I am not a Nationalist

Nor Poltergeist

Nor Pugilist

Nor bloody weekend Cubilist …

So spare the bloody Bugle-ist

The critique I receive is such abominable nonsense that I may as well meet it in kind.

Now my publisher is telling me they’d like me to build up more of a ‘publishing history’ before they ‘collect’ my poems—they need to be able to quote all the journals my work has been printed in, so that my collection is verified by the world at large. John Honey, the chief editor, says to be patient: they are ‘building me’. But he’s not editing the poems himself—I wish he was because I rather like him, but instead he’s put this vicious little Scotsman onto me, who’s got the secateurs onto all my poems, trimmed everything which implies ‘female’ to the reader. (There was one verse in which the word ‘bosoms’ rose up, but it has been cut down like a scandalous pair of knickers on the line. ‘Bosoms’ might only ever be discussed in the context of sisterly friendships. ‘Bosoms, Brassieres, and Bunyips’—there’s a particularised engagement with Australia for you, sister!)

The days are gone when a poet had the ear of a king. Not anymore. Nope. (How’s that for an Americanism? Haven’t you heard the kids saying it? “Nope. Nope. Nope.” Whitman is over: there’s only one Walt now.)

Hark! I hear a key in a door! A scratching of husbands and small children. Quick, hide these painful scribblings. What will the neighbours think?

G’bye g’bye g’bye, darling Tilde, till next time.

VEDA xxxxx

† † †

PART 3 SNOW WHITE IN THE FOREST WITH THE APPLE

LOVE-LETTER: 1987

You don’t know a book until you’re inside it. This, Julia has said to me many times. You cannot dip into a manuscript and know the book. You cannot read a passage here and a passage there. A book, unlike a painting, cannot be immediately apprehended. Unlike a meal, a book cannot be appreciated at the first mouthful. A book only unfurls itself across time.

But a book of poetry is different, Julia says. It is not like a painting, or a novel, or a meal, and yet, it isn’t a commitment of time either; it is not real estate (how poets wish it were!); nor does it have to survive in the memory alone. A poem can be taken in very quickly, says Julia, but it can last a lifetime. It can be gone back to, over and over again, and bring a different response each time. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ says Julia, ‘if only one image captures you. Or one line.’ She takes off her glasses and looks at me sternly. ‘We have forgotten how to read poetry, I think. We’re frightened by it.’