Tag Archives: Dorothy Porter

BOB DYLAN – NOBEL LAUREATE

The choice of Nobel laureates for literature falls into three main categories:

  1. justly deserved;
  2. surely there were others more deserving, and
  3. incomprehensible and/or bizarre.

Glancing down the list from 2016 back to the first winner, Sully Prudhomme from France – a writer who has certainly not withstood the weathering of time – I would include In the first category: Doris Lessing (2007), J.M. Coetzee (2003) Szymborska (1996), Derek Walcott (1992), Nadine Gordimer (1991) Joseph Brodsky (1987), Milosz (1980), Saul Bellow (1976), Patrick White (1973), Neruda (1971), Pasternak (1958), T.S. Eliot (1948), Thomas Mann (1929), Yeats (1923), to name just a few. Indeed, the Nobel Committee gets it right, or close to right, surprisingly often.

Taste is a major factor in the second category. I am not drawn to the work of Hemingway (1954), Alice Munro (2013) and V.S. Naipaul (2001) but many readers are. As for the third category, Pearl Buck has become representative of those who were chosen to the astonishment of all but the committee. But she is far from being alone in this third group.

Many of the winning writers have been politically active both on the page and off. Alfred Nobel stated that the prize would be given to an author who has produced ‘in the field of literature the most outstanding work in an ideal direction’ (emphasis added). This requirement might help explain that small group of winners like Winston Churchill (1953), Bertrand Russell (1950) and possibly Jean-Paul Sartre (1964) who actually declined the prize, writers who warrant praise for so much of their work, but not, it seems to me, for any literature that flowed from their pen. Winners like Churchill and Russell have excited heated controversy. Indeed, over the 100+ years of the prize controversy has been a major player. And no more so with the choice of Bob Dylan for the 2016 Laureate.

I think Dylan is an inspired choice.

By anyone’s estimation I would be considered a serious reader. Many of the Nobel winners figure among my favourites: Mann, Eliot, Yeats, Russell (yes, although I would not have given him the prize), Camus, Gide, Neruda, Patrick White, Eugenio Montale, Saul Bellow, the utterly essential Milosz, Joseph Brodsky, Gordimer, Szymborska, Coetzee, Doris Lessing. I’ve read Proust, my comfort reading is Jane Austen, I belong to a small group that discusses a different Shakespeare play every month. I read widely in contemporary fiction, and I always have a volume of non-fiction and another of poetry on the go. People have been surprised that a serious literary person like me would celebrate the awarding of the world’s premier literary prize to a singer-songwriter.

Dylan is not a great poet and he’s not the greatest lyricist who ever lived – of the moderns that prize might possibly go to Col Porter – but I do think he was deserving of the Nobel.

The selection committee chose Dylan ‘for having created new poetic expressions within the great American song tradition.’ This is a restrained, vague even coy citation, I’m not even sure I know what it means. ‘New poetic expressions within the great American song tradition’ is ambiguous, and one of the interpretations is a contradiction. But leaving that aside, I think the Committee’s citation is off the mark.

Dylan was the voice of a generation. Even more than this, he provided the words to a generation wanting to break with tradition, with the past, with political leaders, with parents. This was a generation growing to adulthood under the threat of nuclear destruction, in a world where the separation between rich and poor was widening, where unions (at least in the USA) were weakening, and workers were being squeezed. Dylan burst on the scene in the 1960s and for the next decade or two his songs expressed what the alienated youth of the time were feeling. He was anti-war and anti-nuclear weapons, he protested injustice, he sang for the worker, the immigrant and the poor.

Dylan’s songs were anthems for the time. ‘The Times They Are A-Changin’’ (1963-4), ‘Masters of War’ (1963), ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’ (1962), ‘I Am a Lonesome Hobo’ (1968), ‘I Pity the Poor Immigrant’ (1968). Dylan expressed uncomfortable truths, and he gave direction for those who no longer trusted the old leaders.

As a teenager I would sit around with friends and we would sing Dylan songs. This was not an occasional happening. Most weeks, a group of kids would descend on our house, and accompanied by guitars and bongos and occasionally the piano we would sing – folk songs, Pete Seeger, what were known in those days as Negro Spirituals (I don’t know what the politically correct term is these days), Peter Paul and Mary (who often sang Dylan), and the master himself.

