'how to make a basket' by Jazz Money

 

From the BLURB: 

Simmering with protest and boundless love, Jazz Money’s David Unaipon Award-winning collection, how to make a basket, examines the tensions of living in the Australian colony today. By turns scathing, funny and lyrical, Money uses her poetry as an extension of protest against the violence of the colonial state, and as a celebration of Blak and queer love. Deeply personal and fiercely political, these poems attempt to remember, reimagine and re-voice history. 

Writing in both Wiradjuri and English language, Money explores how places and bodies hold memories, and the ways our ancestors walk with us, speak through us and wait for us.

it starts with smoke, it always starts with smoke ... 

I was in the city the other day and knew I'd have time to burn, so I took Jazz Money's 2021 University of Queensland Press poetry collection with me, and went to the Fitzroy Gardens to read. 

I am long-overdue in coming to the page here, though I bought the book when it first came out. But I am glad that I waited for the right time and feeling to be open to this remarkable collection - and it did indeed feel cathartic and prophetic to read it when I did, on a bright Melbourne day in the Fitzroy Gardens ... 

And how accurate in a collection about "the tensions of living in the Australian colony today," that I did read it in those Gardens - near where Cooks' Cottage (a house where the parents of James Cook lived, brought from England in the 1930s) presides, in tribute to the coloniser. In the gardens where blue gums were removed to make way for sweeping lawns and ornamental flowerbeds (to look like some place other than here, it seems). Don't get me wrong, it's beautiful but - it's colony. 

And just as Money's collection opens with smoke and the Djab Wurrung sacred birthing trees in Victoria (mother burred at the belly swollen as the great trees come to this place) which the Andrews government bulldozed to make way for a new highway in 2020, ... they - we - lost something, to the colony. To progress and control. Infrastructure and destruction. Money is exploring this constantly in beauty and horror throughout the collection, and it's an absolute powerful and masterful gut-punch. 

Lilac sky swollen 

lights. A slick black car 

on slick black roads. 

 

Stars don't shine in this town 

only satellites 

humankind's wandering wonders. 

I'd rather wish on circuits

than lost black stars 

Outstanding.

'A Thousand Crimson Blooms' by Eileen Chong

 

'A Thousand Crimson Blooms' is the latest poetry collection from Australian writer Eileen Chong, published by University of Queensland Press.

This collection is a layering of time and longing. It exists in a liminal space between memory and the present, one triggering the other and then reverberating back to the here and now - before reaching again and deeper into history and poignant memory.

Chong writes with an absolutely sublime touch; precise words and sentences that I can only imagine were painstakingly curated, read feather-light on the page; Denouement of days:

And then sometimes that sparsity screams with a much deeper meaning. Almost skittering a sentence, swerving as though the pain is too deep to linger; I was angry. She was ashamed.

There's so many threads and themes throughout this slim collection, it's amazing what Chong has managed to pack in - and again with that interplay of light touch and staccato hurt. The one that I found spoke to me profoundly was the turning points of mother/daughter relationships, motherhood and infant loss, miscarriage. These are heavy topics and Chong really opens herself up on the page in truly cathartic ways, full of grace.

My mother cannot
craft in art what she never saw in life.

I thought this collection was superb. I always feel better for welcoming poetry into my reading, and sitting with Eileen Chong and this book was a very special experience.

'Turbulence' by Thuy On

I’m trying to read more Poetry because it’s good for me.

I always encourage emerging writers to read outside their form/readership/genre to stretch their brains a bit, but I hadn’t been doing that myself lately and I needed to ... I’m in awe of poets. Their tight lines and pace, perfectly selected words & phrases just floor me.

One poetry collection I picked up recently was 'Turbulence' by Thuy On. It's all about sex, relationships, humour, heartbreak, rebirth, rejection and longing.

CAMEO 

In this game of chance  

the dynamic chaos 

that whirlwinded us both 

whimpers and waits 

for pattern and tidy 

the idea was to be 

interwoven into narrative 

separate skeins 

gently plait bound 

singular becoming plural 

but your cameo sightings 

make us a poor play 

half-formed ghostings 

creaking on floorboards.

