George Anderson- Anathema

Anathema

 

Through the convex security screen

is  the solid, pink columned façade of investment properties

     jutting balconies with views of bricks & drain pipes & bitumen

rented by low paid day care workers, security guards, bar attendants-

     there is a constant thrash & rumble of vehicles

dark, low ceilings, broken door knobs, plastic pine flooring.

 

To shake off the impending sense of dread    I anoint myself

with the latest in modern conveniences: BI-LO Skin Repair Cream,

cockroach baits, burglar alarm…& further up the road stroll past

acres of mall space & ducted air conditioning snaking up walls

alongside kebab & pizza joints & smiling security guards & tables of 

redundant products-  a salesman with mike & an audience of one… me…

crooning with reassuring tones  of amazing bargains   never to be repeated…

 

 It is in this scene   this space   at 3 AM        

                                               in which the kookaburra erupts-

                       projecting its long splintering 

                                          disorientated     cackle-

 echoing through the dark, narrow laneways

                                      of the apartment complex.

'Anathema' (2003) was written after a visit to Mount Druitt in the Western Suburbs of Sydney. First published in Red Fez. Our consumer society continues to amaze and disgust me. Is this the best we can achieve? One of a series of five poems. Yes, the morning kookaburra cackle did pierce the air.

George Anderson- words

words

How beautiful  how refreshing 

it is one day  to wake up

without any  poetic notions, or impulses;

simply to let  life be

without pretence without ambition-

without words

 

to simply watch the cloudless sky

to feel the head wind on the shore

to silently contemplate 

that thin blue line where sea meets sky

 

you pedal  down the track

without any thought of reducing it all to words,

to a smattering of images or symbols

 

but as you get off your bike

& wordlessly focus on the sea-

it swoops down upon you, unexpected

from somewhere- the words soiling you,

seeping out of you    once again

'words' (2002) first published in 'Mozzie- literary magazine.

George Anderson- How to write & analyse a bad poem

How to write & analyse a bad poem

 

 

1

take a happy middle class family

where children & parents love long

 

2

give them a large rambling house

full of expensive bay windows

 

3

get them to swallow the classics

from Dryden to Foucault 

 

4

ask the MFAs amongst them

who study literary theory - to write one

 

5

later, get a large mammal, preferably an 

elephant or blue whale- to shit on it

The satiric poem (2002) was first published in Pixel Papers. It was written, in part, in response to the implementation of the "new" HSC syllabus in English (2001) which necessitated the explicit teaching of postmodern theory in literature for the first time.

George Anderson- I knew a bloke (once)

I knew a bloke (once)

after robert creeley

 

& so I sd to my good mate Jim

(that’s not his real name)

cause we’re always scheming

thinking of ways to duplicate a buck

or just applying the polyfiller to life-

filling in the cracks   before it all dissembles

 

anyways I sd to Jim

‘hey mate, how bout we buy a ute & piss off up to Cairns?’

 

Jim, he shows me a paper bag-

there’s a gun inside

a .38 service revolver

 

I sd, ‘where’d yr get that?’

 

He sd, can’t tell u- but I’m gonna have to use it soon

 

There is an intensity in his eyes. The longneck overflowing his tall glass.

 

‘Can’t you pour a beer?’I sd. ‘Look at the fucken head on that!’

 

I never saw the bloke again

'I knew a bloke (once)' (2001) is an appropriation of Robert Creeley's poem 'I Knew a Man'.  It was included in his collection For Love: Poems 1950-1960 (1962). The above photo of Robert Creeley is by Chris Felver (source: all poetry.com).

In the poem I recall a chance meeting with an ex-factory work colleague in a Redfern pub in 1978. I never saw the bloke again. It was first published by Literary Tonic. 

Here is Creeley's poem: 

George Anderson- The Fly

The Fly

Imagine in your dreams

fumbling towards

a four metre high sandstone sculpture

of a common house fly-

with wings outstretched/ layered

in the traditional style

of Pacific Coast totem figures

dead to the world wild around it.

