Thursday 6 May 2010

Missing Murray

News reaches me from Cambridge that those hoping to see Les Murray last month ended up disappointed, thanks to E+15. His trip may be resurrected some time later in the year, but meanwhile here is one of his poems, in case any Cambridge readers need something to keep them going until the great man's rescheduled arrival:


THE INSTRUMENT

Who reads poetry? Not our intellectuals;
they want to control it. Not lovers, not the combative,
nor examinees. They too skim it for bouquets
and magic trump cards. Not poor schoolkids
furtively farting as they get immunized against it.

Poetry is read by the lovers of poetry
and heard by some more they coax to the cafe
or the district library for a bifocal reading.
Lovers of poetry may total a million people
on the whole planet. Fewer than the players of skat.

What gives them delight is a never-murderous skim
distilled, to verse mainly, and suspended in rapt
calm on the surface of paper. The rest of poetry
to which this was once integral still rules
the continents, as it always did. But on condition now

that its true name is never spoken: constructs, feral poetry,
the opposite but also the secret of the rational.
And who reads that? Ah, the lovers, the schoolkids,
debaters, generals, crime-lords, everybody reads it:
Porsche, lift-off, Gaia, Cool, patriarchy.

Among the feral stanzas are many that demand your flesh
to embody themselves. Only completed art
free of obedience to its time can pirouette you
through and athwart the larger poems you are in.
Being outside all poetry is an unreachable void.

Why write poetry? For the weird unemployment.
For the painless headaches, that must be tapped to strike
down along your writing arm at the accumulated moment.
For the adjustments after, aligning facets in a verb
before the trance leaves you. For working always beyond

your own intelligence. For not needing to rise
and betray the poor to do it. For a non-devouring fame.
Little in politics resembles it: perhaps
the Australian colonists’ re-inventing of the snide
far-adopted secret ballot, in which deflation could hide

and, as a welfare bringer, shame the mass-grave Revolutions,
so axe-edged. so lictor-y.
Was that moral cowardice’s one shining world victory?
Breathing in dream-rhythm when awake and far from bed
evinces the gift. Being tragic with a book on your head.

4 comments:

  1. Nice :-) Didn't have time to read it all. And don't agree with it all... lovers do surely have a use for poetry - it may the only time in a person's life when he/she feels a need for it. Still good though.

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  2. Gadjo - do you not think he's saying they are using it then for their own ends rather than as an end in itself? I like this verse particularly:
    Why write poetry? For the weird unemployment.
    For the painless headaches, that must be tapped to strike
    down along your writing arm at the accumulated moment.
    For the adjustments after, aligning facets in a verb
    before the trance leaves you. For working always beyond

    your own intelligence. For not needing to rise
    and betray the poor to do it.

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  3. That is a beautiful description of the act of creation. So many good phrases: 'the accumulated moment' I particularly like.

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  4. Gaw - I agree. The main reason I like him so much is that I think he is wise - not a highly prized trait in this age of show ponies.

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