you can’t ever hear

One liberated urge

Children right there on the verge

And adults who can only fear

Bridge

It’s happened before

It’ll happen again

The question is only a question of when

Chorus

Can you see your imperfection

And the beauty of it all?

Will you help to build it up

Or push and watch it fall?

Will you find true pleasure

In what it simply means to be?

Can you see perfection

In the imperfection that is you and me?

Verse Two

After solid steel

Nothing is hard to conceal

And most things are a bitch to find

Maybe right here

Thoughts become truly clear

And abstracts take shape in your mind

You’ve always prayed

You wouldn’t need to seek the blade

Or find redemption in the ground

Lucky in this tale

Love can’t be drawn to scale

And hate won’t let itself be bound

Bridge

It’s happened before

It’ll happen again

The question is only a question of when

Chorus

Can you see your imperfection

And the beauty of it all?

Will you help to build it up

Or push and watch it fall?

Will you find true pleasure

In what it simply means to be?

Can you see perfection

In the imperfection that is you and me?

Coda

Maybe it seems impossible

A world where no-one thinks like this

Where promises are meaningful

And problems disappear with a single kiss

Maybe it seems inevitable

That no-one will never break

To you it seems laughable

A world that never thinks to take

Chorus

Can you see your imperfection

And the beauty of it all?

Will you help to build it up

Or push and watch it fall?

Will you find true pleasure

In what it simply means to be?

Can you see perfection

In the imperfection that is you and me?

Poetry Spotlight On Christina Rossetti

Although I am a more dedicated fan of modern poetry, Christina Rossetti (along with William Shakespeare) is where I diverge from this dedication. Virginia Woolf in “I Am Christina Rossetti” wrote, “Yours was a complex song. When you struck your harp many strings sounded together… A firm hand pruned your lines; a sharp ear tested their music. Nothing soft, otiose, irrelevant cumbered your pages. In a word, you were an artist.” (I had to include that because it is poetry in itself as much as an ode to a poet.)

Rossetti’s two most famous poems are “Goblin Market” and “Remember” – it is the second of these poems I am going to showcase here, not just because it’s a sonnet, whereas the former is sixteen pages long. “Remember” is also one of two poems I can remember in its entirety from memory (no pun intended – on either point). And it is perfect: bittersweet, words that are the silence the poem talks about, with a slight lift at the end but not too much of a lift because, as those suffering the loss of a loved one will know, attempts to be raised from the depths of grief are usually unwelcome if they are more than momentary.

Many of Rossetti’s poems focus on the necessary duality of life and death and she was unfairly tagged as morbid instead of being recognised for her unbelievable insight. After her death, she was also considered a “pitiable thing: a repressed Victorian spinster whose leaking libido attracted knowing winks from Posterity”. Yikes!

Even if that’s true (and I highly doubt it is), poetry can be appreciated without having to appreciate the poet and Christina Rossetti is worth appreciating.

“Remember”

Remember me when I am gone away,

Gone far away into the silent land;

When you can no more hold me by the hand,

Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.

Remember me when no more day by day

You tell me of our future that you planned:

Only remember me; you understand

It will be late to counsel then or pray.

Yet if you should forget me for a while

And afterwards remember, do not grieve:

For if the darkness and corruption leave

A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,

Better by far you should forget and smile

Than that you should remember and be sad.

Messiah – Song Lyrics

Verse One

What are you looking for?

What are you waiting for?

Better hope to God you know what you’re doing

Who are you looking to?

Who are you praying to?

Better hope to God

Bridge

So choose

Truth or dare?

Still frightened of the scare

So choose

Dare or truth?

Still looking for the proof

Chorus

You know you’ll be saved, not depraved

By the Messiah

You know you’ll be fulfilled, not chilled

By the meaning

You know you’ll be propped, not dropped

By something higher

You know you’ll be consumed, not doomed

By the feeling

You know Messiah meaning higher feeling

Verse Two

Where are you looking now?

Where are you going to?

Better hope to hell you know where this is going

How are you looking now?

How are you holding up?

Better hope to hell

Bridge

So choose

Truth or dare?

Still frightened of the scare

So choose

Dare or truth?

Still looking for the proof

Chorus

You know you’ll be saved, not depraved

By the Messiah

You know you’ll be fulfilled, not chilled

By the meaning

You know you’ll be propped, not dropped

By something higher

You know you’ll be consumed, not doomed

By the feeling

You know Messiah meaning higher feeling

Coda

You know He’ll be lenient when it’s convenient for you

You know the mystery clears when He appears to you

But in the meantime the next lifetime will just have to wait

Today we’ll be colliding while we’re providing the debate

Verse Three

When are you looking away?

