For some years I have been deeply moved and impressed by the poems of a fellow-Australian, Dennis Greene. Dennis is seriously afflicted by what was early-onset Parkinson's. He has the depth and elegance of those rare, true-poets whom we talk about on this thread.

I emailed Dennis's latest poem to Tim Murphy who replied:

Put it on Mastery.BANNED POST It is unspeakably simple and beautiful.BANNED POST Thanks so much for sending this.

Here is the poem. The grace and spareness is characteristic of many of Dennis's poems.


..........


The House Was Hill

The house was hill and road and view,
it grew a tree in summertime;
it turned into a boat that sailed
and left me at the harbour’s side.

Now I’ve become a winter’s tale,
a twig that grows where trees have died.
I live inside grey slate on stone,
the house is empty, cold, and mine.

Hi Janet

Thanks for making the Erato community aware of the work of your compatriot, Dennis Greene.

As you probably know, I have commented on this lovely poem elsewhere.

Janet, I did not know about Dennis's diagnosis. Thank you for making me aware of it.

All the best

Chris

[This message has been edited by ChrisGeorge (edited February 04, 2005).]

Chris,
The fact that such a noble poet as Dennis is unrecognised by the smart crowd who control Australian poetry speaks volumes. He can write rings around most of them and still have enough cloth left for an epic.
Janet

A great role model for poetry. Pure. Simple. Unpretentious. Stirring. He reminds me of some of Emily Dickinson.

Thanks,
Roger

He reminds me of Robert Francis--but with an edge. That last line is to die for--or of. Give us some more of his poems, Janet.

Thanks Janet for posting this, and for your educating us generally about Australian poets. I'm learning a lot.

Very powerful, Janet. Thanks for posting.
Margaret.

I just found this apt quote from the Jefferson lecture given by Helen Vendler:
Hamlet is a very specific figure--a Danish prince who has been to school in Germany--but when Prufrock says, "I am not Prince Hamlet," he is in a way testifying to the fact that Hamlet means something to every one who knows about the play.

Here's a quite different poem by Dennis Greene:

Who’s There

BANNED POSTBANNED POSTBANNED POSTThe play’s the thing.

BANNED POST

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It starts with one – one life, one seat, one stage,

one man alone on stage in darkest Elsinore.BANNED POSTHe has

his face, a way to be, his name, his place in history

assured simply by being there; his ups and downs, his

family tree, he has his own fair share of family squabbles;

a common man, he plays his Hamlet on the streets,

against the backdrop of the playwright’s preferences:BANNED POST

he knows his place and for a moment there before

the others come he is the sum and total of humanity.

BANNED POST

‘Enter to him Bernardo’. Now they are two. Two men

who, each in his own way will put the question,

and want to know who’s there. We answer them

with silence. And so it starts with misdirection,

and men are born, grow old and die, each drawn to life

to be a passing moment, light’s movement in the eye,

each with a dream they’ve whispered in a father’s ear;

two Hamlets while the third waits in the wings,

and in the process makes of us an audience.

BANNED POST

So we begin. We have our role in this. To cough, to stir,

to make our presence felt, to be the whole completed

spectrum of the universe; to be the one, the now, the I,

the many-headed hydra of his mind: his father’s death,

his uncle’s smile, his mother’s slide from tears to bed

to where the power fills the barrel of her womb, his uncle’s

theft of what is his— to be a thing too small, too soon

to stir his consciousness; and so he vacillates and waits

and plays his Hamlet in dark corners of the room.

Until we come most carefully upon the hour, and call him home.

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[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited February 09, 2005).]

I enjoy these strange Escher-like Shakespearean poems of Dennis's but I see that it is probably too unfamiliar a style for those not used to his slow pace and opposing images. He places various characterisations and metaphors like chessmen.

As soon as I have permission I will post some other poems.
Janet

Dance Card

I am no dancer of quicksteps.
Not for me the sure swift
rhythms of the streets, the office
tangos, the at home waltzes.
Not for me the paso doble,
I have no way with pas de deux.

I am the sigh of soft shoe
shuffles done in doorways,
the tap of a steel capped cane.
The cry of someoneBANNED POSTleft to dance
inBANNED POSTwilderness--BANNED POSTtheBANNED POSTclink
of his ball and chain.