Tuesday, 31 December 2024

Unknown

 


[Unknown]

 

“Found poem for New Year”

 

to facilitate contact

between the world of the living

and that of the dead, these tombs

 

painted limestone only traces of pigment

originally vibrantly blue green red black

and yellow are now visible

 

men harvesting, donkeys carrying crops

to the granary, beer and bread

magically supplied to the deceased

 

the location of the king’s tomb was

unfortunately not recorded

most of the superstructure was moved

 

originally most likely erected at Saqqara

its exact location

remains unknown

 

not much is known about himself either

except what is recorded

on the tomb’s walls

 

the offerings are for the couple

but also for their children

at the funerary banquet

 

who are enjoying themselves

with large heaps of food

surrounded by musicians and dancers

 

some names are carved in stone

other children were also named but

inscription is not visible anymore

 

Found poem for New Year: Marie Vandenbeusch, “In focus: the Mastaba of Urirenptah and Khentkaus”, in ‘Pharoah’, NGV and the British Museum, 2024, pp. 174-177. Image taken at NGV St. Kilda Road: detail of the wall from the mastaba tomb, 5th Dynasty, c. 2494-2345 BCE, Saqqara, Egypt, in the ‘Pharoah’ exhibition.

 

Monday, 30 December 2024

Machine

 


Image: detail of Iso-mandala No. 93 (September 2020)

 [Machine] 

the machine of perpetual opera

box office always open, opener

as countless shows play often, oftener

 

the machine that only tells lies

the machine that laughs and sighs

the machine to close his eyes

 

they’re delicate situations

the machines tuned to known sensations

elation, evasion, knowing his station

 

he could wish for one with insight

but would it go to sleep at midnight

and never get things right

 

the machine he thought sublime

for telling him the time in no time

the clock has been replaced with brain chimes

 

the machine that turns his domus serene

daily into Versailles, or dangling Babylon green

a Malibu cliffhanger, or nuclear submarine

 

the tiny machine no larger than a corpuscle

the gigantic machine landing no hustle

in a field by its airport of infinite bustle

 

did he invent these machines, no not perhaps

anymore than the merry-go-round app

whence he views all his friends in a snap

 

his mind’s made up, his hands are tied

he used to think he could decide

the machine takes him for a ride

 

sun-cars, coal-cars, wind-cars, oil-cars

vie for the road whether near or far

no beginning, no end, give him a cigar!

 

their aggregate of speed

slows to rust buckets in weeds

and thanks for the memories, at need

 

these days he prefers reading escapist loans

set in a world before telephones

where the horse set the pace and tone

 

the machine of the film of the idea is best

the pop song of the war, his friends suggest

lately deleted like all the rest

 

but the label on tomorrow’s machines

the end justifies the means

is yesterday’s, gone from the scene

 

the machines with the intention

to be the most important invention

of his time, as may have been mentioned 

Saturday, 28 December 2024

Infancy

 


Reflections for the First Sunday after Christmas, the 29th of December 2024, in the pew notes at St Peter’s Church, Eastern Hill, Melbourne.  Written by Philip Harvey. 

My Christmas holiday reading includes Diarmaid MacCulloch’s newest big picture history, this one focusing on the best-selling subjects, sex and religion. His concluding chapter contains many wonderful and challenging thoughts going into the new year. 

Here’s one of them: ‘The Infancy Narratives of Matthew’s and Luke’s Gospels, for instance, are not history in the conventional modern sense, but they are admirably prophetic descriptions of what has happened in Christian history. A child in south-west Asia whose birth fell outside the conventional family pattern of his day took on a cosmic significance that has brought him allegiance worldwide. Those who worshipped at the manger ranged from illiterate teenagers in marginal occupations to scholars of ancient wisdom; between them they have confounded the efforts of the rulers of this world to destroy him or co-opt him – just as the Infancy Narratives say. That is a two-millennium long tale beyond attendant sheep, camels or courtiers in the palace of King Herod.’

 MacCulloch is encouraging us to learn from and be open to Scripture, precisely for how it illuminates our current understanding of world and existence now, providing depth of perspective. Retelling the Christmas stories speaks into our present concerns. As he says, ‘Fitting the Bible in a properly historical fashion into a renewed and more adequate understanding of natural law is not to jettison the Bible’s meaning or authority, but to enrich it.’ Here we are then, with the shepherds and Magi, at the crib. 