When are you giving up?

Better hope for something more tangible than faith

Why are you looking up?

Why do you believe?

Better hope for something else

Bridge

So choose

Truth or dare?

Still frightened of the scare

So choose

Dare or truth?

Still looking for the proof

Chorus

You know you’ll be saved, not depraved

By the Messiah

You know you’ll be fulfilled, not chilled

By the meaning

You know you’ll be propped, not dropped

By something higher

You know you’ll be consumed, not doomed

By the feeling

You know Messiah meaning higher feeling

Sessions With The Shrink – Song Lyrics

A quick note on these song lyrics: I had bought a new computer which came with a pre-installed voice recognition program. I had to read a bunch of words to train the computer to recognise me specifically but even after all that work, it still struggled to translate what I was saying into the headset onto the page. In fact, a lot of it was gobbledy-gook. I took some of the gobbledy-gook phrases and turned them into these song lyrics because I thought they had a certain poetry to them, even though they often made no sense.

The phrase “What can I say?” was what I had to say when the computer when it was struggling and I was struggling. I incorporated that, too, and obviously that is what the reference “I thought at least a machine would understand” means.

Verse One

She always said sessions with the shrink

Would result in non-linear thought

But it was completely, blindingly linear

How easily I was caught

Pens drawn at dawn or on the hour

Did she say I had a choice?

Could she tell the strongest impulse I had

Was to lose my failing voice?

But what was the worst she could find?

Holidays that earmarked fears

A wedding band worn to deter successors

Rusty old tins that were tears

The debutante nymph and the frail voyeur

Nursing each other to health

A broken hammer on the soapbox stand

A lazy preoccupation with stealth

Chorus

But sessions with the shrink

Were always held in silence

The hard way was my way

And sessions with the shrink

Always ended in violence

Someone besides me had to pay

My sessions with the shrink

Were nothing more than pretence

Little more than a delay

I thought at least a machine would understand

What can I say?

Verse Two

She found nothing for her sermon

So I stayed confined for her contentment

And my three prisons were forming alliances

Guaranteed overnight resentment

A husband who never thought to say goodbye

A mother who never thought to let it lie

A shrink who never thought not to pry

A heart that never thought to fortify

Old books weighed my other half

But I had no time for ounces

Only the previous wearer’s happiness

But the good shrink always pounces

But the good shrink never thought to ask

My chosen path in life

She never thought my choice would be

The path of eternal wife

Chorus

So sessions with the shrink

Were always held in silence

The hard way was my way

And sessions with the shrink

Always ended in violence

Someone besides me had to pay

My sessions with the shrink

Were nothing more than pretence

Little more than a delay

I thought at least a machine would understand

What can I say?

Coda

But the sessions were lessons

And the lessons were hard

And the shrink made me think

But the thinking was scarred

And more strident than the silence

And more hurtful than that violence

And more real than the pretence

I never was a machine

Chorus

Still sessions with the shrink

Were always held in silence

The hard way was my way

And sessions with the shrink

Always ended in violence

Someone besides me had to pay

My sessions with the shrink

Were nothing more than pretence

Little more than a delay

And I’m closer to you than ever

Sessions with the shrink couldn’t stop it

I’ll be with you any day now

Book Review: Twentieth-Century Russian Poetry

Published in 1993, and therefore missing seven years of potential inclusions, Twentieth-Century Russian Poetry is nevertheless an impressive contribution to my poetry library. Translated into English so a non-Russian reader like me can still appreciate it, it encompasses several difficult periods in Russian and world history including World War I, the subsequent revolution, the Stalinist years, World War II and the later Soviet years.

The big names in Russian poetry are all here: Anna Akhmatova, Boris Pasternak, Wassily Kandinsky (yes, he was a poet as well as a painter), Vladimir Nabokov (of Lolita fame) and hundreds more I’d never heard of. The two poems I’ve chosen to showcase here are reproduced in their entirety because they are as perfect as poems get and I would hate to be responsible for interfering with that.

“Retribution” by Ilya Ehrenburg

She lay beside the bridge. The German troops had reckoned

To cheapen her by this. Instead, her nakedness

Was like an ancient statue’s unadorned perfection,

Was like unspotted Nature’s loveliness and grace.

