Hi everyone-

 

You know, I for one would really appreciate if people could write in with what they're reading and definitely enjoying (whether it be South Asian or not, "published" or not, even poetry or prose): and a short sample of it.   Wouldn't that be a great way to get a sense and taste of what's around?  I mean, isn't there too much necessary reading to be done for one person, or two, or two hundred to be able to do all of it…?   What excites us, what do we like?  Share the burden, spread the word!

 

I've been reading, in awe, (Australian) Les Murray's Collected Poems, 1961-2002.   Les Murray was born in New South Wales in 1938.  The early poems in the selection are accomplished, but things start to get really good towards the end of Poems Against Economics (1972), in a long, very intense sequence about Sanskrit and cattle.   The opening poem in the next collection, Lunch and Counter Lunch (what a title, 1974) is, however, a thoroughly mind-blowing and troubling sequence around the idea of the hard-nosed detective/policeman; and the rest of that collection takes things to a new, barely imaginable level, I think.   The collection after that one, Ethnic Radio (1977), is out of this world.  That's more or less to where I've read so far; Dog Fox Field (1990) I had read earlier and was what made me embark on this Les Murray yatra.   Question about the poem Poetry and Religion (which I worship): does anyone know what "poe" means as a verb, the way it's being used here? (Australian English?)

 

So here are four poems by Les Murray… 

 
(Enthusiastically yours, Vivek)
 
 

 

SPURWING PLOVER (from Ethnic Radio)

 

Foiled hunters sulk homewards at dusk

 

and the plover, among bitten grass

and the puffed felt of cattle manure

has made his white head and chest

a peg, or a mushroom.  His greys

and dark tints are tucked in the gloom.

 

It is a discipline test

his still white.  It faces sharp critics.

Those fellows are burning to shoot:

 

they'd like the stiff crack in the air

and your struggles, plover, much more

than ever your family-defending

quick dives, or your dinnerplate-scraping

sad cry: turkey work!  turkey work!

 

 

THE FUTURE (from Ethnic Radio)

 

There is nothing about it.  Much science fiction is set there

but is not about it.  Prophecy is not about it.

It sways no yarrow stalks.  And crystal is a mirror.

Even the man we nailed on a tree for a lookout

said little about it; he told us evil would come.

We see, by convention, a small living distance into it

but even that's a projection.  And all our projections

fail to curve where it curves.                                               

                                                  It is the black hole

out of which no radiation escapes to us.

The commonplace and magnificent roads of our lives

go on someway through cityscape and landscape

or steeply sloping, or scree, into that sheer fall

where everything will be that we have ever sent there,

compacted, spinning—except perhaps us, to see it.

It is said we see the start.

                                            But, from here, there's a blindness.

The side-heaped chasm that will swallow all our present

blinds us to the normal sun that may be imagined

shining calmly away on the far side of it, for others

in their ordinary day.  A day to which all our portraits,

ideals, revolutions, denim and deshabille

are quaintly heartrending.  To see those people is impossible,

to greet them, mawkish.  Nonetheless, I begin:

'When I was alive—'

                                     and I am turned around

to find myself looking at a cheerful picnic party,

the women decently legless, in muslin and gloves,

the men in beards and weskits, with the long

cheroots and duck trousers of the better sort,

relaxing on a stone verandah.  Ceylon, or Sydney.

And as I look, I know they are utterly gone,

each one in his day, with pillow, small bottles, mist,

with all the futures they dreamt or dealt in, going

down to that engulfment everything approaches;

with the man on the tree, they have vanished into the Future.

 

 
POETRY AND RELIGION (from The Daylight Moon, 1987)

 

Religions are poems.  They concert

our daylight and dreaming mind, our

emotions, instinct, breath and native gesture

 

into the only whole thinking: poetry.

Nothing's said till it's dreamed out in words

and nothing's true that figures in words only.

 

A poem, compared with an arrayed religion,

may be like a soldier's one short marriage night

to die and live by.  But that is a small religion.

 

Full religion is the larger poem in loving repetition;

like any poem, it must be inexhaustible and complete

with turns where we ask Now why did the poet do that?

 

You can't pray a lie, said Huckleberry Finn;

you can't poe one either.  It is the same mirror:

mobile, glancing, we call it poetry,

 

fixed centrally, we call it religion,

and God is the poetry caught in any religion,

caught, not imprisoned.  Caught as in a mirror

 

that he attracted, being in the world as poetry

is in the poem, a law against its closure.

There'll always be religion around when there is poetry

 

or a lack of it.  Both are given, and intermittent,

as the action of those birds—crested pigeon, rosella parrot—

who fly with wings shut, then beating, and again shut.

 

 

THE FALL OF APHRODITE STREET (from Dog Fox Field)

 

So it's back to window shopping

on Aphrodite Street

for the apples are stacked and juicy

but some are death to eat.

 

For just one generation

the plateglass turned to air—

when you look for that generation

half of it isn't there.

 

An ugliness of spirit

leered like a hunting dog

over the world.  Now it snarls and whines

at its fleshy analogue.

 

What pleased it made it angry:

scholars Score and Flaunt and Scene

taught that everything outstanding

was knobs on a skin machine.

 

Purer grades of this metaphysic

were sold out of parked cars

down alleys where people paired or reeled

like desperate swastikas.

 

Age, spirit, kindness, all were taunts;

grace was enslaved to meat.

You never were mugged till you were mugged

on Aphrodite Street.

 

God help the millions that street killed

and those it sickened too,

when it was built past every house

and often bulldozed through.

 

Apples still swell, but more and more

are literal death to eat

and it's back to window shopping

on Aphrodite Street.             

                       




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