Dylan’s songs introduced us to people, places, politics and events far beyond suburban, middle-class Melbourne. And they taught us not to take things on faith or trust. They taught us to question authority, tradition and traditional institutions like the church, the family, the military.

And Dylan’s songs also taught about love – not in a gauzy, dewy-eyed way like most of the offerings on the Top 40, but honestly. A half a century on ‘It Ain’t Me, Babe’ remains one of the most brutally honest songs about love.

You say you’re lookin’ for someone
Never weak but always strong
To protect you an’ defend you
Whether you are right or wrong
Someone to open each and every door
But it ain’t me, babe
No, no,. no, it ain’t me, babe
It ain’t me you’re lookin’ for babe

(It Ain’t Me, Babe, 1964)

Some have criticised the choice of Dylan because, they say, the lyrics cannot be separated from the music. But they can, they have a different effect, a different power when read as poetry rather than song lyrics with the music playing in your mind. The best analogy is reading a Shakespeare play as against seeing it performed. No one suggests that the plays of Shakespeare are any less worthy on the page rather than the stage. And I think the same goes for Dylan.

Others have criticised the choice of Dylan, not because he is a songwriter, but rather he was the wrong songwriter to receive the prize. These people say that Leonard Cohen should have been the candidate.

I am a lifelong fan of the work of both Cohen and Dylan, but for the politics and the history, for the courage and uncompromising gaze, for the breadth of material Dylan is my choice. This is not to suggest that all his lyrics are breathtakingly good, there are some that are shoddy and banal. But as Somerset Maugham wisely noted: only the mediocre man is always at his best.

And there are those who insist that song-writing is not poetry, in the same way that in the early days of film there were those who insisted that film was not legitimate performance like theatre. There are poets who find their calling through pop songs – Dorothy Porter was one such poet – who see the modern song-writer within the context of poetry’s fluid boundaries. The conjoining of music and poetry is an ancient coupling, witness the minstrels of old wandering from village to village in days long gone.

Are there other writers more deserving of the prize? My reading is very much in the European and English-speaking traditions, so I can’t speak for African and Asian writers. I hope one day the Polish-American poet Adam Zagajewski gets a gong; I think it was inexcusable that the great Israeli poet Yehuda Amichai (died 2001) was never selected. But in the choice of Bob Dylan for the 2016 Nobel Laureate for Literature, I am surprised that the committee was willing to take such a risk, but very pleased they did.

THE FIERY MAZE

 The Fiery Maze Rehearsal

It was a dream partnership: a poet who thrived on rock music and a rock musician with a poetic soul.

In 1994, Tim Finn read Dorothy Porter’s genre bending verse novel The Monkey’s Mask. He loved the book. But there was something else. In those short, punchy lines of poetry he perceived a natural lyricist. He reached for pen and paper and wrote to Dorothy suggesting they collaborate on some songs.

Dorothy Porter was in thrall to music. It was the rock music of the 1960s, she always said, that made her a poet. She had listened to and admired Tim’s work for years. The prospect of a collaboration with him was irresistible.

And the time was right: two artists with limitless imagination and eager for creative risk-taking.

For the first time in his life Tim had his own studio. Located in the Melbourne suburb of Caulfield, he was in an exploratory phase, extending his musical boundaries into strange and new territory. While his focus during 1994 had shifted from performance to composing, he nonetheless had formed a new band with two Irish friends. The band was called ALT, deliberately evoking the alternative music that was its domain. The more experimental musical space in which Tim found himself was also reflected in the fact he was the group’s drummer.

At the same time, he was observing changes in the way young people were approaching popular music. The Gen Xs were open to music from times other than their own. They were listening to Janis, to Jimi, to Jim Morrison, and they were as excited by this music as had their parents been thirty years earlier. The idea of having these past gods infusing new work started to emerge. Musically, it was a time when anything seemed possible.

In the suburb of Elwood, just a few kilometres from Tim’s studio, Dorothy Porter was between books. The Monkey’s Mask had become a best seller – a rare anomaly in the world of poetry. Not tempted to write The Monkey’s Mask 2 despite considerable pressure to do so, Dorothy was in no hurry to embark on her next book. With time on her hands and her ravenous imagination on sabbatical from any specific project, Dorothy, like Tim, was ripe for anything.

