EVERY lesson has a reflection in the last 5 minutes. WHAT - SO WHAT - NOW WHAT?
Lift your hand to the window latch:
Sighing, turn and move away.
More than mortal swords are crossed
On thresholds at the end of day;
The fading air is stained with red
Since Time was killed and now lies dead.
Or Time was lost. But someone saw
Though nobody spoke and nobody will,
While in the clock against the wall
The guiltless minute hand is still:
The watchful room, the breathless light
Be hosts to you this final night.
Over the gently-turning hills
Travel a journey with your eyes
In forward footsteps, chance assault—
This way the map of living lies.
And this the journey you must go
Through grass and sheaves and, lastly, snow.
This workman dredges home at dusk
With bluntly forward boots that toss
The roan earth out like chaff behind
His swung cap scooping cups of wind
He crests the hill and fills the sky,
His eyes' lit windows facing west
To take the lemon-coloured light
While the day slowly drains away,
Or strides from hill to hill and strikes
A match against the friendly stars
(Hanging his cap on the horn of the moon).
Now as he stands to light his pipe
With quite unconscious insolence,
He could move mountains if he cared,
But a mountain in the palm of one's hand
Is a troublesome thing, so he lets them lie--
Or lifts one, looks at it, quiets the trees,
Turns it slowly and puts it down.
After the summer season, with the miraculous
Cleansing of waters the first wave of winter
Sweeps in a flood the sun-hats and the surfboards,
The spotted scarves and the sunshades striped like candy,
The children screaming at the water's edge with the seagulls
And the indolent sleepers on the sand--
Carries them in with a curl and a crash to the tramline
To the dignified bus like a rock to rebuff the confusion
And the foam and splash of departure
Then from the roadway
The wave recedes with a sigh that hushes the houses
Where the flies settle in shuttered rooms and the cat abandoned,
Sleeks and prowls in the ivy.
And only at evening
Walks on the beach in the moonlight and the lonely mermaid
Who married a mortal: who weeps at the edge of the water
Where the sand is like knives to her feet.
Gum-leaves and blackberries burnt on the fire with an autumn
Savour of sadness -- smoke was bitter, contesting
With the crossed blades of sunlight parting the pine trees,
Detecting an ambush. Tongues of flame like slander
Blackened the billy, bubbling with anger.
Down in the gully
I was a child again, sailing
Twig boats on the rapids where a trickle of water
Foamed brown and golden over the rock ledge,
While the tadpoles (years and years ago) slipped through my fingers
And maiden-hair and mosses, resentfully,
Took down my footprints ...
Dreaming by the fire I called myself, watching
For a child to run back through Time to a picnic.
Wanting to be myself, alone,
Between the lit house and the town
I took the road, and at the bridge
Turned back and walked the way I'd come.
Three times I took that lonely stretch,
Three times the dark trees closed me round,
The night absolved me of my bonds
Only my footsteps held the ground.
My mother and my daughter slept,
One life behind and one before,
And I that stood between denied
Their needs in shutting-to the door.
And walking up and down the road
Knew myself, separate and alone,
Cut off from human cries, from pain,
And love that grows about the bone.
Too brief illusion! Thrice for me
I heard the cock crow on the hill,
And turned the handle of the door
Thinking I knew his meaning well.
His old fist like a knotted branch
He punched into his cap
Meaning. "This is a morning!--
The mist like white scoured wool
Is teased and spread about the hills,
The valleys' bales are full."
I nodded in agreement
And likewise punched my hat
Seeming to say, "At noonday
The wind will comb and spin
That fleece of mist to thread of cloud
And night will wind it in."
His hand to the horizon
He waved in careless joy
Observing by this gesture,
As I was quick to know,
That over the hills lay China
And both of us should go.
As silent as two fence posts
Years, years ago we stood
Having such talk as only
Children and fools may try,
That excellent old madman
Wordless and wise, and I.
Morning: such long shadows
Like low-bellied cats
Creep under parked cars
And out again, stealthily
Flattening the grasses.
At the bus-stop
A flock of starlings:
School-children, chatterers,
Swinging haversacks,
Pulling ribbons.
The driver's got a book by
Sartre in his pocket,
He wears dark glasses,
Listens moodily
To the Top Forty.
