Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

17 August, 2013

Book Review: Anonymous Premonition






From Goodreads: From an authentic, powerful indigenous voice comes this body of poetry that examines issues of identity and culture from a woman's point of view. Lyrical yet radical, uplifting yet uncompromising, this collection evokes pride, painful memories, the realities of Aboriginal life and death, and the power of sisterhood to act as a tribute to the resiliency of Aboriginal women everywhere.

Thoughts: So the last category in my 13 in '13 challenge is poetry. I like poetyr, I wish I read more of it. I considered reading The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran, a present from a friend which I love. But I love dipping into it. It's a casual, relaxed read and not one I wanted to be forced to read. So off I went cruising the shelves at work for something appropriate.
For the record I'm not a classics girls for poetry - no Keats or Cummings here - too much hard work. I like my poetry modern. Modern themes, modern phrasing. Poetry to me is most probably one of the most personal forms of writing and reading. If the words on the page don't sing to you, there is no point. You should never have to wade through poetry - it should jump off the page and embed itself in your soul.
There are a few things that attracted me to Yvette Holt's slim anthology. It's a collection of poetry written from such a personal stand point. It won the David Unaipon Award and the Victorian Premier's Literary Award, and the bits I read as I flicked through were beautiful. Holt is a member of the Bidjara Nation, a group of indigenous Australians from Queensland. In her own words, she is:

Mother
Daughter
Sister
Aunt
Niece 
Cousin
& Best Friend

Poet
Writer
Performer
Lover
Semi-butch
Semi-femme
Caffeine free
Pepperment
& Chamomile
Sipping feminist

Human Rights
Child Protection
Domestic Violence
Immigration Laws
Socially active
Community worker
Desperately seeking
Social Justice

Tall
Proud
Loving
Mountainous
Moody
Unpredicatable
Aquarian

Generous
Giving
Thrifty
Frugal 
Bargain  hunting
Lay-by wearing
Credit card declining
Broke-arse Undergraduate
(Under sixty seconds)

Her poetry reflects her life growing up and her experiences as a woman, a mother and an Indigenous Australian. Her poetry gave me a small glimpse into her world, while reminding me that I can watch her struggles, sympathise with them, but I cannot share them. I can however, be incredulous (and incredibly amazed by some peoples audacity and small mindedness) about some of the experiences she has had.
In year one I was the quiet native
Two years later the friendly coloured girl
By year five, it was I, the inquisitive aborigine
Entering high school everyone wanted to be indigenous
When I disagreed with conformity, they would whisper, "Is it because she is black?"

On my very first day at work I was asked "what nationality are you", when I told them I was Aboriginal they replied, "But you look so clean."

Last year, hailing a taxi in George Street, Sydney, the driver asks, "Where are you from?" I ask the driver to take a wild guess, after surveying the paying customer in the back seat, he triggers the meter then casually replies, "You sure don't sound koori because you speak English very well".

There are some days when "others" may need to persevere with my silence...because there are some days when I may no longer have the inclination nor the fucking head space to educate your reply.
(Primary Education)

This to me is poetry at it's best. It speaks to the reader personally, bares the soul of the writer and allows a connection between the two.

14 September, 2010

The Tincture of Salt

The Tincture of Salt - Alicia Bennett

The Tincture of Salt is a collection of poems by Alicia Bennett. It was given to me by one of my book group friends.

I'm not a huge poetry person - I either love it or hate it. I don't have a lot of time for lots of flowery imagery or symbolism, but this was a gorgeous collection. For me, the best way to describe it, is to share one of them.

Her Rosary

She had seven children
Two were at home
when she clutched their tiny hands
and sought safe haven
with swollen cheek
and bloodied lip
at her parish church.

The priest, who'd baptized
all seven
instructed her to
go home and be a better wife.

She discovered that
the local bus shelter provided
as good a refuge as any
her brood climbing
and darting around the ancient fig
shading the tin roof.

When older
she drank a stubbie a day.
Her kitchen smelt
faintly of hops
roast lamb and veggies.
She shelled peas
discarding the husks
into sheets of newspaper
as I gorged on mulberries
in the back yard.

She read Mills and Boon
the Soapies
her real religion
a fantastical world
compared to her marriage and
decades of celibacy.

Now her wooden rosary beads
the colour of cherries
worn under her lifetime
caress
sit in my jewellery box.

I often contemplate
what she would have thought
had she known
her granddaughter
took comfort in the arms
of other women.

Would she still have placed her
prayer beads
in my palm with her papery fingertips?