In December 1994, the two of them met for the first time. Tim shared with Dorothy his musings about Janis, Jimi and Jim and other greats of the 1960s and 70s. These were the gods of Dorothy’s own music pantheon, and they would figure in the songs she would write.

But for the central theme she chose love – not warm, fuzzy, walk-off-into-the-sunset love, but blind, explosive, knock-you-off-your-feet love. The exquisite ecstasy of an unspoiled, idealised love had been a recurring theme in Dorothy’s work – as had its aftermath of pain and misery when the beloved turns out to be all too human.

Off the Planet MSDorothy Porter wrote most of the lyrics in a six-week period of white heat during December-January, 1994-95. An explosive new love begins in the Victorian town of Ballarat of all places (‘Will Ballarat ever be the same’). Some of the lyrics are laugh-aloud funny: ‘I’m always sick or sober, I’m just a boring little dag’. Others reflect the pain and poignancy when love grabs you by the throat: ‘Today I want to swim in black water…black water tastes sweeter than stale happiness.’ With each song she added a note regarding musical style; ‘dark, slow and dreamy’ (Off the Planet), ‘bitter-sweet, brooding & slow – smoky’ (Talking in my Sleep), ‘punchy, staccato beat’ (New Friends).

For Tim, Dorothy’s words and imagery were ‘intoxicating and liberating’. He went into his studio and, like Dorothy, he wrote in white heat. The result is an astonishing variety of music that is as breath-takingly original as the words. From the joyful rock of ‘Like Janis’ to the eerie, evocative murkiness of ‘Black Water’ each song has a distinctive quality and power.

There was no specific discussion about what they would do with the songs, although Dorothy, long confined to the tiny poetry world, had visions of going gold, then platinum and ultimately taking on the world. In the autumn of 1995, Tim invited twenty-two-year-old Abi Tucker to the studio. He had heard her sing at a concert in Sydney, an explosive rendition of the 1960s hit ‘Hold On, I’m Comin’.’ Both the voice and the presence of this young singer were a perfect match for the songs.

Abi had just finished work on Heartbreak High, and was soon to leave for London where she would land a music development deal with EMI. She was thrilled by Tim’s invitation.

Abi Tucker, The Fiery MazeDorothy, Tim and Abi went into the studio one autumnal evening. What emerged were the earliest versions of the songs that now comprise The Fiery Maze. Abi, hoarse from a cold, let herself rip, Tim let her have her head, and Dorothy at last saw poetry displayed in neon as she always thought it should. (She was often heard to say that poets should play huge venues just like rock stars.)

They taped the songs, but with no plans for a commercial recording, Tim, Dorothy and Abi went their own way. As the years passed. Dorothy continued to listen to the songs, and at some point, responding to an inexplicable but insistent urging to preserve the songs, Tim transferred the original recordings to a digitised form.

Early in 2008, Tim proposed that he and Dorothy shape the songs into a rock musical. She loved the idea and plunged in. But just as the project was gathering momentum, Dorothy Porter died.

Six years later, in 2014, Abi Tucker contacted Tim, to inquire about ‘those songs’. It was ‘Black Water’ in particular that wouldn’t leave her alone, a song she describes as ‘a cracker’. She wanted to hear it again, she wanted to sing it again. Tim contacted me and The Fiery Maze, a show that charts a wild, risky destructive love affair came into being.

Twenty years have passed since the songs were written. Inspired by the great gods of rock music, these songs tell a universal human story of love. They are seductive, lyrical, brilliant. They are The Fiery Maze.

The Fiery Maze is playing at the Malthouse Theatre, Melbourne from 20th August to 5th September, with previews on 18th and 19th August. Further information is available from the Malthouse website www.malthousetheatre.com.au

(Performance photographs taken during rehearsals 12/8/16. Tim Finn is on keyboards, drums and guitar, Brett Adams on guitars, Abi Tucker is singing.) 

 

 

 

The Books of Friends

This morning I finished Drusilla Modjeska’s new book, Second Half First. Several times during its reading I silently acknowledged that this would be one of my best books of the year. At the end of reading there is no doubt: it is a beauty.

Best Books is an annual tradition for publications like ABR and the Fairfax papers, in which writers name their best reads of the year. So – Drusilla’s book will be on my best of 2015 list. What else, I found myself thinking, will I include?