This particular paragraph then ends, almost typically for this author, with further surprise: ‘Birth is women’s business, not men’s, and in the next two millennia we may be liberated to listen to women’s accounts of the Incarnation more than we have been able to amid the din of male theological voices.’      

Highly recommended: ‘Lower than the Angels: a history of Sex and Christianity’ by Diarmaid MacCulloch, published this year. $80 hardback at the St Peter’s Bookroom.

 

 

Thursday, 26 December 2024

Incognito

 


[Incognito]

 

Alice Incognito

designs imbecilic graffito

the other side of the looking-glass

 

vocabulary bland

what’s there to understand

and grammar that at a pinch will pass

 

with XS text to spare

the Queen gyres gimbles shares

squared statements at stupendous speed

 

the effects are dense

quite lacking much sense

but is there really a need?

 

Alice visits reverse suburbs

ungoverned by commas or verbs

where nouns go unattached to things

 

the Queen says you’re my object

Alice replies, you mean subject?

oh yes one of those, showing no feelings

 

to speak of many things

that could mean anything

the time has come, the Mallrat said

 

the time has come, the Mallrat said

to rewrite the quick and dead

leaving their meanings unread

 

only, goodness gracious me

every word of Tedious We

is turned into Tedious Dumb

 

as Alice traipses land-claims

where nothing no nothing has names

all the way to kingdom come

 

Hardly DoneBy took a spell on the wall

Humdrum Tumbly had a great fall

who recalls his unknown scrawl?

 

Hatter Dormouse Hare so tall

the chattering classes one and all?

who then mirror on the wall?

 

has she the power of veto

Alice Incognito

the deciding vote, hers to unquote

 

if not, then who unpicks her snicker-snacks

her gushy amen-less syntax

all the write rush left she ever wrote?

 

Image: coloured Tenniel of total immersion Alice. Narelle from the Network is our name for the PT voiceovers in the trains of Melbourne. Last week Bridie said it was announced that Narelle is retiring. We conjectured on the meaning of this news and that Narelle’s redundancy (“years of outstanding service”) most likely makes way for AI. Our name for the new voiceover was Alice Incognito. The poem expands universally Alice’s role.

 

Tuesday, 17 December 2024

Composition

 


Mario Fallani , 'Composizione' (1959)

[Composition] 

“viewing mario fallani no. 5”

 

composition was set in school

the topic a choice, the one rule

-         tell me about it

 

silence is golden

poetry more lasting than bronze

-         explain using examples

 

less is more

more or less

-         illustrate with non sequiturs

 

climate deniers exist

warmongers prosper

-         tell me something I don’t know

 

all machines are liars

I am a machine

-         use adverbs sparingly

 

ponder extinction find evidence

organise your argument

-         you’re not alone

 

small is beautiful

beauty is in the eye of the reader

-         keep expression clear

 

all I do all day is edit edit edit

revise revise revise

-         tell me about it

 

always the sun sets

below the ocean behind our city

-         oh really, tell me more

 

 

Monday, 16 December 2024

Letter

 


Mario Fallani, 'Lettere' (1959)

[Letter]

 

“viewing mario fallani no. 4”

 

you might not

be thinking of me

but I am thinking of you

 

all the time -

all the time? as it were

the letters I make take shape

 

the crush of artistry

no less than each moment

spelt out in close chosen form

 

done redone overdone undone

sounds that resound

lines to underline embrace

 

my immediate

and your immediate embrace

here is some script thus done

 

the flurry of synapses

within this mystery mess of music

this belief in transmission

 

and the postal service

this world of paragraphs laughs

and you at reception

 

all the time thinking, respond

in landscape, self-portrait

the breeze in a still life

 

and behind exuberant sign offs

is a timed touch of courtesy

and names ageing well

Sunday, 15 December 2024

Scene

 


'Paessagio', Mario Fallani (1995)

[Scene]

 “viewing mario fallani no. 3”

 we are staring

at desolation on

our little pieces of glass

 

films the width of fingernail

slide across our sight

a transmit of catastrophe

 

hide them in our pocket

with phonecall tunes

and plastic money a while

 

to stare instead at what?