We covered her and carried her. The bridge, unsteady,

Appeared to palpitate beneath our precious load.

Our soldiers halted there, in silence stood bare-headed,

Each transformed, acknowledging the debt he owed.

Then Justice headed westward. Winter was a blessing,

With hatred huddled mute, and snows a fiery ridge.

The fate of Germany that murky day was settled

Because of one dead girl, beside a shaky bridge.

“Forest Fire” by Vadim Shefner

A careless hunter, breaking camp,

Failed to trample his fire down,

Went off into the forest, left it

To smoke away till dawn, burning itself out.

But in the morning, when the wind arose, dispersing

The mists, it also fanned the dying embers,

And, strewing sparks about it in the clearing,

Set crimson rags of flame among the trees.

It scorched the grass and flowers, then ignited

The bushes, and into the green forest

Advanced, dashing from trunk to trunk,

Like a pack of terrified red squirrels.

And the forest roared in the fiery blizzard,

With a frosty crackle, trees collapsed,

Sparks flying up from them like snowflakes

Over the gray drifts of ash.

The fire overtook the hunter who, tormented,

Suffocated in the fiery prison.

He had brought this fate upon himself,

But what a way to expiate his guilt.

Does not conscience work like this?

I dream,

Sometimes, in the stillness of the night,

That somewhere I have left a fire burning

And already roaring flames are in pursuit…

The collection includes mini biographies of all the poets, offering a unique insight into the circumstances of birth and later life events that shaped their experiences and inevitably their poetry. The book can be viewed as history from a different perspective, from those with the skills necessary to be able to distil the horrors of war and oppression that the average soldier and sufferer lacks.

It’s not a light volume (either in weight or subject matter) but it’s important. I bought this book the year it was published, over twenty years ago, and it still takes pride of place amongst many other poetry books.

Counting – Song Lyrics

Verse One

One true love and I thought that you were mine

Two sides to every story but you were at her shrine

Three in the bed and I was the one pushed out

Four times I saw you with her to make me doubt

Twenty years old when I let myself get caught

A lifetime of misery in the lessons I was taught

Fourteen diamonds in the ring that kept me chained

Too many stories I believed when you explained

Bridge

I can’t count, just want to forget

All the times I cried

I can’t count, just want to forget

All the times you lied

Chorus

You said it’d just be us forever

But forever came and went

Now I’m counting broken promises

You said it wouldn’t be her ever

But she was heaven sent

And I’m still counting

Verse Two

Five nights in a row that you were all but gone

Six years and our child to cement the perfect con

Seven mortal sins and you embraced them all

Eight love letters to her in your lazy scrawl

A dozen red roses sent to her every week

A million words I didn’t want to hear when you decided to speak

A billion men – what did I do to deserve you?

Not one damn good reason for what you put me through

Bridge

I can’t count, just want to forget

All the times I cried

I can’t count, just want to forget

All the times you lied

Chorus

You said it’d just be us forever

But forever came and went

Now I’m counting broken promises

You said it wouldn’t be her ever

But she was heaven sent

And I’m still counting

Coda

There’s so many simple numbers

But still I’m losing track

So many silver linings

But all my clouds are black

So many times, counting the times

As I watched you pack

So many lies, counting the lies

I won’t ever let you back

Chorus

You said it’d just be us forever

But forever came and went

Now I’m counting broken promises

You said it wouldn’t be her ever

But she was heaven sent

And I’m still counting

Happy – A Poem

The child has seen good but

The adult has turned bad

The innocence is long gone

The girl once had dreams but

The woman went slowly mad

Opportunity was just a con

The boy thought he could love but

The man stayed always sad

Living under a sun that never shone

Is anyone happy anymore?

The stranger seems inviting but

The friend is shown the door

The affinity was a lie

The student thinks of learning but

The teacher sees the flaw

There’s no reason left to try

The angel tries to pacify but

The devil begins the war

No-one thinks to ask why

Is anyone happy anymore?

The virgin imagines perfection but

The whore will never forgive

Long ago the bubble burst

The mistress drowns in jewels but

The wife wonders who he’s with

It doesn’t help to know she was there first

The animal seeks to survive but

The monster perpetuates the myth

Perpetuates what is worst

Is this all planned?

Is there any going back?

If I held out my hand

Would someone take up the slack?