I keep a reading notebook which I usually consult when deciding on my best for the year. But I was sitting on the couch, dawn was breaking, I had not yet finished my first coffee, Lotte was lying next to me, snuffling in her sleep her head on my lap, and I didn’t want to move. So I relied on my memory, trusting that in this instance memory would hold fast to the truth, or, rather, truth would fix on to memory, and I came up with Peter Rose’s latest collection, The Subject of Feeling. I’d read it earlier in the year when the publisher asked me to write a few words for the cover, and I read it again when the book was published. It has been several months since I looked at it but many of the poems have stayed with me.

Two best books and both written by friends. How then to phrase my contribution to a best books of the year section without being accused of literary nepotism or some other sort of self-serving agenda?

Ours has been a small literary community. It’s changing now, but those of us who have been around for several decades are known to one another. That I count among my friends other writers is to be expected. At the same time all of us are aware of instances when John has cited Joan’s book as the best of the year because he’s sleeping with her or, more likely, wants to sleep with her; and Susan cites Barbara’s book as the best of the year as a means of apologising for a past wrong. These sorts of things happen commonly, and can be staggeringly transparent.

Reviewing is even more vulnerable to personal agendas. A 4th or 5th novel being reviewed by someone who has been trying to get her/his own first novel published for years can be easily tainted by anger, disappointment and envy. A bad book receiving a glowing review can very often be traced to a long-standing friendship between author and reviewer.

Then there’s the poison ink review.

I remember the day Dot (Dorothy Porter) opened the Saturday Age to a review of her latest verse novel (I think it was Wild Surmise) written by Alan Wearne. She slumped, her face was writ with distress. ‘He hates me,’ she said. And true enough the review was a killer, it was so vile and venomous it was hard to make sense of it. Underneath his review, and occupying the same amount of space, was another review praising the book in every respect: the poetry, the fiction, the characterisation, the pace, the artistry of the work. As it happened all other reviewers agreed with the second reviewer. The book went on to win prizes, it was short-listed for the Miles Franklin, it was adapted for radio and the theatre.

__________

I’ve done a lot of teaching in my time. I start all my writing classes with the same question: What are you reading? And what has been the best work you’ve read this past year? Invariably there will be a student whose reading has been confined to her/his friends. Why bother with Shakespeare, Austen, Woolf or White when you can have Raelene and Kylie, Brett and Baxter?

So, how do I get away with naming my friends’ work as the best of the year?

The fact is, and it’s a crucial one, that you want to like the work of your friends and it’s painful when you don’t. You want the best for them, and when their work falls short it is cause, not simply for disappointment, but actual sadness. You just wish it had been otherwise. You suffer for them – even if they are not suffering for themselves.

And when friends write a book that is a stunner, well, you feel doubly rewarded: as a reader (how fortunate am I to have read this book) and as a friend (how fortunate am I to have a friend who can write like this). So I will make no apologies here about my two best books for 2015.

In regard to The Subject of Feeling, I wrote the following as the cover endorsement:

Youth and maturity, love and infatuation, memory, music, loss, landscape, Peter Rose exposes the human experience in poems that are gorgeously lucid and often profound.

The Subject of Feeling reveals a fearless wisdom, a wry wit and a quiet depth. These poems stop you in your tracks.’

There’s a maturity to the poems, a quiet intelligence that I find irresistible, and complex but accessible emotional undercurrents. As for the Catullan Rag poems that make up the final section of the book, Peter has been adding to this series for years and the poems just get better and better. I’ve always delighted in the conceit of contemporary subjects being couched in the ancient world. One of the poems was, I believe, seeded at my own dining table.

Drusilla’s Second Half First might well be her memoir, but it is also the story of our lives, women like me born in the mid-twentieth century. She writes of passionate friendships, of fervent conversations around kitchen tables with cheap wine and cigarettes close at hand. She writes of family, of parents in particular and our conflicted feelings as adult children, she writes of lovers (so many of them and so fraught), she writes of books (Woolf, Christina Stead, Doris Lessing, the essential reading of those days), and she writes of the business of writing. Her tone is gentle – easeful – and questing, often infused with a sense of wonder. As I turned the pages of her book I found myself grateful to her for having written it.

