Divided into two sections 'South' and 'North' (as in southern and northern hemispheres), the poems begin by hearking back to the author's Irish ancestry. He describes himself as a 'boy' who sets sail for the past, trawling through memories of his grandfather (gruff in 'brown-suede brogues'), his father (who 'speaks a foreign language'), and his mother (always working in the family shop, while the boy wishes he could take her away somewhere where she could 'sit down for lunch'). The early childhood is spent on the Goulburn River, with its fruit pickers and pubs, before the family relocates to Coburg in Melbourne.
The poem 'Good Friday' (p.14), in four parts, introduces the nub of the collection, a child that is stillborn, whose ghost haunts the text, even the travel poems. Its second section, 'Residua', describes the pathos of packing up the waiting cot and putting it in the garage; in the third section, 'Postmortem', the poet and his partner debate the 'whys' of the situation. The poem ends abruptly with the devastating 'In Utero', a cremation scene, in which the fire becomes the welcoming womb for the stillborn baby: 'The womb of the incinerator / now holds you / at nine-hundred degrees / centigrade'. But this is not the end of the story. On page 20, the poem 'I build a little house where our hearts once lived' describes Deane's attempts to reassemble his life, to 'remake rooms I cannot find'. As an evocation of grief, it's hard to go past these heartfelt pieces.
The remainder of the first section is comprised of largely descriptive pieces about seaside holidays in Victoria (Portsea, Rosebud), rock climbing at Hall's Gap, and driving at night on Old Melbourne Road with no headlights. The final piece evokes the continuance of grief: 'Under Westgate' is ostensibly about driving from Footscray to St Kilda along the Beach road, via Port Melbourne. But the subtext is that this is a young man driving too fast, taking risks, trying to block out 'the terrible nothing' in his head.
The second section, 'North' begins with a series of impressionistic poems about place: a Mississippi Highway, Massachusetts, remembering a first visit to New York with a girl with 'heroin eyes' with whom he stayed in the Cole Porter Suite at the Waldorf (she locks herself in the bathroom while he plays Chop Sticks on Porter's baby grand piano - p.39). 'Summer Storm, Las Vegas' (p.40) reflects on gambling and its addictive qualities, on how 'the afterglow of that first Vegas win / has long since begun to sting'. 'Left-hand drive' (p.44-45) describes the terror for Australian travelers hitting the American freeway system ('Try to indicate, but on flick the wipers'). Having myself quite recently reexperienced this very same terror, this poem made me laugh out loud - only to be swiftly brought back by 'Tectonic domestic', about an argument over a 'hot-pink raincoat ... / I said it looked bloody stupid', followed by the familiar fear that occurs when a loved one leaves in a temper - the fear that they may not return safely.
A collection of poems that deals with American culture wouldn't be complete without reference to the Beats, which Deane does in 'Luger pistol', describing a night on tequila and methamphetamine, playing 'William Tell ... to mark Burroughs' passing'. The partner in this poem, waiting for the candle on her head to be shot at, was doubtless less blase about this than was Burroughs' unfortunate wife, who was killed playing just such a game.
In 'First daughter' (p.62) the poet again reflects on his grief and evokes Whitman: 'I excavate the sorrow / ... / My America, my first daughter / who, tenfold times, tried to be born / might yet resurrect the father / from the strata that has formed' and we know that the poet is struggling to break through the hard shell he's developed to protect his psyche from the pain of what appears to be another miscarriage. 'Ad Nauseum' (p.64) continues in this vein, but also includes his partner, powerfully portraying pathos, poignancy, a palpable sadness, and disappointment, in few words: 'The house was a room short, / we thought / ... / But the house has our measure, / ... / Pack away the plans / and maternity jeans'.
From here, the collection takes us to London, Glasgow, Mexico, and, finally, Cuba (an image of whose streets provide the marvelous cover image). In 'Romeo y Julieta' (p.72) the poet is traveling with his 'kid sister': 'Both of us in remission / from births, deaths / and marriages'. The final poem, 'Arrival' (p.80) describes the coming home to Port Melbourne, and the poet's sense that he has lost something of himself on his journey. This he compares to a man's memory being lost after he has had a brain tumour excised; in the same way, the poet feels he 'never quite arrive[s]'.
There are many fine poems in Subterranean Radio Songs, but they work best together as a collection, allowing us insight into the thoughts and feelings of a grief-stricken man seeking healing and understanding by jumping feet-first out into the world.
(Reviewed by Liz Hall-Downs, June 2007)
