By John
We were up in Geraldton last weekend for me to launch a Fremantle Press poetry book (more of this shortly, including the launch speech for those interested), where we saw my brother, visited Flat Rocks, and also the Greenough River mouth, where signs indicate that they are going to clear the entire dunes and surrounding dune ecology between the river mouth and Geraldton itself. The sign even refers to replacing dune ecology with ‘development’. It is brazen and ecologically horrendous. People feel powerless to stop it, as they do so much in this place of bulldozing and laying waste. I have taken notes for poems, and notes for an activist poetics piece, but these mean nothing without direct action. I will write to the Geraldton newspapers and ask if they’d publish an ‘activist poetry article’ about the issue. They might — the year before last, one of the papers ran a series of eight activist articles I wrote about returning to the town of my secondary schooling, a town I am still connected to because my brother lives there.
Poetry for me must
work. All the good ideas in the world, all the most finely wrought lines and images, mean nothing if they don’t achieve action. In fact, they become another link in the capitalist chain of production. Value-adding the whole way. Recently I have been reading through essays for an issue of
Angelaki I am co-editing, and felt compelled to point out: ‘from an anarchist point of view, collective and individual responsibility are in so many ways one and the same thing, and the obsession with individual action as defining itself against collective responsibility is a contradiction that seems contrived to maintain the status quo.’ I mention this because the personal subjectivity of poetry-making (even within the collaborative) should be read against the communal consciousness of poetics and poetry per se. Whatever form it might take. Poetry is not read in a vacuum.
Lately I have been developing a ‘poetics of gradients’. Now, variations on poetics become absurd after a time, but really the urge to create systems explaining the reasons for writing poetry, and the processes and practices behind this, is a matter of both validating what can seem an impassive activity (outside aesthetics), giving it an activist context, and ultimately purpose. It’s probably unnecessary, but poetry methodologies (or a ‘lack’ of them, according to some — especially when they get risky) are constantly under surveillance (criticism?), and the poetics pro forma becomes an illustration of due process — to show that thought and effort have been applied to a choice.
To cut a long story short, this poetics of gradients concerns writing poetry on a hillside. The physical effort it takes to walk up and down the Jam Tree Gully ‘block’ engenders a different breath, a different instress in the poem. When you sit down to draft a poem on, say, a wild beehive in a split York gum you’ve just seen, you carry the work effort, the work of the gradient into your poem.
Tracy did a wonderful translation of Jacques Brel’s ‘Le plat pays’ — ‘The Flat Country’ — the other day, that really puts the power of surfaces and their angles (or flatness) into a dynamic perspective. There’s this wonderful line (which I give in Tracy’s translation): ‘With a sky so low that a canal lost its way.’ This is describing Belgium. Brilliant. The refrain in the song (poem!) goes ‘The flat country that is mine.’ I have lived a long time on lightly hilly ground at the bottom of a small mountain (or very large hill), with paddocks of stubble stretching out. And now at Jam Tree Gully I am starting to replant a rocky hillside, and to write poems in that space. The differentials, the segment of the line, discovering the nature of the slope, are part of the prosody of the poem’s ‘rise over the run’: m = Δy / Δx (see Wiki on slopes). I have always been interested in maths, and it’s always part of my poetry — sometimes hidden away, sometimes overtly. It’s certainly part of the poetics of gradients, of slope, that I am formulating now. By way of illustration I might copy in a handwritten journal page and include a poem...
from journal: 30/1/2009, Jam Tree Gully, 9.45pm:Our first night staying over... Kids are asleep and Tracy is in the lounge-room reading (Stendhal). Looking forward to it all being ready for full-time habitation. Lot of work!
Went for an evening walk with Tim and a pair of eagles flew up through the valley and over as perched on large granite boulders — maybe twenty feet over our heads! Incredible. Walking up the steep slope the work on my heart and lungs created the waste, the chemicals, the energy of the poem. A usage of the excess my body produced in providing the work needed to get to the top, to the house. A poetics of gradients, of the hill. You see differently as you walk a slope, you sense differently. The angles of seeing change and you compensate, as does the poem. Even descent brings a work and a caution, the brain creates shorter lines to prevent slipping.
And here’s some poetic work done a few weeks prior:
First Lines Typed at Jam Tree Gully To hold the walls of valley
downthrust limbs of York gum
liminality, flakes of granite
and lichen scored as sun inland,
glitterati, this Toodyay stone
broken where the building
has opened precipice,
erodability, that movement
where we walk, dislocating
weight of conversation, even
meditation, to contravene
our visibility, perched
up on high, sidereal.
A drawing out, the day
lessens, rampage
of dead and living trees,
entire collapsed structures,
signs of fire as jam-tree bark
blackened crumbles with touch,
all working shadows thin up
the hill, the hill. Kangaroos
stir from their shady places —
the heat so intense at midday
they don’t do more than lift
their head as you approach.
In the dirt, laterite smudgings,
hard-baked patches of sand, coarse-
grained breakdown of quartzite
in its granoblastic glory, a sheen
of mica and feldspar configuring
a sandstone past, a declaration
of origins; what grows in what
was here before? It demands
reconnection or the hill
will despoil to its granite
core and nothing more,
nothing more. Dazzling
anomaly of pyrites, breeze
sharpened with ‘fool’, ‘fool’...
welcome here... don’t cling
together, give us roots
to nest among, cling to.
Common bronzewings heavy across the blank
of an arena we will fill with trees: sandy
spectacle, where horses rounded
on their tails: I see them twitch.
Internal fences down and out. Fewer
divisions. To predict a fate, changes
sweeping over an old old place; ring-
neck parrot feathers no divination.
What has chiacked in place
of undergrowth?
Weebills are here! And mistletoe birds
have been where mistletoe fruits have prospered,
have seeded the jam trees, where nectar-hungry
birds of many varieties test the hardy flowers
drooping in swatches from thin, straining necks;
the parasitic engenders its own chains of being.
I am not asking to be part of it. With time,
something will click, I have no idea what. No
second-guessing, despite the weight
of hexagrams, I-Ching. What else
I might read. Weebills are here!
Horseshoes and sheep skulls strewn across the block.
rare new growth, so late and odd. Fire wardens
watching afraid of vegetation? They have their own
version of prehistory, their own version of growth.
The making of place as a dynamic of couplings,
as if love and trust are omens, odds in your favour.
The sun burns but also fringes the leaves.
John Kinsella