 

Look up-

examine more intricately

the stone golden artifice

as it enfolds before your imagination.

 

See its membranous wings

take shape/ translucent

see them lifting the insect free

from its puparium of mortal  strivings.

'The Fly' (2001) first appeared in the wonderful Zygote in my Coffee #39. It was inspired, in part by my HSC close study of William B. Yeats' poetry, in particular 'Sailing to Byzantium, Part 4:

                                   IV

Once out of nature I shall never take

My bodily form from any natural thing,

But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make

Of hammered gold and gold enamelling

To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;

Or set upon a golden bough to sing

To lords and ladies of Byzantium

Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

The speaker of the poem, presumably Yeats, is reflecting on how he can achieve immortality through his Art. He knows his physical body is falling apart and he imagines if he can be reborn as an artwork

"of hammered gold" he can transcend his mortal self and personal short comings and failures. The bird "set upon a golden bough" appears to symbolise the artifice of eternity that can allow him "sing" through his poetry long after his death.

In his Preface to Poems (1906) Yeats writes, "All art is in the best analysis an endeavour to condense as out of the flying vapour of the world an image of human perfection." In 'The Fly' Yeats' "golden bird" is changed to that of a common house fly to foreshadow a less elitist view of Art, subject matter and form in my own embryonic work.

George Anderson- Dreaming of Johnny Cash

Dreaming Of Johnny Cash

Ronald- father- 

wherever thou art

why are you still appearing in my dreams?

you’ve been dead now for twelve years!

 

I remember that last time I saw you- 

at Kentville Hospital

hot-wired to an oxygen bag 

you gasping, grasping 

for each hard-earned breath

you wanted it all to end  

but they kept re-reviving you

inserting a catheter into your oesophagus - 

you reliving your imminent death countless times

your lungs choked from years of smoking 

& foundry work

& that night they snatched you

from that Amtrak train in Springfield

your lungs brimming with Canadian Club chunder.

 

*

 

We had a reunion of sorts

back in Aylesford in the family home

a few weeks before you died-

you hooked up to an oxygen machine

near the back porch 

us thirty-something kids upstairs

playing, not so cynically this time, 

your Johnny Horton and Johnny Cash records-

toking away & madly cackling. 

 

Later in the night

I went down for a piss

& asked if you were OK

you gesturing in a hyperbolic manner 

to turn the outside lights off.

 

*

 

I’m sorry dad

I switched off the double adaptor

attached to your oxygen machine

it was an accident- honest-

I can still imagine you sputtering

getting up in the dead of night

cursing, 

flicking

the machine back on.

 

I remember that last day in Canada

at Kentville Hospital

I kissed you reluctantly as I left 

to catch my flight,

the hard stubble of your beard

still brushing in my mind.

as I write now.

In the lift down

a nurse noticed me gagging,

stifling the torment

& spoilingly attempted to comfort me,

diverting me from that harrowing

but redemptive glimpse

into the finality of all things.

*

Ronald-father

the other night

I dreamt you were living with me in Oz 

you sat at the table

closely reading the stock market pages

with your conical magnifying glass

& drinking a bottle of Coopers Sparkling Ale-

I’d just returned from the beach

I asked whether you had heard Johnny Cash’s

Folsom Prison Blues was out on Blue Ray CD.

You told me bluntly, ‘I saw it lying on the coffee table 

but I couldn’t get the goddamn machine to work.’

 

As I struggled to buckle up my pants 

around my upper chest 

I remembered with a wry smile

that you were dead dead dead.

Note

'Dreaming of Jonny Cash' is a tribute to my Old Man. It is one of the first poems I ever wrote and it appeared in the e-zine Megaera #21, March 2005. The title is borrowed from Grant Caldwell's excellent poetry collection Dreaming of Robert De Niro (Five Island Press, 2003) which I was reading at the time.

Bold Monkey Review will publish more of my uncollected and unpublished poems in the coming weeks and months.