Life gets better
As I grow older
Not giving a damn
And looking slantwise
At everyone's morning.
My grandmother, living to be ninety, met
Whatever chanced with kindness, held her head
On one side like a sparrow, had a bird's
Bright eyes. At dinner used to set
An extra place for strangers. This was done
She said, in Bendigo and Eaglehawk, it was
A custom she observed. In her thin house
That spoke aloud of every kind of weather
She put out food for lizards, scattered crumbs
For wrens beside the pepper-tree, and saved
The household water for geraniums.
At twilight, at the meditative hour
Perched on the piano-stool, in semi-dark
She liked to strum the songs learnt long ago
In Bendigo and Eaglehawk. She had
Eight children, little money, many griefs.
She was sorry
She never had a jinker and a horse
To drive about the roads in, of her own.
Rosemary Dobson, enduring voice of Australia, dies (SMH, 2012)
Guide to the classics: The Poetry of Rosemary Dobson (The Conversation, 2018)
Rosemary Dobson, A celebration
Rosemary Dobson: The Continuance of Poetry - Creative Instinct
Divining Colander: the Poetry of Rosemary Dobson - Poetica
Vale Rosemary Dobson and Peter Steele - Books and Arts
Any critical understanding of Rosemary Dobson's poems requires reading to and fro across adjacent poems; to and fro in the group of poems, and into the wider series in which each poem is meticulously placed.
A.D Hope's phrases 'radiant vision' and 'contemplative erene' as the 'distinctive mark of Rosemary Dobson's poetry', yety there is included at times the spirit troubled, grieving, or in anguish, even within the confidence found in advancing 'with music', 'intent and tranquil', towards that frontier with eternity.
In tracing a spiritual ethos, recognition of the polysemic nature of the language; awareness that stillness, being stilled, or silence, predicate metaphysical insights or illumination of understanding; and awareness of the physical and the sensuous being linked through metaphor to the metaphysical, are each important.
Disruption of the discourse of poetry is most evident in syntax and prosody, but more significantly in the way the lines of tension in traditional paradox or contradictions are resolved to new conceptualisation to shift the parameters of dialectic.
A significant example noted by Hope is the traditional antithesis of time and eternity being resolved to 'time presented within the order of eternity'. Thus for the spirit, being in temporal experience is being still within and part of the order of eternity.
The sudden shift from the Hellenic vision to war is theoretically startling. The poet works assuredly in her new systemic conceptualisation, going her own way. The note of death feared in its finality is gone from the poetry of 1948 onwards.
Fay Zwicky recently expressed the view that in the absence of a "recognisably unified literary tradition" the one thing that has drawn Australian poets together "has been as strong attachment to the physical environment, the strange and often harsh beauty of an ancient land" (34). At the same time she sees this as a source of conflict for many of them, since such attachment to the land seems to stand in fundamental opposition to their cultural heritage, "for the most part European in origin."
For Rosemary Dobson such a conflict might not be expected to be an inherent part of her writing. Her debt to this cultural heritage is obvious and she has repeatedly acknowledged it, most recently in the "Preface" to her Collected Poems (1991). In fact her work is sometimes regarded as largely confined and defined by it, which has earned her the somewhat dubious labels of "classicist" (Tulip 45; Mitchell 4; Strauss 342), and of "miniaturist" (Malouf 17; Goodwin 144).
Diane Fahey called her "a poet's poet" but also characterised her art as an "implanting and nurturing one" (38), and the author herself has propagated and practiced the notion of cultural cross-pollination: 'I had, and have, a very strong belief in translation as a means of cross-pollinating literature, and furthering the 'exchange of cultures'" ("Imitations" 97). In her anthology Australian Voices (1975) she deliberately included work "that reflected a concern for, and interest in, events else-where in the world, since I believe that literatures are enriched by such exchanges between countries."
If Wright's poetry, as Dobson recalls, disclosed to Australians fresh aspect of truth about "the heart" of their land ("A World of Difference" 382), for her this land retained its secrecy. Commenting in 1962 on Australian painters' representations of gum trees, she subtly conveyed her sense of distance, if not alienness: the gum tree, she wrote, "testifies to the fact that this secretive landscape... provides sustenance for those who, through centuries of nomadic life, have learned the ways in which it gives and withholds."