but only green the scene

beseeching silently

 

bosky bee busy garden

reserve where timber

grows and flowers and falls

 

beckoning the eye

with lucent tranquillity

resting the mind with quiet

 

insistent canopies

fans and cascades of spread

rainwater remakes in green

 

shadow and sparkle

darker green and light

bending from perpendicular

 

refuge for birds

depending on the hour singing

healing grounded to the earth

 

Wednesday, 11 December 2024

Life

 


'Still Life', Mario Fallani (1981)

[Life]

 “viewing mario fallani no. 2”

 

still lifes don’t stay still

stare? we ask how they got there

what’s going on, like life

 

a vase, whirled from the earth

has come to rest for a time

in this clean quiet space, like life

 

while around and behind

teems the world entire dreaming

scheming from need, like life

 

the flowers like fire, like fountains

colours defiant at the rim

begin their fadeout, like life

 

everything to mind recedes

let go in the time of ledge

and half-light as if nothing matters

 

but the view of a vase, past and

future the usual unusual encounter

we will get back to too soon

 

style life is so yesterday

the manner faded unaided

placed in storage a while

 

like this and other still lifes

holding secrets in plain sight

an unnoticed breeze and all of it

 

like life, that gives and gives

and is old before its time

until we notice anew and stare

Sunday, 8 December 2024

Found

 


Mario Fallani (1934-2014) Gli alberi della vita 

[Found] 

“viewing mario fallani no. 1”

 

found the coin in a corner

I searched for endlessly

ready to cross the water

 

found the washbowl again

where I left it last

listening to hands in the water

 

found the house in the clearing

I’d forgot life held life precious

white beauty amidst the green

 

found seeds had burst the soil

as I raked away leaf litter

in gentle morning light

 

found words on a page

a revelation to me of being

in a book on an old shelf

 

on one day much like another

found your words to me

a day unlike any other

 

found sleep at last

a long time of it in the sun

that has gone below the trees

Thursday, 5 December 2024

Journal

 [Journal] 

i.m. Janet Campbell

 

-a violet in front garden  -deep ruby

roses  -the first narcissus unfurling  – buds

of magnolia  -sagegreen leaf

 

-muscat black grapes  -pineapple and coffee

-tinctured persimmon bread  -chestnut soup  -

Craiglee chardonnay  -salad leaves  -pearl barley

 

-bike-boy with tattoos -miscellany of domestic

tasks  -so much is unspeakable  -about the

lover  -that bewitching element

 

-awoke feeling hugged  -desiring the

doppelgãnger  -dreamt so passionately -blood and

sperm -warmth -love -desperately at times

 

-eucalypt shimmers -delphinium blue and

unseasonal -lilies like green art deco

-pussywillow  -sweet daphne  -stars stars stars

 

-a Droste pastille  -rhubarb and cups of tea

-and an orange later  -country pasties

-cheese twist  -croissants

 

-demystifying  -confessing  -people  -at odds

with one another  -tram ride Saturday

night  -old men and young drunks

 

-despair  -birdsong chainsaws  -shutters

open  -never being able to live  -forever  -nostalgia

for what?  -dismal within  -insanity

 

-poetry  -there’s ink  -all over my fingers

-Tess Gallagher  -voicing my agony  -more than

this moment’s imagining

 

Found poem: words from Journal 45 of Janet Campbell, May-August 1991.

 

Sunday, 1 December 2024

Bird's-eye

 [Bird’s-eye] 

Their feet leave the earth a moment or two

then return anew with monotonous ado

one then the other the ground like glue

 

they transmit nonstop ever as they’re able

across a territory called a table

then disband to write up their latest fable

 

they stare betimes at the lost past

deeds not done go from small to vast

while deeds done render them aghast.

 

My bird’s-eye view takes in the whole she-bang

the hermit, the committee, the gang

great cities where they rave and hang

 

craving flight they fashion metal copies

that take-off, land all somewhat sloppy

some of them do this like drinking coffee

 

then they partake in the notable farce

peering at us to make time pass

through long tubes of magnifying glass

 

while others with nothing much to gain

who treat existence as a game

lift the muzzle and take aim.

 

They are prone to flights of fancy

and headaches and occasional lunacy

their minds a blur of accuracy

 

treating the skies like an open drain

visiting planets all in vain

who are they calling bird-brain?

 

Inside their tiny mountains of rest

they lumber about trying to do their best

we find small corners outside to nest

 

they lack the gift of a beak

making sounds with the tongue in their cheek

a thunderous way to speak

 

sing with the aid of cumbrous machines

warbles that more resemble screams

and words best left to remain in their dreams.

