Adrienne’s
fashioned her opening poem, ‘Knots’, around her husband’s concern with safe
sailing procedures, and the suggestion - there's humour in her voice as she recalls this -
that she might familiarise herself with at least some practical understanding of knotting
prior to securing the vessel at its anchorage. Adrienne continues the aquatic theme with
her next couple of poems, the first written when the family lived in Canberra and Rolan
entertained dreams of owning a boat and sailing the world - [suffering from severe
homesickness at the time, Adrienne wished simply to return home to Hobart] - the second,
‘Air and Water’, inspired by Adrienne’s eldest boy during a family
excursion near Mole Creek in northern Tasmania.
‘When I
spoke to a friend about participating in this year’s festival,’ Adrienne
continues, ‘she advised me to "read your favourite poems so that you at least
will enjoy the experience, even if no-one else does". Adrienne's pleasure in reading
is shared by her audience: a personable and softly-spoken yet confident performer, she
takes readily to the podium. ‘So on that note I’ve decided to read some of my
favourite poems,’ she concludes. ‘Here’s a couple more…’
Melbourne
visitor Michael Crane arrives on stage armed with his new collection Poems from the 29th
Floor [Picaro Press]. He begins with the collection's opening piece - ‘Panoramic
View’ - before moving to poems from previous books including ‘How to Write the
Perfect Suicide Note’ [‘… start at the end and work your way back’].
Michael's followed by Joy Elizabeth, Graham Nunn - whose three selections include the
title poem from his 2007 collection Ruined Man - and Kate O’Hearne.
Sheila Burchill
opens after a break in proceedings followed by Tim Thorne. ‘Has anyone ever won the
Cup back to back?’ asks Rayner rhetorically. ‘Maybe tomorrow night: I give you
Tim Thorne!’
There’s a
political dimension to the selection of poems Tim reads this evening; the recent APEC 2007
summit comes under scrutiny. Yet he's versatile. For good measure, he includes a poem
describing the local seasons: summer, autumn, winter.... ‘Though I haven’t got
round to spring yet cos it’s not warm enough!’
‘Wonder
what that was about?’ asks Rayner reflectively, returning to duties at the microphone
by introducing Joan Webb where here too the political intrudes. ‘What about a GST, /
no no not me!’
It’s eric
beach’s turn to the microphone. ‘I’m trying to remember the first time I
ever met eric beach,’ Rayner contemplates, ‘it’d be outside Knopwoods in
Hobart – about 88 or 89…. For a blow-in who stayed a long time, he had an
enormous influence on Tasmanian poetry.’
For Tasmanians
deprived of beach’s presence these past years, it’s immediately apparent the
magic remains. A woman seated nearby listens intently, appreciation etched across her face
as eric works through his bracket.
- ‘autumn leaves
- no rake’
he recites.
‘That’s actually a poem that I shortened!’ he offers by way of
clarification.
Eric continues
with ‘Risdon Jail, Pink Palace’, ‘a long one – I started it twenty
years ago, I finally finished it’.
His delivery is
a mix of spoken word and rhythmic syncopation….
- ‘there’s no old men
- there’s no old men
- there’s no old men in
jazz’
Not for nothing
is he a former recipient of the NSW Premier’s Literary Award with his collection Weeping
for Lost Babylon. The lazy smile and droll demeanour belie the depth and resonance of
his poetry, delivered with typical generosity: for the predominantly local audience,
beach favours his Tasmanian-themed work from local publisher Pardalote Press.
‘That’s Tasmania for you’ he concludes, leaving the stage.
Eric's
departure brings Julie Beveridge to the microphone. ‘What an enormous night of
poetry, my head is full of words,’ Julie begins.
‘I love
poets who tell it how it is,’ she continues, perhaps referring to beach’s
performance, ‘and I aspire to write poems that do this....’ Julie reads from her
first collection, Rock n’ roll Tuxedo, with its sharp imagery, sparkle
and wit. ‘There’s 26 letters in the alphabet, and I spend my life trying to
get from A to B’. She finishes with a Queensland poem, ‘Forever on
this road’, studded with its many references to the Sunshine State - emblematic, but
not overwhelmingly, of her work.
