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Thylazine: The Australian Journal of Arts, Ethics & Literature                                                                                                                                    #4/thyla4k-im AUSTRALIAN POETS SERIES 4 The Poetry of Ian McBryde Selected by Coral Hull [Above] Photo of Ian McBryde by Dennis Paterson, 2001. I MAWSON'S WALK: Dec 13 I Dec 14 I Dec 15 I Dec 17 I Dec 18 I Dec 21 I Jan 7 I Jan 8 I Jan 19 I Jan 22 I Jan 27 I Jan 28 I Feb 1 I Feb 2 I Feb 3 I MAWSONS WALK In 1912, Australian Antarctic explorer Douglas Mawson and two team members met with disaster on their far-eastern sledge journey to the interior. Lieutenant Belgrave Ninnis and Dr. Xavier Mertz lost their lives. Mawson alone survived, arriving back at base camp many weeks later. December 13 We are in trouble. Even the dogs know, their puzzled, snow-encrusted muzzles lifting towards us. Locked into place in the bay, icebergs hang like jewels within the shining, narrow air. Ahead, Mertz has stopped and is pointing back. Curious, I turn to look for Ninnis, but there is no one, no sledge, no dogs. I get to the hole before Mertz and peer over the edge. The deep stab of blue is bottomless. One of the dogs lies broken and whimpering on a ledge far below, then falls silent. We call and wait and call, only our own ragged voices sounding back out of the turquoise. We say a ceremony over the crevasse. This is grim; the sledge that went with him held almost everything; the food, the extra boots, the clothing. My spine is a stalactite. My fingers feel like someone else's, someone who should never have come here. December 14 I dream of heat and the sounds of people laughing. Paquita bringing me something tall and alcoholic. I arise earlier than Mertz, emerge from our stiffened tent in time to see Gretyl eating the pups she has just given birth to. She already knows what we have yet to address. There is no choice now but to return to camp, rationing everything, killing the dogs as we go. God help us. The cold is a frozen globe where my heart should be. December 15 Longtitude 68. Whiteout. The horizon lost and indivisible, the silence crushing us flat. Every direction seems correct. I shoot George, Mertz skins him. Vegetarian, he does not speak during our gristled, sinewy meal. December 17 We take turns with the pistol. The solitary shots echo around this ever-changing basin. Mertz kills Mary, skins her quickly. We make soup from the paws. The others consume what we toss to them when we have finished, their ears pinned back, their teeth agleam in the evening light. Have mercy on us. December 18 Very dangerous terrain. We make safety ropes, attach them to the sled. If this last landscape made music it would be a drone, a chant, sounding up from beneath the surface. December 21 Haldane and Betsy have dropped in their harnesses. I put them on the sledge, shoot them when we make camp. Each day, Mertz seems to be weakening. January 7 8 a.m., the tent reeking. Mertz has fouled himself. I wipe him off, retuck him in, make weak tea, mop his radiating brow. The fever has climbed up him and will not leave. I doze awhile. When I wake, Mertz is trembling, suet-coloured, the sweat bright on his eyelids and lips. His face is folded into a rictus, a terrible prayer. The sounds I mistake for dogs are coming from deep in his throat. Delirium steals his speech. He moans, calls out something repeatedly in German. The heat is leaving him in clouds January 8 2 a.m. Mertz is gone. The cold is a list of everything that has ever terrified me. I lie beside him for hours, unable to move. January 19 Progress extremely slow. Thick drifts. The glacier cracks and booms, snapping its massive fingers. Gretyl and I dine on Haldane's flank. She and I watch each other in the flickering, dim light. January 22 The glowing snow so deep, so soft. What would I dream if I went to sleep now? Gretyl comes into the tent with me, nestles against my chest. Together, we finish the last of Betsy. January 27 I no longer dream. My beard moults, my hair is coming out in handfuls. I am fighting building a cabin fever of the soul. A madness born of the lassitude when all is white, when all is closing down. January 28 Thirty-one miles to go. Gretyl turning her proud head away as I cock the pistol, tears freezing on my cheeks. God cannot help me, or her. I am in hell. February 1 Weather inhibits any hope of progress. Closer to the camp, I imagine I hear the others talking, the ship creaking against its frozen ropes. February 2 The last of the meat has putrified. Scurvied, I am bleeding from the fingers, the nostrils. The cold is polarised within me. If I do not leave tomorrow, I am lost. February 3 Overcast. The cold a shroud around me. I leave behind all I can. About the Poet Ian McBryde Canadian-born poet Ian McBryde has been a long term resident of Australia. He is well-published both in Australia and many countries overseas, among them Germany, Japan, Greece, the UK, Belgium, Canada, and the USA. His poetry has also been translated into Greek, Spanish and Japanese. His fourth collection of poetry, entitled Equatorial, is to be published in late 2001. He has performed his work at a multitude of Australian venues and writers festivals including Melbourne, Sydney, and Brisbane over the past twelve years, and has featured live in Canada, the UK, and the USA. He has also read his poetry on radio and television in Australia and the USA. Ian currently lives in Melbourne, Victoria.    [Above] Photo of Ian McBryde by Dennis Paterson, 2001. I Next I Back I Exit I Thylazine No.4 (September, 2001)