 

Friday, 29 November 2024

King

 [King]

 



a cat may look at a king

it’s up there for thinking

though what she may see has no knowing

 

a mood swing is a commoner element

signs of showing he’s intelligent

though strangely indifferent to sentiment

 

a cats-eye notes him on his throne

slumped in the dejection zone

emit a low administrative groan

 

a dog sometimes, the way he barks orders

romps with fellow cross-sworders

or glares fiercely at transgressed borders

 

a bird other times darting about

a hair’s breadth away from being found out

winging it while he has the clout

 

a pool is peace to him

makes him feel like he’s in the swim

while it only keeps him vim

 

a kidney may be thrown her way, sardines

chin tickles, tummy rubs, the stroke routines

better than the other extremes

 

news drives him into a deep absorb

this is what comes from having an orb

his portraitist adds an extra daub

 

a penny for his thoughts

is a proposition fraught

best not guess is her best thought

 

his subjects by and large think he’s great

but she’s lost interest in the head-of-state

and wanders off through the garden gate

 

sleep is nice in the halls of power

whiling away a dreamy hour

her neurons soft as a spring shower

 

though even then when time is down

a cat may look at a clown

in her dream trying out his crown

 

Monday, 25 November 2024

Clerihew

 The Big Re-Set Resaid  

The Conference in Clerihews

Report of the Australian and New Zealand Theological Library Association Conference (Theme: 'The Big Re-Set') held in Melbourne Naarm 18-21st of November 2024 

Melanie Hechenberger

Zoomed half-hour surges

Sorted X in Pettee with brio

And assistance from baby Theo.

 

Melissa Parent

Made time well-spent

Sharing the latest updates, cluey

Everything on point in Dewey.

 

Philip Harvey

With a history

Took the hard slog out of cataloguing

But how do we describe non-stop blogging?

 

Michael McGirr

Could but concur

Cultivating memory gives us hope

As he took his next call from the Pope.

 

Mary Carroll and Simon Wakeling

Sang the same hymn, no mistakening:

People expect more than can ever be done

Libraries should cater for everyone.

 

Melissa Parent

Signed, sealed and sent

A love letter to the future, a starter

Writ in most impeccable metadata.

 

Liz Staer and Kate Wimer

Did not work by egg-timer

Information is abundant, universal, undeniable

But what is valid, valuable and verifiable?

 

Kerrie Stevens and Gillian Cain

Made the statistics perfectly plain

People expect more and we deliver more

Despite reductions, budget cuts and … more.

 

Nick Gellatly

Most gallantly

Proposed overhaul of what’s

A perennial puzzle – AULOTS!

 

Cindy Derrenbacker

Described a home tracker -

Belief in self, the righting of wronging

Makes for an architecture of belonging.

 

Susan Ebertz

Drew on experts

Herself giving boxloads of stunning expressions

For any and everyone’s planning successions.

 

Helen Greenwood

Quite understood

The unlikely but legal need for a quorum

And scribbled furiously though the Forum.

 

Sai Santoyo, Neil Horvath, and Mark Hangartner

Iambic pentameter (almost) partners

Proved themselves worldly-wise

With the hundred meanings of ‘rightsize’.

 

Huw Sandaver

Tagged ‘Engraver’

With incisive subfields on work forms cerebral

And multiplied entries for medieval cathedrals.

 

Albrecht Dürer

Welcomed tourers

Who engraved and incised as he pleased

But could only imagine the Antipodes.

 

The Royal Botanic Gardens

Contained gigantic bargains

Flowers galore popping up like Kusama dots

And canopies spread like cathedral tops.

 

The State Library of Victoria

Hushed inside, outside noisy noisier

Bookended walks from naarm ngarrgu (‘Melbourne knowledge’)

Noisiest travellers tramping noisily then back to college.

 

Geoff the Chef

Treble clefs

Arias and trills enjoyed from Grace Notes Singers

When not making dinners that were real humdingers.

 

Elizabeth Greentree

El-e-ment-ar-eeeee

Not, fashioned AI assistants by having chats -

Lack imagination but nice enough chaps.

 

Philip Harvey

AI? Who, me?

Wrote these clerihews -

He couldn’t refuse.