The
evening’s readings grind to a halt, but there's the promise of more the following
day. We give the Saturday afternoon readings a miss; stroll instead through the city's
streets. In a Launceston mall, a youngster – he’s about twelve – chats to
two similarly-aged girls. ‘When my friend kisses girls,’ we overhear him remark,
addressing them both, ‘he sits with them on the bed rocking back and
forth….’.
Saturday
evening, the night of the Launceston Poetry Cup. First to the microphone is Tim Thorne
with a few words in memory of Chris Easton, a stalwart of the festival and a winner of the
Cup – ‘famously, with a wonderful poem’ - in 1999. ‘Those who knew
Chris personally will remember that the hooter that we use to wind up a poem after sixty
seconds was donated to the festival by Chris, so it’s only fitting that we dedicate
this evening to Chris Easton’.
Next on the
evening’s agenda is the launch of Michael Crane’s collection The View from
the 29th Floor [Picaro Press].
"For those
who are not familiar with Michael Crane’s work, he’s a widely published
Melbourne poet and the organiser of hundreds of poetry events throughout the country
including one in 1991 that he understands to be Australia’s first poetry slam. The
first time I ran into Michael was at the Republic Bar in Hobart some years ago. Michael
had travelled down from Melbourne with a rock band that was playing at the Republic that
afternoon, he was busy working the room helping flog the band’s CD’s. I’d
known of Michael as a poet for a number of years, viewing him in this situation
represented a paradigm shift for me. People such as Michael, Gig Ryan, Mike Ladd, have the
ability to spread themselves widely, don’t appreciate being typecast.
"You’d
be familiar with the analogy of poetry as inhabiting a mansion of many rooms…. While
the analogy pays homage to poetry’s range and diversity, I’ve often been curious
about the inhabitants of the mansion’s top floor. It’s the executives and
decision makers who are traditionally located on the top floor, isn’t it? And,
admission time: I don’t see Michael as a tenant of the top floor of the literary
mansion: not cos I doubt he’d appreciate the view but because I see him suggesting
the view from up there represents no more than one way of seeing. Yes it’s
compelling, but it fails to tell the full story. My impression of Michael is as someone
with an enthusiasm for examining the flip side of the coin – as you might guess from
the opening poem of the collection entitled ‘Panoramic View’:
I am
standing at the window of my twenty-ninth floor flat. I live in a hi-rise housing
commission flat and I can see most of the city at night from my window. I wonder how many
couples are making love at this very moment. There are hundreds of thousands of lights
from all the inner city houses. I notice one light in the distance go out.
The husband
whispers to his naked wife on their bed, ‘There, now that pervert on the twenty ninth
floor can’t see in.’
"Now there
are many possible readings of this particular poem, but essentially it points to a
sensibility open to any number of perceptions – to perception of the absurd, of human
fallibility, of the perversity of human nature. It's a little at odds with the remoteness
and isolation suggested by the view from the 29th Floor, is more indicative
– so far as I’m concerned – with the close up and personal, the cravings of
desire, of the heart. Because Michael in fact is a romantic, interested - as he explains
in his poem ‘Open Tuning’ - in living his life, not … ‘as a
warrior, / not as a martyr, nor as a genius….’ but 'as an open
stringed guitar / so that when fingerless on the fret / a strummed chord will sound / in
tune and the song is perfect’. Michael’s questions are those of an old
romantic, comfortable with identifying as ‘an expert on loneliness’, a rubber
man consigned to Siberia by a woman who packs him into a box marked ‘do NOT handle
with care’ … a man concerned with Truth with a capital ‘T’, whether it
be someone else’s Truth as for instance that of the Canadian basketballer in the
Sydney backpacker hostel whose ‘every word that comes from her mouth smells like
truth'’- or his own Truth, the man who wins admirers for his ability to
‘write a true line’.
"In
Michael’s writing, Truth with a capital ‘t’ and Pain with a capital
‘p’ co-exist side by side. What’s the most pain you can suffer at the hands
of an ex-lover? The occasion when he or she kisses someone new? Sleeps with someone else?
Nope, it’s when your name’s no longer remembered '… when I am washed
away from your life like a leaf in a drain.'