Yet Dobson's writing is more concerned in many ways with land, habitat and the idea of environment, both physical and cultural, that is often recognised. At the same time, her representations of Australian landscapes are both selective and mostly unlocalised: a bay; a dry river; a ghost town; a rain forest. We might note, too, that the two archetypal sites of Australian (male) identity-making, the bush and the desert, do not figure in her poetry. Nor does she attempt to write the shadowy "other" which is such a prominent feature of Wright's poetry.
To encounter and name the landmarks is, rather, to remember with respect and affection the great and small human dramas of lived experience acted out through generations on this piece of land which the speaker herself has left.
Again, the land is not constructed as a signifier, to be read or decoded for the hidden message, rather, precisely because it's not itself a text, authored or inscribed already, it seems to enable those who face it openly to have different perceptions, to convince figurative analogies for other dimensions of reality than those of the surveyor, mapmaker and settler. Having not only received but presumably read the poems of Li Po, the speaker is ready to perceive and articulate fullness of meaning in a landscape from which the hermit, the enabling (culturally determined) spirit of place or signifier, we might say, is tellingly absent - an instance of poems seeding new songs in another language.
Dobson's "refined or austere approach to things..." carried a "sense of discretion and reserve." Ivor Indyk describes "a great sense of clarity and decorum" while Chris Wallace-Crabbe admires "the steadiness of her poetry." Peter Rose who in his capacity as editor of Australian Book Review published some of Dobson's most recent poems, emphasises "a real finesse and sustained quality."
Implicit in this a kind of steady observation capable of watching the movement of light and the small things lit; and the larger sense of concentration and the the visionary. Within light's mobility and through its refractions McCooey finds a quality of haunting in the poems, concerned as they often are with "the half-seen, the ghostly, and the half-understood."(xvii)
Implicit in this account are motifs of loss, courage (her mother's, bringing up two children alone, and her own, as a child losing a parent), generosity and recuperation which can be traced through her poetics.
The place of translation in Dobson's work opens into a more figurative version of the question. As the etymology suggests, translation (from translatus, past participle of the Latin word to convey) and metaphor (a word tangling back through the French word metaphore, itself from the Latin metaphora - carrying over - and the Greek metaphora) are closely related.
The idea of movement between - an investment in the littoral - is at the heart of Dobson's practice. Dobson's ekphrastic poetry enacts a kind of crossing between visual and literary forms, while her work with the Russian poems collects several kinds of crossings. She and David Campbell worked with a number of translators (Olga Hassanof, Robert Dessaix and Natalie Staples) to achieve the work of bringing the poems into English versions, something involving and transcending translation in its literal sense.
The translation of grief is a reminder that any austerity in Dobson's poetry works like the politeness McCooey recalls, to disclose rather than to create distance. It is as though a stepping-back from a more confessional "I" opens the mysteries of the loss into an expression of something more inclusive.
Rosemary Dobson's poetry trembles with the mysteries that we glimpse in our deepest experiences. She is a poet of the epiphany, but a self-effacing one, so that disclosure is framed by reticence that does homage to the mystery - the "elusive" parts of expression that mean that the poet is burdened and freed by "the doomed but urgent wish to express the inexpressible", as she once put it. Her craft crosses and recrosses to the edges where light comes up from darkness, and where its refractions are always in flux, moving through shadows to discover 'words of wonder'.
Rosemary Dobson is a curiously problematic writer - paradoxically, because of her work's apparently unproblematic nature, its lucidity, its monumental quality. In a time of profound anxiety, not just about ways of living and surviving, but also about language, its power and worth, she dreams still of a common language which is clear, inclusive and evocative, concentric rather than eccentric, and concerned to escape from the cramp of mere subjectivity. Australian, nevertheless she invokes the 'great names, to me the strange / Names of a culture still to be explored' and looks 'for ways by which to understand / My origins; for ground whereon to stand / With poetry for a divining-branch' (The Three Fates, 28).
