We publish quality short stories, poetry, extracts from forthcoming novels, and articles and essays on topics of social, environmental and cultural significance.ISSUE NO. 113
WINTER 2008
POETRY
Waiting for Goya
And so, as you see, quite a journey, and now
here I am, doodling postcards and zapping text
in the crush of the blockbuster queue snaking
slowly over that antique bridge and past those
colonnades, past the iron Kaiser riding high
on his horse, to arrive at the neo-Roman temple,
those massive steps, with still time – we hope –
to see the show before the doors are closed.
What a circus! What ever for? I hear you, mate,
even from this distance. And yes, the books,
catalogues, probably tell me all I need to know;
and yet, call me romantic if you like (you will!
you will!), I’m still curious to find out what –
if anything – the originals might have to say.
Yes, I know, a fine copy often does the job
(and your latest on the simulacra just blew
me right away), with no need for the fetish
of the great artist’s mark. And, what today
could be gained from viewing an old etching –
itself a print? Though just writing this flares
a Goya work long-branded in my brain:
those men, mutilated, and that body hacked
to bits, stuck on branches of the dead tree.
So why look at the original? To admire the artistry?
Obscene! Yes, point taken. And yet. And yet
the paintings… and the rest… it’s not only
me (look at the queue!) who thinks they might
find something vital in the presence of the thing
itself. More than pure aesthetics. (Or is it?)
All I know is – for me this looking comes close
to word of mouth, the personal voice, direct.
In the age of copies, this still touches, speaks:
here is this piece of paper bearing the human
imprint, its moving signs, its imperfections.
Old ground, you say, and yes, mate, I’ll now pause
to shuffle with the queue past this classic building
to our next stop. We’re in a battleground here,
of course. The bullet holes are real. Odd to stand
in a quiet line for art where men have screamed
and died. Years of rain have washed the blood
away but, I ask you, what form of art could touch
as the pocks on these stone walls? (And if I frame
the silent hollows and call it art – what loss?)
Small pits with no plaques, they hold more power
for the lack of naming and yet – without words –
seem overlooked. In this busy queue from every
elsewhere, most pass by unknowing, though we
all admire the sensational artistry of that statue –
the giant commander, his beautiful war horse.
It was ever thus. Fool. What the hell do you expect?
OK. You’re right. And I’m not against heroics,
large or small; nor against the just war. But
today I’m thinking simply – why not some
thanks – why not plant statues thick as traffic
lights on all corners, witness to those who tried
to bring light into the world – not through war
but thought: altruists, thinkers, doers who go
beyond the self. You’re off your head! It’ll never fly.
Maybe. But since I’m here, I’ll start with those
near to Goya. For, as they tell it, until mid-life
Goya was more or less court lackey. Interior
decorator with ambition. Tapestries to please.
Dazzling portraits for the rich and famous.
Yet his private work moved on. Fired by new
ideas. Ill health. War. And men, like Jovellanos,
whose thoughtful painted face looks out – alive –
to us: reformer, writer, doer. (The Inquisition
banned his book on economics.) Man of his time,
he’s history now. Will words like his ever turn up
in art – or are their unlovely syllables too heavy,
too Latinate for our tastes? CRIMINAL LAW REFORM?
INSTITUTE OF AGRICULTURE? TECHNICAL EDUCATION? POLITICAL ECONOMICS? Stop! It’s sinking! Keep to
the poetic diction! Not yet. MINISTER OF GRACE AND
JUSTICE. Poet too. Prison. Exile. What do we,
in our comfort, know of that? Easy to take
pot-shots from the safe remove. So, friend, I
will insist on this: our great legacy – reason,
(crazy! against the tide!) joined with compassion,
ethics. Yes, today I’m leaving the carping pomo
to their pottage. (The DO NOWT species, I mean,
of course.) I’m moving on. Taking a small step
along with this marvel of civilised patience,
the queue, toward the first age of, shall we say,
enlightenment (goodbye career and publication!). Or
at least a higher aim and a bit more common
sense. Yes, I know, tracking truth through reason
is hard work along muddy trails – and dangerous
in a mad age of faith and war. Jovellanos knew.