"Add to
these his reflections on the nature of living and his parallel questioning of death. ‘…
is it worse than death, / knowing that you’re dying?’ Michael asks. Death is
a constant in these poems, and not just death's finality but its impact on those who
remain. ‘Sometimes you get over death’, is a poem written of a friend’s
losing battle with cancer, ending with the reflection that slowly, eventually, one’s
personal pain and anger subsides.
- ‘Slowly, bit by bit, you
get over Death
- And in the end that’s what
angers me the most.’
"But
Michael’s ouvre’s not all gloom and doom, other poems reveal an inclination to
take time out to smell the roses, point to a passionate, and compassionate, writer with
concerns far from limited to the prism of his view from the 29th
Floor...."
'That how you
really see me?' Michael asks reflectively. 'Old romantic? Well, old certainly…’
After a short break it’s Cup time. ‘I’ve managed to pry the Launceston Cup
from Tim Thorne’s fingers, so if you’d like to have a go….’ invites
Cameron Hindrum.
No-one enjoys
being drawn early, least of all the serious contenders who despair at being thrown
lamb-like to an audience yet to warm up. Who’ll be drawn first? How will the evening
progress? Will attention again be focussed - as it has for the past year or two - on the
Tamar Valley pulp mill, given the green light by the Federal Government this past week? Or
will a winner emerge from out of left field, as did an entrant one year who famously won
by reciting a shopping list. In Chinese.
A hand dips
into the basket, emerges clutching a name. It’s that of Joan Webb.
The opening
poem of the 2007 Launceston Poetry Cup refrains from addressing pulp mill politics,
nevertheless Joan’s piece – ‘A Man Swore on a Melbourne building site’
– is definitely politically inspired.
A second name
is drawn, that of visitor Graham Nunn, director for the past two or three years of the
Queensland Poetry Festival. Will Nunn flirt with Tasmanian politics in the manner of Peter
Minter ["Pulp … is a four-letter word"], a close runner-up in last year's
event? But no: Graham's poem speaks of young love, Gene Simmons ….
Next into the
fray marches Joy Elizabeth, contestant number three and the first this evening to embrace
the pulp mill issue. Her passionate delivery - with key words thrown in for good measure:
' Gay', ‘dioxins’, ‘rooted’, etc – stirs the audience to full
voice. ‘I’m sure that’s the last we’ll hear of that tonight,’
Hindrum ventures.
Various readers
follow - Michael Crane, Clara Murray, Martin Hay – before Tim Thorne takes the
microphone. Tim won the event last year with a topical piece turning on the deaths in 2006
of Peter Brock and Steve Irwin. What’s in the bag tonight? ‘Ode to the President
of the People’s Republic of China’, he begins, with a poem in which reference is
made to uranium sales, Opposition Leader Rudd’s capacity for speaking Mandarin ....
He's rewarded with appreciative applause and appears at this stage of the event to be a
clear leader.
Bruce Penn skiffles his way
through ‘D.I.T. – Disinformation Technology’
- ‘… ya got yer wireless
connected to the … landline
- ya got yer router connected to
the … modem
- ya got yer modem connected to
the … server’
only to be
interrupted by the sound of the hooter for the first time this evening. Non-plussed, he
takes in the sustained applause; grinning broadly, declares ‘I win’ and with
arms raised victoriously, returns to his seat.
‘Not if I
have anything to do with it,’ one senses in Anne Leyton-Bennett's determination as
she launches into rhyme about the
-
‘ ... mill,
- poisonous toxic monstrous plant,
- they say will cause no
ill…’
She's followed
by Yvonne Gluyas, also keen on puncturing Penn’s confidence. Her poem somewhat echoes
that of Thorne’s: the words ‘Rudd’, ‘panda’ and
‘Olympics’ can be distinguished among the adulterated foreign words contained in
the poem. In my books, applause for Gluyas is definitely the most demonstrative
thus-far, even Thorne is cheering and clapping enthusiastically. Hindrum too is visibly
impressed. ‘Can I just say this? No-one likes a show-off!!!’
After the
mayhem of the previous poems, Peter Ryan strikes a more serious note with a piece critical
of US foreign policy, ‘American smirks / and excuses herself from collateral
damage’. Both poem and Peter are accorded respectful appreciation, as befits the
occasion. The poem was written by his daughter Genevieve, who slipped and fell to her
death at Newtown Falls on Mount Wellington in February, 2005; one of a number of poems,
journal entries and other writings collected and edited by her mother Elizabeth and
published by Sid Harta Press as … regards, some girl with words.
