László Moholy-Nagy, “Stairway in the Bexhill Seaside Pavilion”, 1936
Rivers are all the same. Dirty water increasingly the case. And dreary bottles and bags; I’d like to emphasise on the other hand, soaks my head I read when I was seven. On Twain’s away from the indisputably evil luminous, a Third World dream in the weird, inexplicable words with little English, holding my breath and scales of fishing metaphors. Then in the struggle with life and poetry the swamp of desire and alcoholism, along Merri Creek. I’d scowl at geese on macabre winter days, menacing after routine floods, beaten willows wires, shoes, tyres, etc. I repeat of organic and manmade decay. But sunlight accentuating the algae even rusted didactic plaques; picture when I’m hurt or restless, marooned just a river, like I said, and just
if you’re lucky, smelly mud and silt
water sports, flotillas of filthy plastic
the stench. Caesar’s Rubicon
in a tale of courage, confrontation
Mississippi, in my room, I floated
place I was born in. And the Seine
for life in a Western city. I swam
of your Hawksebury, a migrant
under the phonetics of bird’s names
I was drawn to Melbourne, and lonely
I kept my head above the dark surface,
by drifting alone on the rundown trail
and unwittingly infuriate the drakes
summer evenings. Banks, hardly scenic
cobwebbed with human waste: cable
the river reeked, a feral fusion
what can I say; leafy corridors,
on stream’s translucent face,
of these usually soothes, protects me
in China, Turkey, Dubai, Sydney; it’s
about the only place I’d call home.
— Ali Alizadeh, “Merri Creek”, Overland 203, Winter 2011, p74
She practises a fugue, though it can matter
to no one now if she plays well or not.
Beside her on the floor two children chatter,
then scream and fight. She hushes them. A pot
boils over. As she rushes to the stove
too late, a wave of nausea overpowers
subject and counter-subject. Zest and love
drain out with soapy water as she scours
the crusted milk. Her veins ache. Once she played
for Rubinsten, who yawned. The children caper
round a sprung mousetrap where a mouse lies dead.
When the soft corpse won’t move they seem afraid.
She comforts them; and wraps it in a paper
featuring: Tasty dishes from stale bread.
— Miriam Stone (Gwen Harwood), Suburban Sonnet, 1968
Home.
Brunswick West in Colour Brunswick West, about 5km north-west of the Melbourne CBD, is one of the few inner city suburbs not yet gentrified. A mix of post-war migrants, factory workers, a few students and the occasional young family. The 55 tram rattles past boarded up shops, mechanics, sandwich bars and laundromats. The houses are mostly old cottages, some bungalows and newly emerging apartment blocks. Hope you enjoy the series.
Matte Stephens, Waiting Again, 2009
Clifford Brown & Max Roach, “I Get A Kick Out Of You”, Brown and Roach Incorporated, 1954
Last night
I heard a dog
in the valley
puncturing the hills
with a sound
from a long
time ago.
It was the sound
of a man and woman
falling out of love,
the sound of a century
caught in the dark –
barking, barking.
A deep-throated howl
made under stars,
made against death,
insisting there are drums
underground,
cymbals in the clouds,
a music that goes on and on
because someone
somewhere
is listening.
— Tishani Doshi, “Dog in the Valley”, Five Dials #17, 2011
Stairwell, Art Gallery of Western Australia, 9 January 2011
Wild Things on the No 55 Tram, 9 November 2010
mishobaranovic, Flinders St Station, Melbourne
Jacob Weinstein, “Jordan’s Shadow”, 2010
This illustration for The Undisputed Guide to Pro Basketball History is a wonderful homage to basketball’s most famous photograph. The excitement is heightened by wiping time from the clock, Jordan’s separation from his peers is increased, he is not playing against one team but the greatest players from every team, and—of course—he casts a long shadow over the sport. And that’s exactly what the photo represents: not the end of a game, but the end of an era.