George Anderson: Grey-Headed Flying Foxes

Grey-Headed Flying Foxes

 

It should have been a portend, of sorts-

when the bats first congregated

in their tens of thousands over the Northern Illawarra 

 

in a prelude to the massive bushfires

along the east coast on New Year’s Eve.

 

Every evening about 7

they arrive like messengers of doom

 

circling the skies and nesting in the tall Blackbutt gums 

and Turpentine trees above our homes.

The poem was first published in Linked Verse 001 by Laughing Ronin Press (August 2023).

Buy the book here: www.laughingroninprss.com

photo: George Anderson (click to enlarge)

New Release: George Douglas Anderson THE PORTAL (Holy & Intoxicated Publications, UK, 2020) 20 pages

 

Happy to see together 16 of my poems about school in this limited print edition. If you live in Australia and want a signed copy send $7 (includes postage) via PayPal to georgedanderson8@gmail.com. A huge thanks to John D. Robinson of Holy & Intoxicated Publications for putting this chapbook together!

Here's a sample:

Poetry Writing at Jibbon Beach

 

Spread out! Go get inspired!

I don’t want anyone sitting together

 

-The wet lip of the bay shimmering

& at my cool white feet a swirling tangle 

of sea debris like shredded newspaper

& small spinning fragments of  black dust

 

Nathan, get out of that tree!

You can’t write from up there!

What’s it got to be about, Miss?

Does it have to rhyme?

 

-Above Kurnell a Qantas jet angles

piercing the blue noon the bubbling rumble

entering through his feet & hands shaking 

pummelling the floppy neck of moment’s sweet silence

 

Miss, do you have a new pencil, mine broke?

OWWWW!! Stop chucking rocks Ryan!

 

Time’s up class- we’re going up the hill to read our poetry

 

Miss, mine’s going to kick ass! This is how it goes:

‘The girl I saw at Bundeena

Oh man! You should have seen her

The sparkle of her gleaming hair

Could dazzle the pants off a grizzly bear.

 

From the locals she had nothing to fear

Their eyes were focussed on the local deer’

 

Well done Nathan! Excellent use of end rhyme

And striking and original use of metaphor.

 

Trevor, you’re next.

 

Do I have to Miss?…

 

- the ferry back to Cronulla

wide steel windows of mansions

double glazed   faceless

pulsing lifelong desires

starboard   an unravelling

pan of sparkling yachts

the wind whispering

faintly upon pungent diesel

 

 

(originally published by Five Bells, Journal of The Poets' Union)

Gifted & Talented

 

As a gift one year

a female student

gives me an expensive

silver pen which has

inscribed on it

in posh handwriting:

 

Greatest English 

  Teacher Ever

 

Let me tell you

 

she wasn’t the greatest 

of students either.

Some thoughts on ‘The Portal: School Poems:

George Douglas Anderson

Published by Holy&intoxicated Publications

 

Although in size and volume ‘The Portal’ is small in stature, it is in fact a big fat mother of a chapbook: the tempered music of the classrooms and its inhabitants have been hammered down silently: the lava flow of words sear with insightful and observations of humanity in its early stages and beyond: there is a value in Anderson’s work that is on the run, it is wanted, for all the right reasons: read : An Early Education: The Poet: Portal;: My HSC Advice: Ribena: as you will feel this yourself: Anderson’s humour punches through here and there but his gentle grip on compassion is strong and intelligent : As a publisher this book was A MUST PRINT: the cover art by Rory Anderson is alone worth the $5:00 and also the art work within: A big fat mother of a book hiding its depth: this is one reason why I love chapbooks: I was left, wanting to read more:

 

John D Robinson:

Poet/writer/artist

Holy&intoxicated Publications: UK

“What I like about Anderson's work is that he writes in the language he knows and without attempt to be "poetical." This lack of pretense, plus his ironic detachment and sense of humor, are the engagingly human qualities that make his work, for me, a pleasure to read.”

 

Wayne F. Burke

Featuring George Douglas Anderson

I have edited Bold Monkey for over ten years. I like to use this electronic space to promote the writings of the alternative small press. Sometimes I feel an urge to add to the pile.