The resistance here to having parameters set for her is characteristic. Paradoxically, however, it springs from a reluctance to define or assert herself - a reluctance evident also in the dismissive 'what might be termed' and 'and so on' when she comes to speak of the last group of poems, in which she is at her most vulnerable and moves to declare herself most openly. But it is characteristic also of much of women's writing in general, the writing of the 'colonised'. Working within male discourse - as a poet Rosemary Dobson is often bracketed with her friends A.D. Hope and David Campbell, and with Douglas Stewart and James McAuley with whom she figured in the late 40s and 50s in the Bulletin - her poetry nonetheless works, quietly but powerfully, to deconstruct it and to write beyond boundaries. Comparison of her renderings with David Campbell's in the series of free translations from the Russian of poems by Anna Akhmatova and Osip Mandelstram makes this clear. As A.D. Hope notes in his preface:
'David Campbell, it seems to me, descends like the eagle of Zeus on the poem he is to render, and with something of the Olympian lightning flash he carries it off and transmogrifies it: it becomes a poem in his manner... Rosemary Dobson ... works in quite another way. She flows round and over and through the poem until it is totally absorbed into her ... personal habits of language, of rhythm, of feeling; and then, with delicate care and exquisite adjustment of detail the poem so dissolved is encouraged to re-crystallise itself in the medium of another language and another poetic personality.'
In this sense to read Dobson's work in the active sense is the miss the point. The task we are engaged in here is rather to cross over the frontier, to learn to listen, to catch a glimpse of that 'outline of non-existence' which 'can be held by the inner eye' ('Always moving, it assumes the shape of stillness'). What matters here, that is to say, in art as in life, is some quality of pure answerability.
Many of her early poems 'Young Girl at a Window', 'The Fire', moving in Mist', 'Foreshore') rely on this tactic, embracing contradiction and ambiguity as a way of life. But there is also a certain self-consciousness about them which reflects the weight of commonsense, of the masculine interrogation which insists on categorisation, proximity and rationality, the principle of non-contradiction. (Longfield note - Dobson is subtle in her critique of the phallogocentrism (male / logic and reason dominated thinking) of her context and contemporaries.)
In many of her poems we glimpse Dobson as a possibility of being another kind of poet, ecstatic, dionysan, sweeping away limits and restrictions, working language, defying syntax, re-defining herself and her world by defiance. But this kind of poetry can fall subject to another kind of ideology, and claim absoluteness and exclusiveness as patriarchal thought also does. Dobson's great gift, however, is for truthfulness and integrity, for remaining in contact with daily experience and thus the common language. Refusing to live by presuppositions, suspicious of prejudice and cliche, she leaves herself open in her work to honest criticism on the one hand and the possibilities of change on the other. This is the importance of her poems about paintings. They kept her in touch with what is already given and sensuous and thus enabled her to use this as a measure of, and sometimes a judgement on, the present. Personal space in life, irony in art, depend upon the possession of some internalised standard of this kind. Writing poetry may be the most innocent of occupations, but in this sense it is highly subversive, setting personal experience against the collective representations of things, confirming her existence in the world in her own terms.
Nevertheless, the reluctance to define herself, to liberate the new possibilities inherent in the image of Icarus remains. Instead, Dobson is content here and in other poems of this period with the other kind of flight, with stealing away quietly, more or less unobserved. So irony becomes a kind of diversionary tactic. Yet it is also in danger of becoming an end in itself, of making for dessication, of undue emphasis on intelligence as a substitute for feeling.
These poems, then, mark a crucial point in Rosemary Dobson's development because in them the object of desire, the body, is spoken and given its own place. But their very success, and the unrepeatability of the experience they depend upon, posed a new problem. This problem arises out of the gap which is implicit in these poems between art and life. The vividness of memory and the intimacy of bodily experience combine to give a degree of certainty that is also potentially destructive to poetry. Concern with bodily experience can also become prescriptive. 'It is dangerous', as the editors of the journal Questions Feministes observe, 'to place the body at the centre of a search for female identity'. On the other hand it is also important not to lose the sensuous authority, the personal directness which had been obscured in, if not entirely absent from, the earlier poems about paintings.
Here, looking death in the face, she is also laying claim to her body and to the geography and history of the body - claims enforced on her, as on most women, by children.
I the
The Task: Examine the human experience of 2020 by emulating / mimicking the tone, style and metre of Dobson's poetry....