I found a lot of humour in this collection too - dark humour, for sure, but an ability to look at life and raise your eyebrow to it all. - like the final stanza in Perspective:

just a slice of the drama 

on reveal 

like a fingernail clipping of the moon.

I think this is a wonderful modern and deeply personal collection out of Australia and UWA Publishing, and I think there’s something for everyone here

5/5

'Living on Stolen Land' by Ambelin Kwaymullina

Received from the Publisher 

From the BLURB: 

Living on Stolen Land is a prose-styled look at our colonial-settler ‘present’. This book is the first of its kind to address and educate a broad audience about the colonial contextual history of Australia, in a highly original way. It pulls apart the myths at the heart of our nationhood, and challenges Australia to come to terms with its own past and its place within and on ‘Indigenous Countries’.

This title speaks to many First Nations’ truths; stolen lands, sovereignties, time, decolonisation, First Nations perspectives, systemic bias and other constructs that inform our present discussions and ever-expanding understanding. This title is a timely, thought-provoking and accessible read.

There is no part of this place
that was not
is not
cared for
loved
by an Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander nation

I’m going to say this is one of the most important books to seek out, own, and learn from in 2020 - and will go down as an instant classic, a staple of every library and classroom forevermore.

Somebody in #LoveOzYA community was recently asking if any non-fiction books exist about the history of systemic racism in Australia and the realities of being a settler-colony where sovereignty was never ceded ... 'Living On Stolen Land' isn’t non-fiction, it’s prose-style but *everything* is covered within. It's lyrical truth.

The poetry style has you absorbing blows of that truth not *easily* but in a way that really does imprint. And the blurb does proclaim its uniqueness (long-overdueness?) for the Australian landscape. I’ve long been a huge fan of Ambelin’s, and everything that’s in this book are ideas in the pages of her Aussie-YA too; but here they’re stark and laid bare. You can’t look away - her words bite and bare down and this is an essential book for *everyone* to read, not least because I can’t even begin to imagine how emotionally taxing it would have been to write and share. Wow. 

I encourage you to buy this book now, to be part of the conversation that is sure to spring ...

There are no trees
rivers
hills
stars
that were not
are not
someone’s kin

5/5

Book available from July 1 

'Lemons in the Chicken Wire' by Alison Whittaker

From the BLURB:

WINNER – 2015 black&write! Indigenous Writing Fellowship

From a remarkable new voice in Indigenous writing comes this highly original collection of poems bristling with stunning imagery and gritty textures. At times sensual, always potent, Lemons in the Chicken Wire delivers a collage of work that reflects rural identity through a rich medley of techniques and forms. It is an audacious, lyrical and linguistically lemon flavoured poetry debut that possesses a rare edginess and seeks to challenge our imagination beyond the ordinary. Alison Whittaker demonstrates that borders, whether physical or imagined, are no match for our capacity for love.

‘Lemons in the Chicken Wire’ is Alison Whittaker’s debut poetry collection, available from Magabala Books. Alison is a Gomeroi poet, life writer and essayist from Gunnedah and Tamorth, north-western New South Wales.

I’m going to be upfront and say I don’t read a lot of poetry. But there are certain publishers and voices keep me coming back for more – and Magabala is one of them. They published one of my favourite verse novels in Ali Cobby Eckermann’s 'Ruby Moonlight', which I just love intensely. When I heard that the 2015 black&write! winner was again a poetry book, I was really excited and knew I’d seek it out. And I’ve got to say … Alison Whittaker surpasses expectation, and in one book has become another favourite poet of mine, a new voice I’m eager to read more of.

Whittaker isn’t just a poet; she’s also a law student who actually won the 2015 Indigenous law student of the year annual award. But in her debut poetry collection ‘Lemons in the Chicken Wire’ she’s mostly taking readers away from the hustle and bustle of the big city, to explore and remember her life growing up on country in rural New South Wales.

This collection of Whittaker’s feels very grounded in some ways – as she observes life growing up on country, with this real sense of place and connectedness to her culture. But in another sense she’s examining big constructs that lift the reader even out of their own pre-conceived ideas and, yes, prejudices … as ‘Lemons’ is largely exploring aboriginality, and dislocation alongside gender, sexuality, and queer aboriginal identity.