Goya too. And in our time, the brave souls you
speak of – Shaima Raazi, Safia Amajan, Zakia Zaki,
Shakiba Sanga Amaj, public servants, journalists,
educators, gunned down by the zealots for being
women. I keep their names close by. Humanity
slaughtered by those raging forces that forever
fight to destroy all questions. It sits on my desk,
a copy of that famous etching, the sleep of reason
brings forth monsters, the writer slumped asleep,
darkness exploding its creatures across the page.
SANDY FITTS was born in England and grew up in Yorkshire, her current home is Melbourne. Sandy’s poems have been published widely in Australia and the UK (some published under the name Sandra Hill). Poetry prizes have included the Val Vallis Award, 2004, and the Melbourne Poets’ Competition, 1999. One of her poems was shortlisted for the Australian Book Review Poetry Prize in 2005. Sandy’s first collection of poetry, View from the Lucky Hotel, will be published by Five Islands Press in 2008.
GENEVIEVE OSBORNE is a Sydney writer and photographer. Her poems have appeared in Southerly, Meanjin, Island and Five Bells. She recently completed an M Litt in Creative Writing at the University of Sydney. She is working on her first collection of poems.
The Fire PumpThe weight of the suction hose shocks us.
Its brass foot is a sea monster’s mouth
greedily slurping water from deep inside the tank.
We prime & tug the fire pump for another practice run.
The engine hums as we face a firewall that last night
seared our dreams. A roused myth-beast rears its head,
surging along a length now heavy with wetness.
Adrenalin kicks in & we laugh with new power,
directing hoses that lever & snake in our hands.
Leaves scatter. Branches bend. Wind-sear cools.
The red pump gleams & we cry out exultant,
watching arcs of silver pour outward from our palms.
SUE MOSS is a poet, performer and reviewer. Her next poetry collection Face Pack is due for publication shortly. She has recently completed a libretto, Cell, for IHOS Opera. Her children’s picture book, Precious Little, co-written with Julie Hunt and illustrated by Gaye Chapman, is published by Allen & Unwin.
Supplication
for Patrick
After the long walk
and the sunlit quarry (rocks
rolling, jostling for purchase
on the slippery slopes), the descent
seems like a passage from world
to underworld; our eyes adjust
to the twilight zone
and then the yellow circle of lamplight
guides us, dancing
over rock, wall, water,
entranced, we follow the stream,
crossing and recrossing
and I try to memorise
the turns and twists, the climbs
and skirted holes, but soon
something else takes over, everything forgotten
in the half-hush, the rush of water, the marvel
of this universe within a universe,
then when we turn off our lamps
the solar system sprawls on the walls
and ceiling, ghostly-blue, and we sit
reverent, devotees of light;
here, I am the mother I always want to be,
together we are discoverers, at times
you lead me, taking my hand
in smaller fingers, pointing out
dark voids, chasms, safe passage;
walking through the forest
you delighted in my mud-caked feet, urged
me on to deeper explorations of puddle and bog
as if, with each step I shrugged off
the mantle of motherhood, aligned myself
more closely with madness, laughter, with you:
what I most desire is to let you loose
in the world, winged
and questing, but it seems
I cannot let you be, want
to guide you with my own lamp
held high above your head,
my prayer, then, to let the glow worms
spin on, radiant in the darkness,
their brilliance studding the black
and you, unfurling damp wings,
lifting into the incandescent night.
ADRIENNE EBERHARD is a Tasmanian poet, living on the D’Entrecasteaux Channel, south of Hobart. She has published two collections of poetry, Agamemnon’s Poppies (Black Pepper, 2003) and Jane, Lady Franklin (Black Pepper, 2004).
Island, PO Box 210, Sandy Bay, Tasmania 7006 Australia
Ph: (03) 6226 2325 Fax: (03) 6226 2172
E-mail: island.magazine@utas.edu.au