The next
contestants include Sheila Burchill and eric beach (with ‘Gunns Cable Chain
Ball’), and Colin Berry. Berry is a previous winner – twice – of the
Launceston Cup, and can claim to be the only contestant to have won in separate decades.
In previous years there’s been a deserved build-up to his participation, but on this
occasion there is none; perhaps it suits Berry this way. With nothing to lose, he takes
the bull by the horns ... squares up to the microphone and launches into ‘Pulpmill
Guidelines from a Latte Sipper’.
His drift is
apparent from the opening line ...
‘There’s
a whale in the bay / Mr Gay, Mr Gay…’
... the words
clever, the delivery impeccable. Most applause is reserved for the lines ‘That’s
not a walrus in the bay / Mr Gay, Mr Gay, / that’s just Paul Lennon on holiday, / Mr
Gay, Mr Gay’, an echo down the years of the words by John Lennon, 'Well here's
another clue for you all / The walrus was Paul'.
Christine
Antwell broaches the same subject, but from a different angle
- '... have we ever asked the
Elders of this land
- if the forests hold a secret
plan?'
while Jenny
Barnard – Cup winner in 2005 - entertains with a poem about her garden gnomes, 'two
funny green men in the rain'. Mike Cooper plays loosely with the poetic connotations of
'lyric', 'rhyme’, 'limeric' and 'stanza', and Chris Rattray reads 'The Tokyo Subway'
which, as he unnecessarily explains, is a poem written of a place 'thousands of kilometres
away from a bloody pulpmill'. Again, there's the MC's refrain. 'What was that about?'
Marie Stannus admits she's expected a flock of poems this evening on 'you know what', then
proceeds to add to that collection - while Philip Salom contributes a fragmented piece
about Hollywood love scenes, producers, cameras and horses: 'the bullet the bullet the
bullet, the head...'
Tony Rayner
arrives at the podium. 'Boooooooooo' ... Bruce Penn's welcoming response is heard from
somewhere in the audience.
'Get a
haircut,' Rayner fires back.
Rayner
addresses the motoring habits of performance poets, the safety net of comprehensive
insurance....
- '... I don't know about you
- but I drive a haiku'
He's met with a
chorus of support, but is it sufficient to trouble the judges?
Rayner's
followed by the final entrant for the evening, Jenny Neill ( suffering a God-intolerance
problem nothing can mend) ... and now it's over to the judges.
The judges need
a little time to deliberate, so Hindrum embarks on a few 'public service announcements'
beginning with a reminder about daylight saving - 'don't forget to wind your clocks
forward one hour' - and ending with 'everyone's invited to the traditional post-Cup party
at the Thornes' '.
'Of course I'll
see you up there at some stage' he adds, 'in some state or another'.
It's time for
the judges' announcements…. 'I've been reliably informed that the winner has won just
by a whisker ... and that another couple of entries were very close ... so close, so
close. The first of those close runner's-up is Colin Berry (‘that’s not a walrus
in the bay / Mr Gay, Mr Gay'), the second is Bruce Penn ['... dem phones, dem phones, dem
mobile phones'].... But this is the year of Yvonne Gluyas'.
Yvonne admits
she's speechless - 'And anyone who knows me, knows that's not very common' - though not
speechless enough thankfully to prevent a repeat performance to another generous round of
applause.
Last chore for
the evening is confirmation of the answers to the evening's quiz questions. 'The
missing words that follow "kookaburra sits in the old ..." are "gum
tree" ', Hindrum verifies. 'No, "in the old pulp mill" is not the correct
answer!'
The
evening’s winning poem – as well as that of Tim Thorne’s – deals with
Kevin Rudd's politicking throughout 2007. Is this an indication that John Howard's Prime
Ministership as a topic for poetic dissection - and frequent vilification - has reached
its use-by date? Will we hear more on Rudd next year? Will the pulp mill remain a focus of
the festival in 2008? Will poets and poetry continue to question and to challenge? And is
the Pope….