AustLit

 (Publication abstract)

 (Publication abstract)

'After I returned from overseas I caught up with John Forbes at a reading at La Mama where he and Alan Wearne sat in the front row of the small theatre cheering on Emma Lew. I had seen some of her poems published in the journal 'Otis Rush' and I thought that her poems were mysterious and sharp, reminiscent of Gig Ryan's poems. She read to an appreciative crowd and in the break John told me that he was accepting poets to tutor. Since returning from overseas I had been trying to find some direction in my life. I was working part-time and living in a share house in east St Kilda. I hadn't written much while I was overseas for two years, yet I felt that I had a lot of material within me to write about. I was also nervous about what John might think of my poems, as he wasn't exactly a lover of poems about the country. His own poems were urban, cool, mocking and loaded with clever associations. What would he say about my poems of India and overseas?' (Publication abstract)

 (Publication abstract)

'For many years after we arrived in Australia, the most important connection to our former home in Cyprus was my mother's photo album. as one would expect, most of the images in the album are of my mother's family: her parents, siblings, aunts and uncles. Every now and then, a page is devoted to my father's relatives. There is nothing wrong in admitting that these figures are supporting players; their role is to fill in the background, rather than to play a determining part in the story. Guided by my mother's prompts, I used these images to draw together some of the threads that made up our family history, at a time when my knowledge of this history had been foreshortened by the dislocation of starting over. Here is a photo of a handsome uncle who went to London to study chemistry but married too young and did not finish his degree. Next to him is his serious looking older brother, who was both a high-ranking officer in the colonial police force and a clandestine member of EOKA during the time of the troubles. Nearby is a portrait of my mother's cousin dressed in her neatly ironed high school uniform. She is standing next to a side-table on which rests a vase filled with freshly picked cyclamens. The photograph was taken just before the operation intended to correct a vision problem that left her partially blind. Looking directly at the camera with a mixture of pride and youthful embarrassment, her eyes betray no hint of this fate.' (Publication abstract)

'The scene you come across is not unusual in its brutality, but you vomit all the same. You stare down at what you have not digested as if it is the most miraculous thing. As if at this moment you would be happy if there was no other thing. And yet, even in this turning away, traces of what you cannot unsee linger like the perfume of mausoleum flowers...' (Publication abstract)

'From Geneva the road climbed into steep woods rising to the Jura Mountains and the french border. The stone chateau was set back behind trees and was not visible from the path. It was 1998, and I was looking for work during the summer break. My friends had given me Madame's number. apparently there was always gossip in the village about her true identity. Some believed she had been a spy in the last war, working for the Free French in Egypt. I was looking forward to finding out more about this elderly woman, living in seclusion. At the interview she appeared quite practical, explaining the necessary chores in a lively intelligent manner. She did seem particularly worried about my Australian accent and asked if I liked to sing, an unusual question, I thought, for a simple house-minding job. Above all it seemed I must attend to her lovebirds secreted at the top of the tower. "Come I Will show you," she smiled.' (Publication abstract)

'When I am in the vicinity of the bench - it's in a quiet) shady Spot - here in inner Melbourne, I'm on my way to the supermarket. The first time I noticed the plaque and then stopped to read it - a few months ago, about four years after the death of Henry Joseph Kata - I was so moved by its simple eloquence, sincerity and the import of the loss on the person whose words they are, that I suddenly entered into a kind of sympathetic mourning and hung around for some time out of respect. The bench may not have been there for long, council approvals being notoriously slow, and since the route I take to the supermarket is relatively new to me, I can't say when the bench was first put in place. I'd go for recently. I'd guess there was a quiet ceremony, in attendance the deceased's companion and those closest to, I am assuming, her. Attached to the slats of the bench, next to the plaque, there is always a sprig of fresh rosemary. The soulmate's bereaved returns often, possibly daily and, I expect, sits on the bench with her memories. Communes. Although the bench is for public use in a public space, a bench among other benches placed around the large, leafy park in positions where shade or a broad view is maximised, I would feel as if I was invading another's intimate space if ever I sat on it. So I don't. Maybe, one day, grocery bag in hand, I'll see from a distance Henry Joseph Kata's soulmate attaching a fresh sprig of rosemary or quietly sitting out the afternoon, alone.' (Publication abstract)