And now let me take a moment to recommend that you listen to Whittaker speaking on Radio National about her collection – especially for her honing in on the ideas around queer aboriginal identity. Because she says there is this assumption that the city is the only place to go where you will be accepted as a queer aboriginal person, and ‘Lemons’ for one thing is completely counteracting that idea.   

The entire collection is deliciously audacious – and you really do get this sense that Whittaker revels in the subversiveness of her themes and explorations, countering what many people will imagine aboriginality to be, and where it exists in modern Australia. She is exploring rather weighty themes, but there’s a sultriness to her woks, a cheeky lightness – ‘Wattle in the Dykes’ – and a beautifully languid touch that can turn to biting sting in a few keystrokes;

-ing; -ly 

I sucked her fingers one by one 

where I lingered, rings of lipstick stayed 

on one knuckle, then another 

hot and red and suddenly 

sticky 

like a surprise cut 

red marks like keen slices 

as if she moved them, presently 

they would split at the joint 

like a doll whose ball sockets rotted 

dislodge into my throat 

gut 

and choke me 

instantly

As I said, I don’t read much poetry. I know what I like, and I like what I like and I really like – even love – Alison Whittaker’s ‘Lemons in the Chicken Wire’. Sometimes it’s her absorbing, precise language that paints such an image;  

The Sticking Place 

Last nights make a gluey bubble 

in thin crepe expansive time 

tonight I watch that lingering bubble 

cloud the moon, and mine the light.  

Here time is halted, as if the earth 

stopped turning to gaze at a lover 

you turn your gaze to country 

mournfully, feet curled into the earth 

aware that dawn waits to prise you. 

But time, it stands back-to-back with you 

and it leans, and sometimes you 

gain momentum with its weight, other times 

it’s a limp carcass whose shoulders dislocate. 

This night, time is still 

a warm, soundless bubble 

shrouds dreads of the morning. 

The last night on country  

you bury yourself in the earth under time’s weight 

to hold this touch 

you gasp it, gasp it, eat it.

… sometimes I just liked that Whittaker was taking me outside of myself, and poking at my own assumptions – cracking them open or squeezing till they pulped. ‘Lemons in the Chicken Wire’ just introduced me to a favourite new voice in indigenous and poetry writing, and acts as a reminder of why I seek out these works from the indelible Magabala Books.

5/5

'Ruby Moonlight' by Ali Cobby Eckermann

Received from the Publisher

From the BLURB:

In the mid-north of South Australia, on Ngadjuri land, a young Aboriginal woman survives the massacre of her entire family. Alone and grieving, her fear of discovery is overcome by the need for human contact. . .

Told through a series of interconnected poems, ‘Ruby Moonlight’ elegantly weaves a story that captures the essence of the natural world, colonialism in late nineteenth century Australia and the emotional turmoil borne out of love and human desire.

A few weeks ago I read a fantastic modern poetry collection, and vowed to seek out more prose in my reading life. Lo and behold, Ali Cobby Eckermann’s latest book, ‘Ruby Moonlight’, landed in my hands, and continues to feed my craving for beautifully sorrowful lyricism. . .

‘Ruby Moonlight’ has power from the dedication to the very end. Eckermann has dedicated her book thus;

for my Kami
who disappeared in 1976

and

for all our mob who died
innocent

brave

in true

spirit

When the dedication alone was so commanding, I just knew that what was to come would be something special . . .  and in the case of ‘Ruby Moonlight’, I wasn’t wrong.

A young Aboriginal woman named Ruby survives a massacre – a morning ambush, “the clan slaughtered” and only Ruby is left. She wanders the South Australian landscape, on Ngadjuri land – “she staggers to follow bird song” and trusts in nature to guide her to safety. Ruby is “of the Shadow tribe”, a tribe that is now lost. She is alone.