Drusilla writes too of PNG, of the Ömie people and their barkcloth paintings, and the SEAM project that she helped to found, a remarkable scheme that brings books and education to children in remote areas of PNG. She writes so vividly about PNG that I easily see my pale, English friend trekking through forests, climbing mountains and sitting on verandahs in the wet heat talking with PNG women.

Two books, poetry and prose, both coming from the deeper part of the author to reach the deeper part of the reader, both have enriched my year and my life. Good books become like old friends. I am grateful to my friends for adding to this precious stock.

 

AS QUIET AS PAPER

It was 1933, and Nadezhda and Osip Mandelstam had finally been given a flat of their own, in Furmanov Lane, Moscow. Boris Pasternak came to visit. As he was leaving he said that now Mandelstam had a flat he would be able to write poetry. The remark was passed casually, without forethought. According to Nadezhda Mandelstam in her magnificent memoir, Hope Against Hope, her husband was furious: no true poet, he believed, would be reliant on physical comforts to work.

In response to Pasternak’s remark, Mandelstam wrote a poem that begins: The apartment is quiet as paper. There’s a double irony to this line. Mandelstam composed in his head. When it came to writing his poems down, he needed nothing more than a few minutes, paper, pen and a scrap of bench; mostly the actual writing down was done by his wife, or occasionally someone else. An apartment as quiet as paper: Those words are steeped in threats: with the ubiquity of informers, all walls had finely attuned ears: and in those terrible times, no paper was ever silent or safe.

Mandelstam’s famous poem against Stalin was never written down, it was recited to a small group of friends in May 1934. This poem, now commonly known as his Epigram On Stalin, sent Mandelstam into exile and helped shape his death at a relatively young age. No paper in Stalin’s Russia was silent, but even if it were, the silence of paper is not the silence of poetry.

The Stalinist years were dangerous times, mine are not, and yet these past couple of months as I’ve been sorting through papers and manuscripts to send to a newly-established Porter-Goldsmith archive at the National Library of Australia in Canberra that line of Mandelstam’s, The apartment is quiet as paper, has reverberated in my mind.

Both Dorothy and I were life-long preservers of paper. It has been a mammoth task this finding, reading, sifting, and cataloguing our stuff. I thought I knew what lay in the cupboards, in boxes, piled in files, on shelves, slipped between the pages of books, the books themselves, I thought I knew because in these past years since Dot’s death, I have, intermittently, dipped into the paper troves and revisited our past. But I knew very little. Casual, spontaneous riffling of a box or a folder of notes as an aide to immersing yourself in a lost life has as little to do with the systematic ordering of the stuff – or bumf, to use one of Dot’s favourite terms – which has characterised these past couple of months

The house is littered with paper. On tables and shelves and scattered across the floor are sheets of manuscript, slabs of book drafts, stacks of magazines, folders of pamphlets and newspaper cuttings; there are letters, cards, notebooks, pocket diaries, and in the cavity beneath the stairs, a jagged and increasing mound of brown archive boxes with the NLA’s name and address on the top. And emanating from it all is the smudged, enveloping silence common to books and paper. When visitors enter this house of paper, I stand and watch them. They must hear it, they must hear the subterranean jangling and shuddering of all this human geology.

Archive boxes

Dot threw nothing out, not when it came to paper. Ancient, unused cab charges have been a regular discovery in her old files. When The Eternity Man, the chamber opera Dot wrote with the composer Jonathan Mills, played at the Opera House one Sydney Festival, Dot went to every performance – there were several – and saved every single ticket from those performances. She kept every letter/email pertaining to a gig, even that last one of a series that carried a ‘thankyou’ and ‘I’ll see you soon’. Every advertisement – either for a gig or for one of her books – was shoved into an appropriately named and dated file. And I mean shoved. Dot was all thumbs when it came to folding things – paper or clothes. As for wielding a pair of scissors around a square advertisement, it was an insurmountable challenge.

Many years ago I started using coloured string folders to hold drafts of my novels in progress. I would choose a different colour per book – green for Reunion, pink for The Memory Trap, blue for The Prosperous Thief. The stack of finished drafts would grow in a neat, ordered pile, a vague assertion of control in a process shot through with uncertainty. I suggested that Dot use the string folders too, I even bought the first bundle for her, so her later manuscripts are a little tidier than the earlier ones. But a string folder can only do so much when it comes to a neat bundle, and Dot would pile in drafts with pages non-aligned – a kind of origami nightmare, I found myself thinking as I was straightening up one manuscript a couple of weeks ago.

So much preserved paper has yielded many treasures. Such delight in coming across a good unpublished poem with her fresh, familiar, vibrant voice speaking to me. Her death is irrelevant to the pleasure I derive from these poems; indeed, the only area of my life that has remained untouched by her death is her work. And I’ve found personal bits and pieces, events we shared but I’d forgotten, holidays and weekends away, happenings which at the time I might have glimpsed, but with the papers she kept, now bring a deeper insight and a more poignant punch.

I spent a couple of hours going through two large cartons of my own. I have lugged these cartons from house to house over a period of four decades. Like Dot, I kept everything. Notes and cards from primary school friends, from teachers, from anyone who bothered to notice me and address me on paper are stacked in an old shoe box, itself in the bottom of one of the cartons. Purple and gold crepe streamers kept from not one but two Wesley school dances have been preserved in neat rolls. Invitations to birthday parties, letters from school-friends. I’ve kept early scribblings, (how good, I wonder wryly, do early scribblings need to be before they’re called ‘juvenilia’?), faded photos of friends whose names I’ve forgotten. Like Dot, I have thrown nothing out, I’ve just stored the stuff more tidily than she did. Although not when it concerns dating and labelling. Dot was a stickler for completeness. Everything of hers has been dated and located. So, for example, every draft of every poem carries the date of its composition and the name of the house, the hotel, the coffee shop and/or suburb or city in which the writing occurred.

Driven by hopes for posterity, there are writers who keep everything (I’ve even heard about writers who spend the fallow months between books copying out manuscripts by hand in order to enhance the value of their papers). But not for me and nor, I believe, was this the case for Dot. I started stockpiling my life long before I knew what my future would hold. Yes, I knew I wanted to be a novelist from my earliest years, but this was a secret desire, more in the way of a fantasy to make the childhood years more bearable. I had no thought of being a writer as I carefully stashed away those invitations and notes and jottings. And I expect it was much the same for Dot.

Bumf

I wonder now if there is something about paper and the ephemeral nature of imaginative work that has we writers hoarding paper even before we know what our future will bring. Prior to our current era of on-line living where anything and everything is preserved (and made public), perhaps writers in pre-digital times announced themselves in primary school because of the paper they stashed away. Perhaps this hoarding, revealing as it does a value, even a reverence directed specifically to paper and the written word, used to separate the future writers from the future musicians and accountants and plumbers. And it’s not just the paper itself, but what it symbolises in terms of memory. After all, these papers and keepsakes are mementoes – monuments and records – and memory is the fiction writer’s stock in trade. The novelist creates characters, s/he gives them childhoods and adolescences, families and lovers; the novelist creates narratives out of how the past shapes a character’s life in the present and on into the future.

I work slowly in the silent house. Occasionally I’ll hear an explosion, a cry of delight coming from me as I find a never-before-seen good poem. I’ll read such poems aloud, just as I used to when Dot would hand me a draft of a new poem. I would read it silently at first, then if it was very good or if there was a bit of a clunk, I’d read it aloud to her. Listen, I used to say, listen to me read it. And she would sit on the couch, her head cocked to one side in that characteristic listening pose of hers while I read.

You need quietness and stillness, you need background silence to hear voices. You need silence for memories, ideas, the past and the future to break through the surface of consciousness. The silence of paper: there is nothing richer, nothing more vibrant. Not even life itself.

WILD SURMISE ADAPTED FOR THE STAGE.

The following article appeared in The Age, Saturday, 3rd November, 2012. Opening night of Wild Surmise is Thursday 15th November at The Malthouse in Melbourne.

WILD SURMISE AT THE MALTHOUSE
Dorothy Porter was fascinated by space. In the latter part of her life, stars, planets, our universe and the fabulous intrigue of deep space came to capture her imagination like nothing else.

In 1995 a new comet was discovered. It was called Hale-Bopp after its founders. Two years later it passed over Australian skies. Dorothy – Dot – was ecstatic. But then her excitement was always red hot.

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