These were the results...
ODE TO GILLARD WE MISS YOU ILY XXX
Kangaroos and koalas burnt on the fire with a charred
Scorched summer — smoke was severing, contesting
With the sharp blades of fire parting the Wollemi,
Detecting an ambush. Tongues of flame like slander
Lungs now lifeless, coal still burning.
Scomo in parlie
Not doing s**t, except in
Engadine Maccas where a trickle of soft serve
Foamed brown and golden over the rock ledge,
While the koalas (elections and elections away) slipped through his fingers
And David Hurley, resentfully,
Took down his footprints…
Dreaming by the fire I called myself, watching
For a child to run back through Time to when we had a carbon tax.
addendum: Julia, Malcolm I’m sorry we were mean to u we miss you pls come back pls
by Dani and Jack
The (Zoom) Conversation
Her background snapped to a beach
Its blocky outline
Meaning, “Good morning class!
These are confusing times
But now open Othello to page 56
To discover Iago’s organised crime.”
We emoted in agreement
And likewise muted our mics
Seeming to say, “By lunchtime
We will have finished the skribbl.io game
And half listened to the absurd read
That brings this playwright to fame.”
Her mouse to the zoom call
She alerts
By Abi and Isabella
Idea One
Wanting to be outside, but no
Instead I am dying inside
Went for some walks around the block
Please p**s off coronavirus
Three times I went around the block
Three times I went to McDonalds
The food was as shit as always
But I was glad to be outside
On all the school zoom calls I slept
Wanting to make coffee frappes
Tiktok was all that kept me sane
I really really want to die
Too soon! Melbourne screwed it all up
second wave hit them like a truck
Look at that epic simile
Murder hornets dipped so quickly
by Barney and Cory
Over the Hill 2020
This workman dredges to his couch
With bluntly bare feet that toss dust
The ‘rona earth is chaff behind
His swung mask scooping cups of wind
He crests the hill and fills the sky
His eyes’ lit of tiktoks and zooms
To take the blue-coloured light
While his day slowly drains away
Or strides from hill to hill and strides
a match against the murder hornets
(Hanging his mask on the horn of the soap).
Now as he stands to wash his hands
With quite unconscious insolence,
He could go outside if he cared,
But doom scrolling in the palm of one’s hand
Is a troublesome thing, so he stays inside
Or lifts his head, looks out, quiets the trees,
Turns it slowly and stays alone.
Amy Caroline
My grandmother, living to be ninety, met
Her painful, end with covid, held her heart
On one sleeve like a bikie, jacked arms like
the rock. At dinner she used to
Eat protein powder with me. This was done
She said, in UFC and WWE, it was
Training she said to me. With her buff arms
That spoke aloud of years of hard, tough training
She challenged all pro fighters, broke them all
For she was the strongest of them, never
Actually decided to compete but.
At twilight, She bench pressed and did pull ups
Perched on her buff fingertips, in semi-dark
She liked to hit strangers for more practice
In WWE and UFC. She had
Eight big abs, lots of money, many fans
She was sorry
She never had a protein shaker, sad,
To drink every morning, of her own.
By Barney and Cory
The businessman trudges home at dusk
His portly business shoes click clack
Along the pavement towards home
Purple suit and green-striped shirt
He wishes for a quiet life
Without struggles, without strife
His quiet life, his silent way
Intruding student barres his path
His monstrous SUTANDO comes out at last
Its internal bomb now turned on
Into pieces he bursts apart
The student finds eternal sleep
Lost in the quiet man's kill-count deep
By Marshall
Tim Brew at a Window
Lift your hand to the stabbing stance
Swinging, twist and drag the blade
More than just a boy is lost
Last precious gem thrown down the drain
The fading air is stained with red
Since Tim was killed and now lies dead
Our Tim was killed, no one saw
We all remember, forever we will
Hands in pockets, leaned on the wall
The Timless kilgour quad stands still
I watch my room, cos he just might
Come to spend one more sensual night
Over the gently-turning spine,
Travel a journey with your knife
Take forward footsteps, start assault
This way the Tim, once living, dies
And from this mortal plane he goes
His skin as cold and white as snow
By Yaz