Eventually, Ruby meets an Irishman trapper called Jack. She finds solace in human contact with this seemingly kind man who offers her food and fire . . . and, for a little while at least, Ruby knows some semblance of peace;

Oasis

it is the oasis of isolation
that tolerates this union

neither know
the other’s language

they never speak
during the day

only at night
where no-one can hear

he whispers his endearment
ruby moonlight

she is a gem glistening
in a night’s blackness

I have never had quite so much satisfaction in reading a complete poetry book, as I did with ‘Ruby Moonlight’. Although filled with pretty/painful prose and cascading words, ‘Ruby Moonlight’ is also telling a sad story. We follow Ruby from massacre to Jack’s embrace, to a world unlike any she has ever known, and a man “with no music in his heart”. This is Ruby’s story; in all its tragedy. Unfortunately, it’s also the story of many Aboriginals who bore the brutality of colonisation in the 1800’s, and the continued ramifications.

Ali Cobby Eckermann’s ‘Ruby Moonlight’ is heart-wrenchingly beautiful. It is a book of death and violence, loneliness and isolation. But, it’s also a book that glories in nature and, and carries a young woman’s strength while telling of Australia’s dark and brutal past. Equal parts fanciful and factual; ‘Ruby Moonlight’ was powerful from dedication to final line. 

5/5

'The Possibility of Flight' by Lia Hills

From the BLURB:

The poems in Lia Hills’ first collection journey from ‘artesian memories’ of the Australian desert to the ‘shifting territory of the gods’ in rural Pakistan, as they glide with a wing shift between love, language and faith.

Truth be told, I don’t actively seek out poetry books.

I know, I know! That’s atrocious to admit when I love words so much. Honestly, I have my favourite Emily Dickinson poem memorized (“hope is the thing with feathers”), as well as my favourite Anna Akhmatova poem (“You will hear thunder”) . . . and I sort of think that gets me by. I can quote a few more classics, and when I’m in the mood I can get quite happily lost in a nice bit of poetry, but very rarely do I actively seek out poetry books. I don’t really buy them, I flip through them. And I have never bought a modern poetry book for myself . . .  until now.

I found myself at ‘Collected Works’ bookstore recently. It’s located on Swanston Street (number 37, to be precise), upstairs in the Nicholas Building. If you haven’t been there before and you find yourself in Melbourne, you should definitely check it out. ‘Collected Works’ is exactly what a bookstore should be – cramped with a shambolic array of books, tucked away and frequently open late for poetry readings. Anyway, I found myself browsing the beautifully chaotic shelves at ‘Collected Works’ and something compelled me to pull out this very slim (64-pages) royal blue poetry book, enticingly titled ‘The Possibility of Flight’. I flipped to a random page and my eyes landed on this line. . . 

The statesman’s pocket my new cage, he called me a spectre then stole my dialect to wrench the core of men, made me the Braille, dots beneath skin, of a blindman’s game.

. . . and I was hooked. Oh! That imagery; “made me the Braille, dots beneath skin”, had me breaking out in Braille-like goose bumps.

Poetry should be a little bit visceral – the words shouldn’t sit stained on the page. The reading of them should invoke some sort of bodily response. At least, that’s the way good poetry works for me. When I first stumbled across Akhmatova’s poem the first line was like a punch to the gut: “You will hear thunder and remember me, / And think: she wanted storms.” And I have since taken that poem everywhere with me, it’s imbedded in my memory and there to stay.

That has also been my reaction to a lot of Lia Hill’s poems in ‘The Possibility of Flight’, published in 2008. It’s an apt title, because reading some of her words is akin to that belly-dropping dip I imagine birds experience when they ride the sky.

paradigm

at night I rise to gather lost words
they collect in edges
        these invisible demons
make for consequential myth
I could ride the rise of the bête-noire
        crusade against language
it's lyric I seek
but not in an a capella of newsprint
        crystal ball    rhetorician’s tool
the proof in the unhappening    the raw mix

entends-tu le glas qui sonne?

as dawn crawls
it’s dust I find
lament in my dissociation of sensibility
                                      on a molecular scale
am I to become atomised
    speak the language of the blind?

