The book feels good in the hand. There are no quotes on the back (or front) cover. The colours are easy on the eye, and the image is fascinating.
I looked at it for a long time, trying to tie the scratchy images with the title. I thought I was looking at some kind of bird tracks until I stopped teasing myself and looked inside. The cover has David Adspen's "Seasons of Drought" (oil on canvas) incorporated into the design by Andras Berkes. On the inside cover flap are the dreaded quotes.
According to Kevin Hart, I am to experience an Orphic poet who believes that "with our thoughts we can change the world" (I heard that in the intro to the tv Monkey!) and that by praising nature we can change it.
Well, hey. If it's good enough to praise, why would Robert Adamson want to change it? Publishers of poetry, please note. These quotes are not good. They are off-putting.
Not so the back cover flap, which has a short literary biography and a photograph of the poet, taken by Juno Gemes. In the photo, Adamson appears a small man (he might be seated) dwarfed by a flowering shrub or creeper with large trumpet-shaped flowers. Is this a portrait of the poet? Is this how he sees himself - made small by the abundance of nature? More than any other external or graphic element, it is this photograph which compels me to read the poems.
The (two) titles come from (two) poems in the third (middle) section of the collection. And I will discuss these later. First, I want to talk about my response to this collection as a whole. Throughout my preliminary scan and second, closer reading I was plagued by the image of an elite swimmer swimming laps in an Olympic-sized pool. I could almost see the water parting with each well rehearsed stroke. There is no-one else in the pool, just Adamson, without competition, rivals or a care in the world. Like Zukofsky. Just doing his thing.
Adamson does not use a stop watch to time himself, he uses his own rhythm. He is here to enjoy himself and not to play to the stands. Up and down he goes, almost hypnotising before he bullies himself into a sprint, catches his breath while he slows the pace to a movement away from treading water. He exercises his strength, tests his stamina and prowess in his single, unmarked lane. This poet is very much aware of his literary muscle.
I like Adamson's writing. He engages the reader immediately, by placing himself physically in almost every poem. From "The Stone Curlew":
"I am writing this inside the head
of a bush stone curlew,
we have been travelling for days"
and
"We arrive by boat, rowing ourselves home"
(from the evocatively titled, "When The Light Slants Against the Tide")
Adamson is apparently fearless. He reveals his foibles and accepts them. I give in to meaninglessness, look up
... Alcohol, my friend my dark perversion.
here's to your damage:
(from "Meaning")
My main criticism of this collection is that at times it sounds as if the poet has read the entries in a field guide to Australian birds, added a couple of lines and done a bit of tweaking. A skua for that, although the poems are extremely readable.
Adamson is a name-dropper, he invokes Mallarme, Spenser, of course Zukofsky, Brett Whitely, Emmylou Harris, Bob Dylan, Robert Duncan and a gaggle of other greats. What great company his mind keeps. And what a roll he's on in the section "Daybook for Eurydice", with poems titled and timed. A publishable poem every two hours! What confidence, what style.
Given these idio-syncrasies, I was glad to have had this opportunity to read these poems. Personally, I don't enjoy reading a poem that involves the killing of a fifty year old mulloway, but Adamson lives close to the Hawkesbury and he tells us over and over that he fishes for food. So that is part of his lifestyle. He writes with an enviable fluency about anything within his frame of reference. He seems to live an existence that is somehow out of time and it is this quality in the writing that makes me want to read a lot more of Robert Adamson.
(Reviewed by MML Bliss, September 2003)