Sometimes it’s easy to understand

The lure of the bloodless black

The lure of the end

No one’s happy anymore

Poetry Spotlight on Bruce Dawe

Continuing on with the month of Mondays in May dedicated to poetry and poets, today’s subject is Bruce Dawe. As far as I’m concerned, Bruce Dawe is Australia’s greatest poet and making a statement like that could potentially spark heated debate given the other candidates: Banjo Patterson, Henry Lawson, Les Murray and several others.

The three Bruce Dawe books in my collection are This Side of Silence: Poems 1987-1990, Condolences of the Season: Selected Poems and Sometimes Gladness: Collected Poems 1957 to 1997. So I have a good selection of Bruce Dawe poems to showcase and demonstrate his genius.

There is a real sense of Australian-ness to Bruce Dawe’s poetry but then he mixes it up with sentiments, ideas and language that are universal. He can also come across as a real writer’s writer but then throw in something that everyone will recognise as brilliant writing, regardless of their poetical knowledge.

Some of his poems I’ve included here in their entirety because an extract will just not do them justice. Happy reading!

From “And a Good Friday Was Had by All”:

Orders is orders, I said after it was over

nothing personal you understand—we had a

drill-sergeant once thought he was God but he wasn’t

a patch on you

From “Head for the Hills!”:

‘Head for the hills!’ And before you could say, ‘Whose shout?’

The pubs were empty, sentences hung in mid-air,

Bar-flies, not even bothering to wipe the froth from their whiskers,

Were out of the door and running,

Old age forgotten: to see them cover the ground

Was, if nothing more, an inspiring example to youngsters.

“Kiss of Death”

What I fear from you

Elegant ladies who move

With stately step and

Heads held high, eyes clear

Around and about your ordered

Drawing-room world,

Is not these delicate facts in themselves

(The tune you are moving to

Finished long ago).

Primp as you will your

Concept of yourselves

(Stand in a pose by the mantel,

Shoulders just so,

Toy with a wine-glass,

A chivalrous opponent, words)

—But of your charity

Regard my feelings:

Promise me one thing only—that the next

Slim volume you take up with a rapturous cry

Shall never be mine

—I am too young to die…

From “Katrina”:

We do not know, but fear

The telephone call from a nurse whose distant sympathy

Will be the measure of our helplessness. Your twin brother’s

Two-month-old vigour hurts us…

From “Life-cycle”:

And the tides of life will be the tides of the home-team’s fortunes

– the reckless proposal after the one point win,

the wedding and honeymoon after the grand final…

“Good Sport”

Good sport, she laughed about her weight

And jogged about the court in shorts,

Her butt the butt of many a joke

—She turned the other cheek in sports

Which left her flustered, sweating, still

So quick to rally to the wit

Of friend or stranger you would swear

If anything she welcomed it…

Her husband, then, was most surprised

To find, returning from a trip,

She’d hanged herself, in what for her

Was thoroughly bad sportsmanship.

“Prison Alphabet”

Behind the walls

the walls begin,

behind the bars

are bars

A can make a knife of tin

B can cut out stars

C can get you what you want

a needle, drink or smoke

D can laugh through broken teeth

E can tell a joke

F can fake a heart-attack

G can throw a fit

H can write a letter home

as quick as you can spit

I can con the chaplain

J can con the ‘con’

K will know someone to ask

just where your wife has gone

L can keep an eye out

M can pass the word

N can hear the gospel truth

and then forget he heard

O will know which warder

can be got at—and the price

P will offer nothing

but a lot of free advice

Q will want no part of it

R will not be told

S will roll a cigarette

and shudder with the cold

T will hum a lonely tune

U will turn his back

V will lie as still as death

W will crack

X will read his bible

day by holy day

Y with eyes like torches

will burn the bars away

and Z, poor Z, will think the walls

must end where they begin

and that a man, outside, will be

the same as he went in.

All of these poems are from Condolences of the Season, described as containing “the best of Bruce Dawe’s earlier books… The unavailability of his first three books has made such a selection a necessity”. And here’s a few more to search out if you take my advice and make your own exploration:

“Two Songs for a Bicentenary Year”

“On First Being the Subject of a Question in a Late Afternoon Television Quiz Programme”

“On the Present Chinese Government Suppression of Student-Worker Dissent” particularly the fifth of the five poems that comprise this subtitled “Description of an Idea”

“Unless Things Change”

“Planning a Time-Capsule”

“A Literature Teacher Looks Ahead”