I may not be an avid poetry reader but Lia Hills has converted me. If I stumble across another gem like ‘The Possibility of Flight’ I might just need to start building myself a collection of modern poetry books. These words are captivating and addicting, “a song rises in search of a tongue” and I find myself craving the music of Hills’ words.

5/5

'Audition' by Stasia Ward Kehoe

Received from the Publisher

From the BLURB:

What would you give up for your dream?

Dare I tell them that since I came here to dance

I have been giving pieces of my body away

To ridiculous diets,
To repeated injuries,
To Remington?

And that maybe

I think

With each bit of my body

I lose a little piece of my soul.


At sixteen, Sara is living many ballerinas’ dreams. She has been given a scholarship to study at a prestigious dance academy in the big city. But following your dreams is harder than it seems . . . Sara is in constant competition with her dance peers. Training is a grueling affair and the weight of success rests heavy on her shoulders – when she thinks of all those who are so sure she will excel.

The more Sara dances, the more she wonders if she even enjoys going through the motions any more.

But in the milieu of her dance dreams, Sara becomes enraptured by an older dance instructor, Remington. She becomes his muse and his short-fuse.

In the midst of so much change and personal upheaval, Sara has to start thinking of herself outside of dancing, in order to know who she really is.

‘Audition’ is the YA verse novel from Stasia Ward Kehoe.

I don’t normally have much opinion about verse novels. I don’t seek them out, and I haven’t really read any since my university days when they were assigned reading. I didn’t hate them, but they were never my first choice for recreational reading. However, my indifference to verse novels is in direct conflict to my obsession with dance movies. ‘Center Stage’, ‘Save the Last Dance’, ‘Step Up’ and ‘Dirty Dancing’ (to name a very few). So, of course, when the cover for Kehoe’s ‘Audition’ was revealed I knew I'd have to give this verse novel a chance . . . and I’m so glad I did. ‘Audition’ works beautifully in verse – in the flow and sweep of the words, the lyrics like songs that you can imagine Sara pirouetting to. Stanzas that stretch across the page in arabesque and raise the reader in relevé. Absolutely stunning!

I would say, as is always the case with poetry, that you will enjoy ‘Audition’ more if you read it out loud. Poetry is cold and dead on the page; it needs voice and cadence, pitch and flow. And some of Kehoe’s poems are just dying to be read aloud – the stanzas so succulent and observations so beautifully precise.

For those who are unhappy with the verse format, don’t be under the mistaken impression that verse means empty, pretty words. There is a story in ‘Audition’ – a love story between dancer and his muse, and between an artist falling in and out of love with her medium.

On my dresser is a postcard

From Ms. Alice:
A Russian ballerina in black and white,
Arms open, reaching forward,
Leg behind in arabesque.

“Anna Pavolva.”
Ms. Alice’s handwriting loops in even curves.
“She reminds me of you.
Keep working hard!”

I sit on my narrow bed
In the dank room
Where only strains of Julio’s guitar
And his occasional muttered curses
Filter through the door.

I think of Ms. Alice, Mom, Dad, eyes full of pride.
Bess, the practical genius, sending me off.

Wish there were no photographs,
No mirrors in the world to record
Anna Pavlova
Or Lisette or Bonnie or Rem,
But especially my own reflection.

I did find some of Kehoe’s formatting odd. I am, by no means, an expert in poetry. But I found it strange that when her topic is dance, Kehoe kept to a very traditional layout for her poems. Poetry is very versatile in how it’s presented on the page – it’s not unusual for a poem to be full of double-spaces and white space, separating words and stanzas so that a verse can start in the top right of the page and trickle down to zig across, going far left and finishing centered. Kehoe keeps her poems so rigidly same that the first word on each new line is upper case. It’s a small complaint, but I think Kehoe could have been a little bit more adventurous and used unique spacing and formatting to make her poetry literally dance across the page. . .

All in all, ‘Audition’ is a sublime verse novel. It reads like the frenzy of a dance; the lulling beginning as Sara comes to terms with her dreams, and rising in pitch and pace as Sara voices her dying love and new obsession with her cavalier, to finally reach a heart-stopping final crescendo. Beautiful.

4/5