To be precise, Cordite Poetry Review’s Erin Thornback reviews “Selfish Bastards and Other Poems” by Mike Hopkins and “Jardin du Luxembourg and Other Poems” by Steve Brock (both Garron Publishing, 2016).
The full review is here.
It can be intimidating to have your work reviewed, especially by someone you’ve never met who writes for a prestigious publication like Cordite. It’s interesting that people often pick out lines that you regarded as ordinary, and (presumably) regard as ordinary, lines that you felt a bit smug about. That happens at readings too – the biggest reaction can sometimes be to lines that you underestimated, and, by turns, lines that you thought were belters produce little reaction. As they say, once you put a poem out there, it’s out of your control.
Here are a few snippets from Erin’s review from 13th December 2016 :
“Displaying an impulse that is communitarian and geographic by turns, Mike Hopkins’s Selfish Bastards and Other Poems, and Steve Brock’s Jardin du Luxembourg and Other Poems address the quotidian of the present under the notion that place-based does not necessarily mean place-bound. ….. Hopkins’ collection … unfolds in a specific place, articulating a contemporary critique of the Australian present. The poems are inflected with the volatility of political lyricism in ‘Selfish Bastards’ and ‘Anzacery’, and Hopkins’ ‘In the Beginning was the Cliché’ terrifically probes and parodies popular culture.
… Mike Hopkins’s Selfish Bastards places his truth within the perception of Australia’s political stage. This truth can compete in the public arena with the ‘truth’ that is portrayed by politicians, such as:
Politicians who tell us we need to tighten our belt, and then use a helicopter to go to a cocktail party — Selfish Bastards
…. Being free from the same existential competition that obligates politicians to indulge their constituent public, Hopkin’s doesn’t flatter and indulge his audience in the eponymous slam poem:
People in the audience who don’t shout out “SELFISH BASTARDS” when politely asked to do so — Selfish Bastards!
Rather, the poem performs in front of the reader’s eyes, the musicality of the concluding refrains unpacking the realities of our monotone and formulaic reality:
People who like their own posts on Facebook — Selfish Bastards!
Indeed, Selfish Bastards signals a condemnation of contemporary society. Reinforced in ‘The Template’ and ‘In the Beginning was the Cliché’, we are confronted with thick hectic prose, sentence fragments and the hackneyed that has taken ‘the world by storm, though it was a small world, when all is said and done’. These clichés humorously gain momentum in ‘In the Beginning was the Cliché’, as the people ‘did not stay glued / to the one true cliché’ but ‘ took to false clichés like ducks to water’. In ‘The Template’ Hopkins satirises the public treatment of our magazine society and paper-politicians:
Another soldier dead. Pull out the template and we’ll knock off the news story in a flash. First the headline: “Digger” and “fallen” are mandatory words. “Brave” and salute are excellent accompaniments.
Structured like a traditional newspaper spread in two columns side by side, such portrayals are confrontational to the say the least, but there is also a sense of warning that is conspicuous here. Hopkins, in similar tonality to Brock’s ‘Hollywood Hotel’, takes an itinerary of the cookie-cutter Australian media and divisive political scene:
Get a shot or two of the politicians in the pews, and the comforting the next of kin outside the church. After all they’ve sacrificed their precious time to attend the service, and they like to see that we’ve stuck to the template.
The words ‘cliché’ and ‘template’ are key here. The tired terminology is fixed in repetition, an endless ventriloquy hovering over texts, criticising and energising in turn. The geographic impulses that these texts address is one of renewal, the language resonating with a precise duplicity that recognises regardless of the place, we encounter distance, we are always a tourist on the outskirts of a template, political, humorous or based in the explorative:
This rule is our rule: THIS DAY IS NOT FOR YOU (‘Anzacery’, by Hopkins). --------------- Copyright Mike Hopkins 2017 except content from Cordite Poetry Review 2016
Interesting judge’s comments from the 2016 “Over the Edge” literary competition in Galway. Niamh Boyce writes:
“A word on titles, in general they were awful. Weak, with a last minute feel about them. The title allows you to direct a reader through your work. In a poem in particular, it allows you to say something that you have not said ‘in’ the poem. This does not apply to some of the winning and commended – but in general the titles were horrific. With such a high quality of writing, and such strong various voices in the entries, weak titles were a constant. They should not be an afterthought, the work deserves better, have fun, work on them. It didn’t affect my judging I might add, it’s just a general observation. “
I feel a New Year’s resolution coming on: take more time thinking about titles.
Copyright Mike Hopkins 2016
As the inaugural recipient of the Paul Sherman Community Poetry Award, I think it is my duty to share some candid thoughts about the direction of the Queensland Poetry Festival – Australia…
Source: Notorious Q.P.F
Along with a number of talented performers, I am guest poet at the SPIN gig in McLaren Vale on December 3rd 2016. I’ll be reading from my recent chapbook, “Selfish Bastards”, plus other work. Thanks to Julia Wakefield-Houghton for inviting me. She’s given me a 20 minute slot, which is long by poetry reading standards. Perhaps an opportunity to respond to world events of 2016!
(thanks to Liz Zaccara and Tracey Korsten)
From The New Yorker
Dispatches: Aftermath: Donald Trump, Poet
DONALD TRUMP, POET
AT THE RISK of sounding like a total candy-ass, I swear I have developed P.T.S.D. from the venom of this election. O.K., even before voting season began, I was wobbly enough to be seeing a shrink. But when I confessed to her, a month ago, that I was sleeping less and checking news outlets compulsively, like a rat pushing a bar down for a pellet, she said, “So are a hundred per cent of my patients.” Then she added, “So am I.” A friend’s cardiologist told her that patients had been flooding into his office or calling from emergency rooms with false reports of tachycardia.
Those of us who experienced trauma as children, often at the hands of bullies, felt old wounds open up just hearing Trump’s fierce idiom of outrage. All of us used to be kids. All of us were, at some point, silenced by someone bigger and louder saying, “Wrong, wrong,” but meaning “It’s not what you’re doing that’s wrong—it’s who you are that’s wrong.”
Language is key. Trump’s taunting “nyah-nyah”s are the idiom of threat and vengeance. For him, it’s not enough to ban abortion; women who have abortions should be punished. It’s not enough to defeat Hillary Clinton; we have to hate, jail, and possibly even kill her. Eric Trump responded to David Duke’s endorsement not by saying, “We don’t want his vote,” but with the line “The guy does deserve a bullet.”
This violent poetry has been gathering force on our airwaves for decades. It started with shock-jock radio and moved to Fox News. Then, there’s the ubiquitous browbeating by social media, which, I suspect, has contributed to the tripling of the suicide rate for adolescent girls in the past fifteen years.
It was only a matter of time before a hair-triggered guy took this vernacular to the national political stage. Nasty talk didn’t start with Trump, but it was the province of people we all viewed as idiots— schoolyard mobs, certain drunks in bars, guys hollering out of moving cars.
When a Presidential candidate mocks a disabled man or a Muslim family that has sacrificed a son for our country, the behavior is stamped with a big “O.K.” Some Trump supporters felt O.K. shoving and hitting protesters. At a Wisconsin football game, a fan wore an Obama mask and a noose.
If you ever doubted the power of poetry, ask yourself why, in any revolution, poets are often the first to be hauled out and shot—whether it’s Spanish Fascists murdering García Lorca or Stalin killing Mandelstam. We poets may be crybabies and sissies, but our pens can become nuclear weapons.
Like Trump, I trained early for the gutter brawl. I grew up in a huge state with an “X” in its middle, marking the place where the mouthy and the wellarmed crisscross the boundaries of propriety like cattle rustlers. Littler than my cohort, I learned that a verbal bashing had a lingering power that a bloody nose could never compete with. When a boy named Bubba said, “Your mama’s a whore,” I shot back, “So what? Your nose is flat.”
The vicious language of this election has infected the whole country with enough anxiety and vitriol to launch a war. American lawn signs used to be lowkey. You might see venomous slogans on bumper stickers, but not where anybody actually lived. In Florida this Halloween, one yard featured black effigies hanging in the trees above a Trump sign. Strange fruit indeed.
