Michael Dickman's poems bring us back to the wonder and violence of childhood, and the desire to connect with a power greater than ourselves.
What you want to remember of the earth and what you end up remembering are often two different things. Michael Dickman was born and raised in Portland, Oregon. He captures in the interweaving of idiom and the miscellanies of history and myth, the complex layering and timbre of Australian voice as it flows into the greater delta of English.
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Poems such as 'Seven Last Words of the Emperor Hadrian' show clearly how close we exist to age-old truths of loss and love, and bring forth a deep sense of common, and so connected, humanity. Precision, the transformative powers of language, the joys of being in and of the body while connected to the limitless world, along with the same profound spiritual generosity and insight that illuminates his novels, coalesce in these poems, rendering the endless metamorphosis and divine music of language, body, being and earth.
Malouf's formidable oeuvre exhibits a virtuosity unparalleled in contemporary Australian letters, and his poetry and prose alike firmly place him at the forefront of contemporary literature internationally. It is a great pleasure to be able to offer to Poetry International readers a substantial selection of poetry from one of Australia's greatest writers. When I was ten my mother, having sold her old fox-fur a ginger red bone-jawed Magda Lupescu of a fox ….
A sign first in the sky, then other tokens, but plainer, on the flesh. In the old days it was easy— enough to recognize a god or two benignly winking above the sill, barely …. To interpret the wood you first must fall asleep in it, feel its breathing lift your ribs, turn owls …. As for example, the language in which my grandfather dreams now he is dead, or living, muttered in his …. Smelling the sweet grass of distant hills, too steep to climb, too far to see in this handful of ….
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Through all those years keeping the present open to the light of just this moment: that was the path we …. Tree crickets tap tap tap. They are tunneling their way out of the dark; when they break through, their dry …. I There is no getting closer than this. Dear soul mate, little guest and companion, what shift will you make now, out there ….
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Hinged grasshopper legs kick back. So quick off the mark, so spritely. They set the mood, the …. Sweaty after a bout the young prince towels his body, sprawls against the wall of a tennis court. His body seems ….
Flies by Michael Dickman
There was stagnant water in which lightning was reflected, like desperation in a dying eye. Like science. Like a dull rock plummeting through space, tossing off flowers and veils, like a bride.
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Speed under ground. And the way each body in the room appeared to be a jar of wasps and flies that day--but, enchanted, like frightened children's laughter.
Related Flies (Lannan Literary Selections)
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