I grew up below the tracks in NDG in Montreal and moved to New Zealand and then to Australia in my early 20s.

My main spark in writing poetry was ignited in 2000 when a close friend of mine died of throat cancer. As his corpse edged its way towards the curtains of the crematorium I reckoned I needed to get some of my shit down.

A few days later,  I was in a hall supervising a Year 12 exam. The words just flew out of me and I wrote them down on a spare pad of paper in the back of the hall. The poem 'The Portal' will shortly be included in a chapbook of my school poems of the same name and published by poet & editor John D. Robinson of Holy & Intoxicated Press. Click on any image below to enlarge.

Here  is a brief sampling of some of my work and where you may find it:

A Beginner’s Guide To Death

My mother died
one late November afternoon

my young sisters found her
on their bottom bunk bed
with pissed pants.

Returning from my paper route
I slide through the back door
& I was surprised to see Mr White
the old man
my brothers & sisters
heads bowed as if in prayer.

A few days later
my mother lay deep in the womb
of the funeral home
on Sherbrooke Street
her cheeks
tinted with rouge make-up
like a whore.

My father was so distraught
he left the funeral arrangements
to others
the service hi-jacked by Christians
punctuated by the rallying cry
of centuries old, out-of-tune hymns 
& the uttering of hollow prayers.

The old man sat directly 
behind me during the service 
& from time to time
he would edge closer
& whisper into my ear
in a deep growl
that I alone could hear:

‘Bullshit. 
Fucking bullshit.’

(Nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2019)

From the chapbook FUCKWITS & ANGELS (Holy & Intoxicated Publications, UK 2019). SOLD OUT. 'The Burial' first appeared in The Bones of Nirvana, Svensk Apache, 2016. Illustration by the Swedish artist Janne Karlsson.

KEITH

Keith is a regular who usually shows up at three in the afternoon for his “daily constitution”- a pint of Dark Ale. He always wears a sharp suit and his shoes are immaculately cleaned and polished. He is a World War 2 veteran who fought in Tobruk against Rommel, but like most veterans, he never talks about his experiences. His secrets are buried deep within him. 

One day, we get around to talking about shoes. I tell Keith I recently purchased a pair of shoes on the internet. A friend was getting married in Leichhardt and I was best man. He perks up.

“Oh, what size do you wear?”

“Twelve. Why do you ask?”

“I thought so. I’ve got just the pair for you.”

“Don’t worry Keith, I’ve already got a pair.”

“Nonsense.”

The next day Keith enters the bar and hands me a beautifully polished pair of black shoes. 

“Try this lot on,” he says.

I’m impressed. I slip them on.

“They fit perfectly. They’re wonderful, where did you get them?”

“Oh, they were home collecting dust. You must have them.”

“Keith, they are so shinny I can actually see my face in them.”

“Young people don’t put in the effort these days,” he says.

Keith reaches in his bag and pulls out a can of black shoe polish and a clean rag.

“Here, have these as well. The secret is in the muscle you put behind it, and in this,” as he lands a large gob of spit on the toe of the shoe.

I laugh in admiration.

“Thanks Keith, where’d you learn how to do that?”

“Early on at Tobruk, sometimes we spent four hours a days cleaning our boots. It gave us something to do as we were preparing to take on the Krauts.”

From my short story collection The Empty Glass. There is some heavy, confronting shit about alcoholism & Australia's drinking culture in the book, so it's not for everyone: https://georgedanderson.blogspot.com/2020/02/new-release-george-anderson-empty-glass.html

Elvis on the Factory Floor

For a time I worked 

in a factory

slipping tiny plastic sleeves 

onto the gold wings

of ski bindings

then cooking the plastic

on a slow moving conveyor belt

under a hot lamp

until the plastic molded to the steel

& then plopped 

into a box.

One summer’s day 

as the steel presses boomed

& the rivet guns clanked,

I heard on the radio 

that the King

had died.  

Heart attack. 

Aged 42. 

White wings 

every five 

seconds 

free-falling

into that 

greasy 

cardboard 

box.

