AUSTRALIAN POETS AT WORK SERIES 1
Philip Hammial
Selected by Coral Hull
[Above] Photo of Philip Hammial by Anne Welch, 2001.
CH: Why is poetry important to you?
PH: Poetry is the most enjoyable & most meaningful way I've found to see, understand & deal with the universe & everything in it.
CH: What is your favorite animal & why?
PH: Like asking what is my favorite poem. Today it might be the whale because of its majesty & intelligence (at least from our human perspective). Tomorrow it might be the Bengal tiger, not because it's a cold-blooded killer, but because of its grace & dignity (Tyger, tyger burning bright ...).
CH: How do you measure success in your life?
PH: A difficult question. What does success mean & how is it measured? It's a word that's seldom in my vocabulary. I suppose I feel successful after I've written a poem or made a piece of sculpture that I consider worthwhile, if only for a day.
CH: What are you working on at the moment?
PH: Having recently retired, hopefully for good, at the age of sixty-five from far too many years of hard & poorly paid work - storeman, factory hand, labourer, etc. - I'm doing what I've always done, but with a vengeance, making up for years of lost time: making poetry & sculpture for five hours a day, four days a week (am also a parent & house husband). Thirty prose poems last week, eleven poems in fifteen minutes the week before, twenty-eight pieces of sculpture in
production for up & coming exhibitions, etc. I'm overflowing! Feels wonderful!
CH: What are you afraid of?
PH: The future, not for myself but for my five-year-old daughter and the other children on this planet. At the rate we're going the world will be unbelievably violent & ugly when they become adults.
CH: How would you describe your immediate surroundings?
PH: The Blue Mountains - idyllic, but changing: pollution from the heavy traffic on the Great Western Highway; greedy developers still destroying the environment even though we're World Heritage listed; break-ins; becoming a haven for junkies & crims, etc.
CH: Do you believe in a power greater than yourself?
PH: A qualified "no". As a student of Buddhism for the past forty-five years, I subscribe to the "idea" that our small m minds are manifestations of big M Mind, the Void, that we're simply energy temporally housed in a body that gives us the illusion of being separate & substantial.
CH: Name an incident that has astonished you.
PH: Having come very close to death on four occasions (once by attempted murder), I'm astonished every morning when I wake up to find myself still alive, still on the planet, a gift, a blessing; astonished by the miracle of everything around me, large & small; especially astonished by the miracle of my five year old daughter, Genevieve, the "journeywork of the stars" in a child's hand.
| |
COLONELS
Pudding is their proof
Look to heaven for their laundry.
Into girdles are squeezed by acolytes.
Are groomed in kennels.
Are meticulous with nostrils.
Carry buckets for to quaff.
Are at their best in pantries.
Wear bibs for sex.
Have gladiola manners.
Give vent to the patter of paterfamilias.
Are pleased when camels kneel.
Will privilege a goat if it's plural.
Tread lightly in animal areas.
Take turns clicking heels.
Assume positions that presuppose a gap in the populace.
Have been known to jerk a few.
Think twice about a sofa plunge.
Percolate with plucked courage.
Are permeated with pathos.
Make feints with emulsions.
Make light of glaring contradictions.
Make goggle eyes at Outraged Innocence.
In kind have met the meek.
Will always argue that less is more.
Have more options than sticks can shake at.
Assemble for trenchant farewells.
Never take a curtain call.
Are resurrected as a matter of course
CHASSE
Ceausescu left laughing.
Try charming harder.
The platinum gag was my idea.
At which point the hunting simply hums.
A hymn in praise of human pelts.
Try charming harder.
Sing out what your price is.
Sorry not to have heard your giggle, was otherwise engaged.
If you have any Christians, it's time to listen to them closely.
It was mine - that little fascist intuition.
From literal mud he crawled to run with literal dogs in.
The time it takes to tow a mother.
Hooded emissaries bring out their tubas for a blow.
At which point the hunting starts to complain.
About those tidewater gadgets that weren't reported in prayer.
Meeting sheep with brutality - give it a try.
While they twitch your guilt.
Is pleasured, is more than you can bear.
The aluminium earplugs were my idea.
At which point the hunting simply spreads.
The Cantonese until their dead are as supple as ours.
Who still insist on budget sorrows.
Even though they know as well as we do.
That hence to whence isn't really twice as much.
The diamond-studded blindfold was my idea.
HOWARD
His is an evacuated face. Actually, it's an extrajudicial face
permeated with suck this immunity as a function of fraternal
arcanum. In other words, it's a face of extortion modified to suit the
present political climate - slapdash. Or, to put it simply, an about
face. A packed-with-lies face. A floundering in malignancy face.
An orchestrated by the lowest common denominator face. A
scrummed face. A face, in the final analysis, that's down on all
fours.
HEADS OF STATE
They squat
in haste. They loll
decisively. Sacrosanct
is the mud that surrounds them.
They presume
to perambulate.
Their portfolios are stuffed
with excoriations.
They are, from first
to last, pneumatics.
Anyone, even an infant,
can pump them up.
For by
their airs only can we hope
to know them, as on & off
they're put & pulled.
At noon, as one,
they suck their thumbs.
At midnight, as many,
they hide under pebbles.
More than any other
it's the mended that they scorn.
But through & through is how
they'd love to run us.
As clappers for bells
they're admirably suited.
To pedagogues in pods
they give a nod.
In their mouths before speaking
they separate the flies from the paper.
But which becomes law
is anyone's guess.
It's written that those
that they ride shall have stirrups
fitted, no
exceptions.
They swing
in the breeze. Above a crowd
like birds of prey at play
they hang by hooks.
O marvel at the system
of ropes & pulleys by which
they're kept alive. Or so
it would seem.
And when they die (for
they eventually do) as for
a lover's first kiss
they pucker.
Acknowledgments: Bread (Black Pepper, 2000). |
About the Poet Philip Hammial
|
Born in Detroit, Philip Hammial migrated to Australia in 1972. His 14th book, Bread, was short-listed for a NSW Premier's Award in 2001. In 2000 he represented Australia at 3 overseas poetry festivals: Poetry Africa 2000 in Durban; the Franco-Anglais Festival of Poetry in Paris; and The World Festival of Poets in Tokyo. He is a sculptor who has had 25 solo exhibitions & has participated in over 50 group exhibitions. As the director of The Australian Collection of Outsider Art he has organised/curated 22 exhibitions of Australian Outsider Art in Australia, France, Germany, USA. |
[Above] Photo of Philip Hammial by Anne Welch, 2001.
I Next I
Back I
Exit I
Thylazine No.3 (March, 2001) |