Whatever you think of Hillary Clinton, there’s no question that she was the more circumspect candidate, and that’s partly why her detractors hated her. She was “politically correct.” By my yardstick, that means trying not to hurt people’s feelings (whether Bubba said something mean about your mother or not). And yet, among a huge portion of our population, this registers not as civility but as insincerity.
We Democrats have mostly tried to follow Clinton’s example, but I confess that, among friends, I’ve often enjoyed making ad-hominem attacks on Trump and his family in a way that—on reflection— shames me. And, certainly, the left has made use of that insidious “If/then” construction that Trump favors (i.e., “If I were President, you’d be in jail”). A putative friend once told me, “If you eat endangered fish, I won’t be friends with you anymore.” I replied, “If I cared more about a fish than a person, I’d examine my values.”
Today, I’m examining my values. As a Buddhist pal said to me on Election Night, “America has spoken.” Now it falls to us to listen with gracious and open hearts. This is not giving in or giving up. The hardest thing about democracy is the boring and irritating process of listening to people you don’t agree with, which is tolerable only when each side strives not to hurt the other’s feelings. To quote my colleague George Saunders, let today be National Attempt to Have an Affectionate / Tender Thought About Someone of the Opposing Political Persuasion Day. And (please, God) every day hereafter as well.
Garron Publishing’s series, Southern- Land Poets2016 was launched by Mike Ladd on 6 October at the Halifax Café, 187 Halifax St., Adelaide, SA.
Mike Ladd launches the Southern-Land Poets 2016. photography by Rob Walker, 2016.
Garron Publishing is the creation of Gary MacRae and Sharon Kernot. Their Southern-Land Poets series, featuring contemporary South Australian poets, is now up to its twentieth chapbook. It’s a nice format. Having only twenty-two pages tends to focus the minds of the poets on finding a theme and keeping the selection tight.
Alison Flett reads from Vessel. photograph by Rob Walker, 2016.
The Garron tradition is that each chapbook has a title poem, so let’s start with Alison Flett’s Vessel and other poems. The title poem is a knockout and it’s great to see long-form poetry getting a run here. ‘Vessel’ is a highly visual poem, incorporating multiple reflections and…
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To park the bus – metaphor – to play very defensively, to get a lot of players behind the ball, to have no attacking play, to make it almost impossible for the opposition to score, as if a bus is parked in front of the goal. Tactic attributed to José Mourinho when manager of Chelsea.
PARKING THE BUS
For José. After Henry Reed
To-day we have parking the bus. Yesterday,
We had conning the ref. And tomorrow morning,
We shall have how to waste time. But to-day,
To-day we have parking the bus: the scent of liniment
Sweat and fresh-mown grass drifts across the pitch,
And to-day we have parking the bus.
This is the ankle breaking tackle. And this
Is the studs up tackle, whose use you will see,
When you are given your boots. And this is the offside trap,
Which in your case you have not got. The coaches
pace on the touchline with their frowns and foul language,
Which in our case we have not got.
This is the goal line clearance, which is always performed
With an easy flick of the foot. And please do not let me
See anyone using his hand. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your foot. The injured
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their hands.
And this you can see is the dive. The purpose of this
Is to fool the ref, as you see. We can dive
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
drawing the foul. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The forwards plummet and the midfielders plunge:
They call it drawing the foul.
They call it drawing the foul: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your foot: like the shirt pull,
And the high tackle, and the shoulder charge, and the trip,
Which in our case we have not got; and the physios
with their magic spray, and the balls going backwards and forwards,
For to-day we have parking the bus.
Copyright Mike Hopkins 2016
For the second time this week the corpse of a possum hangs from the Stobie pole out the front of my house. I call the power company to come and take it down. The power man arrives with his cherry picker, rubber gloves, boots, ladder and overalls. He stands, looking up at the corpse suspended between pole and wire. “Second this week” I say. “He nearly made it”, he says, “just touched his tail on the wire, shorted himself out; still, only a possum eh?”.“Yeah”, I say, “only a possum on his way to run all over my bloody roof when I’m trying to sleep”. That night, a replacement possum stomps above my head at two a.m., promoted from the ranks to front line service.
Copyright Mike Hopkins 2016