From my chapbook Teaching My Computer Irony (Epic Rites Press- Punk Chapbook Series 2, 2016).

Buy the chapbook series here: http://www.epicrites.org/punk-chapbook-series.html

Auntie Via

Most Wednesdays

I visit my Auntie Via

with my mom at Peria House-

she’s nearly 85 years old

She has a glass eye

it sits there  staring at you

with a blue icy blankness

Last week- my mom was talking to her

about her brother & the weather-

she was propped up in bed

& struggling to recall my face

when suddenly her eye popped out

& rolled down her pyjamas

& into the folds of her bed

She sat there

blissfully unaware

of that sunken hole amongst

the bones in her face-

two nurses laughed as they 

    scrambled to pull the bed apart,

searching for that elusive eye

I watch fascinated 

as her glass eye 

                       bounces-

                                     onto the

                                                floor-

                                                                & rolls under her commode

After a quick clean

her eye is popped back 

         into      place

& Auntie Via is harnessed tightly

into her side chair

I closely scrutinise her,

trying to recall

which one is real-

her two eyes like 

blank slits in the 

early evening’s funereal light

From the children's chapbook Melting Voices (Perspicacious Press, 2011). The poem was originally published in The School Magazine (2010):

Melting Voices was a chapbook of poems used for classroom purposes and is not available online.

Doonside

You make an impromptu entrance into my life

kicking open with considerable skill the shed door

housing heavily chained bikes & grass cutting equipment-

Leo, our enigmatic Chow sends you away; for now

the following evening you reappear

a blackened, indecipherable shape through a small square front entry window

I voyeurishly watch you bending over 30 metres away

examining     perhaps admiring in a humoured, knowing manner

the challenge of our new fish hook dead lock

barefooted-

with a Bob Bailey autographed baseball bat in hand

I CHARGE flat-out        silently         towards you

murderously-  I know fully

I’m going to SMASH YOUR FACE IN

when I catch you

you are elusive-

you down the tools of your trade

& sprint headlong to the front fence

& fling yourself precariously

carelessly

over the 2 metre metal fence

the dog now awake to its task                    

chasing you, us

leaping the fence in one wild bound     

I pursue you 

down the blue metal street                                                              

you disappearing 

through a conveniently cut wire fence     

into the disused brickworks

I shout out menacingly to you:

I’LL KILL YEAH!! (& really mean it)

& thrash the air several times with the baseball bat for effect

The police arrive the next day

& tell me he could have had a knife

& slashed my face or torso

entering it deep & cold

me lying wounded   oozing

like a slashed waterbed

or the shit smeared walls

they've often left behind

From my first chapbook Dancing on Thin Ice (erbacce-press 2008): http://erbacce-press.webeden.co.uk/george-anderson/4529601467

Also keep an eye out for my full-length collection of portrait poems The Rough End of the Pineapple (Uncollected Press, 2020): 

Chopper

 

On the North Mountain his incinerated Harley

leans against a spruce tree close to his red cedar cabin

 

ten years after the event a charred monument to an

unpredictable speed wobble throttling up Aylesford Road

 

at 130 the handle bars wildly flopping, the decision to fling

his bike forwards, to leap off the bike backwards in the dark

 

his wistful attempt to cradle his hands together/back straight & then to slide like a lit missile along the rough asphalt road- 

 

without leathers- his skin peeling off in strips- until hitting a bump & then sent screaming into a ditch, rolling into barbed 

 

wire; knocked unconscious. Of the searing, mind needling pain/his back & legs and ass ground into the pavement &

 

blackened like overcooked beef.

From The Rough End of the Pineapple. Available through Uncollected Press here: https://therawartreview.com/2020/07/16/book-published-the-rough-end-of-the-pineapple-by-george-douglas-anderson/

Note: A sharp bikie, remarked that the incinerated bike above is not a Harley but a Yamaha V-Max. He's correct. Harley just sounds better!

Update: 14 January 2022

New book soon to be released by Holy & Intoxicated Publications. Terrific cover by Henry Denander: