Jonathan Bennett

I’ve contributed a poem to Paul Vermeersch’s blog-based project “They Will Take My Island.” The title comes from a painting by Arshile Gorky in the Art Gallery of Ontario, but, as Paul put it to me, “that’s only of secondary importance to the blog.”

According to Paul, what he’s doing is asking a bunch of poets “to write a poem with the title “They Will Take My Island,” and then the poems get posted to the blog….So far, the poems have been really great — a good variety of styles and subject matters all echoing the same title. It’s a bit of an editorial experiment, but it’s also evolved into a pretty good read.” 

I’d agree. As a title to write towards, it really pulled the material out—in my case, a poem about my son Thomas who has Aspergers syndrome. It felt good to write, and I’m pleased to be among such good company in Paul’s project. 

Along with Nathanael O’Reilly, American poet Paul Kane and I read at a recent conference on Australian literature held in Toronto. I traded books with Paul. Work Life is his 2007 collection and it’s a gold mine.

A professor at Vassar and a part-time Australian (I mean, who isn’t around here?) Paul Kane’s collection is wise, meditative, and often times just flat out brilliant. I also laughed too. For example, “High-Rise Terminal” a play on the linguistic term that refers to a statement being given the feel of a question, was smarty-pants funny. The long poem “Third Parent” was a moving elegy for his late mother in law, that had the strange effect of leaving me feeling as if I’d known her too. I can’t do justice to this book in a few lines, but if you don’t know Kane’s work, Work Life is great place to start.

Here is a link to a recent Q&A I did with power Globe and Mail reviewer J.C. Sutcliffe over at her blog SlightlyBookist on writing, habits, among other bits and pieces. 

I met Kyo Maclear recently serving on a literary jury. Her insight into the work under review was clear-headed and considered. Impressed, I bought her new novel, Stray Love. 

It’s a second novel that could be mistaken for one penned much later in a writer’s career. It’s a complex, intriguing novel and I didn’t want it to end. All the more impressive because it’s in the first person, and the narrator is Marcel, a middle aged man with a lot of unfinished past that swirls from London in the 60s, to Vietnam during the war, to today. That I was completely convinced of his voice, of his masculinity, that he stayed whole and real over the course of the story, is no small feat. Marcel, a professional illustrator, is stuck. When a young girl, Iris, the daughter of Kiyomi (his own childhood friend and later lover) comes to stay with him, her presence unlatches him somewhat, and his story spills out. It’s a bildungsroman, a book about identity and belonging, colonialism and war, reportage and slippery truth, and the making of art and the artist itself.

There is much to be said about this novel. I found it a compassionate and brave piece of writing with few missteps. Personally, I loved Iris. She just somehow held space of it all, giving light and shade to Marcel in this, mostly, passive way that was just so effortless but necessary. Bravo.

Short clip of a poem, “Puts and Takes” that I read on Wednesday on CBC radio one show Here and Now. 

Great video from the folks at Black Moss press…

Of all the moving, difficult, wonderful, shame-inducing pieces in the new all-aboriginal issue of Southerly, Merrill Bray’s piece “Gloria Agnala” just blew me clear away. Set in Alice Springs it follows the final days of an Auntie, Gloria, also now a famous painter. With deft touches (she writes with a blade, not a bat) Gloria’s life is drawn small and straight but in every way writes itself large and complexly as the colonialism and the history that frames the narrative, and her life, sinks in. It’s a great short story.

It’s not always an easy journal to get here in Nth America, but seek it out if you’re able. Of course, it is a complicated and emotional read, especially for a white Australian—as it should be. Hats off to the editors for making it happen, and pulling in such a broad selection of work.

This is my belated “favourite books I read in 2011” post. Along with Coetzee’s Summertime and Malouf’s Ransom these two books I read in December were among the best from my reading pile last year.

In Scenes from Village Life Israeli writer Amos Oz does disquiet better than just about anyone. Disquiet is not bleak, and it is not nihilistic. It’s awfully life-affirming actually, because in order to shudder, one must be wholly taken in and convinced by what potential horror is being presented, and, as is often the case in this book, is also a blunt matter of fact. For what it’s worth, it occurred to me while reading this new collection of stories—stories that make irregular orbits around a remote town in Israel—that exploring disquietude as a state of being in literature, is not much in fashion presently. Shame, that. Because stories like Oz’s often earn the disquieting moment by facing it head on. These moments, honest and bravely pursued, resonated for days after I finishing the book.  

The village of the title is the central character. Hero as setting, in other words. Oz does fear and regret a lot in the book, and he is not shy of the (purposefully) untidy ending. I was moved by his memoir of a few years back, A Tale of Love and Darkness. This new one is further proof of his enviable powers, and that the short story form can deliver rare insight into the human condition when crafted by the likes of Oz.

Now to the other “O”. Over the long view, Michael Ondaatje’s career is a wonder to behold. Yet, as far as I can tell, he had a growing problem on his hands. Fans of his last two novels formed only a short, dutiful line. Was the love affair with one of Canada’s most important authors coming to a sad end? Having read the wonderful except from the Cat’s Table in the New Yorker last year, I, for one, was hopeful for a comeback. Thankfully, mercifully, indeed the book proved to be charming, beautifully written, tender, strange and smart. It’s a simple story, but like only Ondaatje can, he reinvents the novelistic structure to tell his story obliquely, leaving the reader with a sense of mystery into how it hangs together so well. While many believe he’s gone too far before, in this case I’d argue he gets it right as things never dissolve or break apart into cold fragments; his reader is pushed not shoved, and never abandoned or abused. For me, the voice of it was what I liked the most. Yes, it’s somewhat sentimental, but is always searching for the missing moments, the explanations, the real truth of the journey they took together on that ship. It’s a big metaphor, expertly carried off in this big book.

I would point those interested to a great review of The Cat’s Table by Annie Proulx, and to this first rate interview with Amos Oz by Charlie Rose.

Two days in Forth Worth, Texas reading at TCU.

Freeze-Rain.

In this part of Ontario, and maybe elsewhere, “freeze-rain” is sounded as one word, and should only be used as a warning for the near future. As in: “did you hear it’s going to freeze-rain tonight.” It’s no good to try to say it the morning after it happened because it doesn’t work like that. These are the things antipodeans learn to blend in.

I am nearing completion of reading aloud, in its entirety, @smitchellbooks new translation of the Iliad. It’s taken two months.

Why, you may rightly ask, would I do such a thing?

The answer, perhaps unsurprisingly so given its oral origins, is that I have a very attentive audience—my son, who is seven years old. He happens to have Asperger’s syndrome, which means, when he likes something, his attention span is unfaltering. So each night, before bed, I’ve read it aloud to him and the poor boy has fallen asleep to the sounds of my butchering Ancient Greek pronunciations and general butchery the likes of which I would never allow him to watch on TV. (I have censored bits on the fly, I confess.)

Two nights ago he stopped me mid-sentence, which he does a lot.

“Dad. Dad. Can I tell you something? Why don’t they just find another beautiful woman and stop fighting?”

With no answer for that one, we pressed on.

His favourite character is Ajax the tall. He giggles whenever I say the name “Agamemnon” because it is to him an inherently funny sounding word.

Our journey began innocently enough. I bought the book because the new novel I’ve been working on is a modern, very loose recasting of the Paris, Helen and Oenone story. In early drafts of my book, I relied on Ovid’s Heriodes and HD’s Helen in Paris for inspiration. But, when I saw Mitchell’s new Iliad translation in the book shop, my conscience got the better of me. I didn’t really do much more than dip in and out of the Iliad 20 years ago during my undergraduate studies. Somehow it didn’t feel right to not have properly read it.

Later, when Tom saw the shiny cover, he asked me about it. I mentioned that Zeus was in the story (knowing he’s familiar with the god due to the Disney movie, “Hercules”). He asked to read it. So I gave him the book. Now, Tom can read anything at all, and he pushed his way through a few lines, but it was an obvious struggle so he handed it to me—you do it, he said.

The rage of Achilles—

And so we began.

Beyond my audience of one, I’ve read with bemusement a series of slightly strange reviews of this new translation. I say strange, because, evidently, those who work in this space of Ancient Greek are a mighty political bunch. First, they assume everyone knows the book intimately and provide no real overview of the actual story. Next, they are positively churchy in their wish for faithfulness to the original. So, theirmethod is to take certain lines that Mitchell has translated, compare them against other new translations, or else against earlier translations and weigh in on his success. And they horn-toot too, leaving no doubt as to their own ability to read the original text (the text being a subjective matter in of itself). In their opinion, and I grossly generalize with some glee, but I think they find this outsider’s attempt, while a breezier read, as having fallen short on getting in enough of the music of the original. They think he lacks their insider talent I suspect. And perhaps they are right. But who, other than those who can read Ancient Greek, would know? Or, even care?

If reading the entire thing aloud to my son has taught me anything, it’s that literature in translation is not about the original; it’s not about Homer in this case at all. It’s about the reader; it’s about my son and I. It’s about what we need to stay engaged, here and now. Because, while it might well be the case that Pope’s translation is the most beautiful, or Lattimore’s 1951 translation more faithful, neither are going to work for Thomas and I in 2011. Indeed, Pope’s translation would need a further translation, I should think.

Mitchell’s thundering five-beat line, his Anglo-Saxon verbs, his hyper-realist painting of Homer’s gore, all make this the translation for today. And if the literary Historians who get tapped to review this book for the major global magazines don’t always get that, it’s their loss. The two months it took me to read it aloud with my seven year old was time plucked from long ago that, through a translator’s vision and skill, felt psychologically relevant and linguistically alive for both father and son.  

Autralianists are everywhere. Even Fort Worth, Texas. Which is why I’ve been invited to read from Verandah People: stories to students studying Ozlit there. Must say, having loved reading (and writing) in Maryland last year, I’m looking forward to going further south. (And, thanks to ECW Press, VP is now available as an e-book.)

Here is the public event. Wednesday, November 30 @ 6:00 pm: Jonathan Bennett reads at Live Oak Reading Series. TCU Campus: Schieffer School of Journalism (Moudy South), Room 320.

I was asked for a short piece on “the author attending a book club”, how it goes, why I rather like them, etc., that was, today, posted on the Indigo blog.

There are many endings when writing a novel. First, there is the ending of the book that you plan for and write towards. Then the there is the ending that happens when you get there and realize it isn’t quite the right place to end it. So a new search begins for the right ending. Because, for all you know, you’ve already passed by the ending, and it’s chapter shuffling that needs to occur so the right ending is in the right place. Or else you still need to keep writing to discover where and how it’s going to end.

From there, various readers read it. Your spouse—so there is no spinach on your teeth. A second friend reads it, one who is deeply knowledgeable about the subject matter that you are woefully dabbling in as a novelist. Then, another friend reads it, who you also pay to copy edit it. At each point, working over the edits, you end it again and again. Finally, the end of writing is reached because you cannot go on any longer, and you send it to an agent or a publisher.

Now there are a series of new endings contemplated, one of which involves a self imposed exile and another of which is the total ending of self—of the pen thrust into neck variety. At some stage a publisher, miraculously, takes the book on and asks you to change the ending which, out of utter loyalty, you do, twice.

Next the copy editor, then the proof reader, both provide new sorts of endings to your relationship with this book because they are closing off your ability to improve it. Bastards.

Finally, it is published. But this is not the end.

The first of three real and true endings happen after several months have gone by and there is nothing left to do to promote or read from or “sell” the book. Everything goes quiet. The book begins to die. And some of you feels sadness at this ending; but, some of you is happy because you are tired of the book and its refusal to ever end.

The next ending comes about a year later after every single possible award has come and gone. It is at this stage when the book is palliative. The end is near, you can sense it, for the dozen publishing seasons that come and go. And sure, you visit the book from time to time, the odd book club in-person invitation, but you know the ending is not far off.

Then, almost unexpectedly, it happens. The remainder letter arrives, then the out of print letter. It’s dead. It’s over. You may now wish it goodbye. And you do. You’ve moved onto new books, and begun to experience the endings all over again.

This is the cycle of endings as you have grown to understand it as a writer. And all is well.

Then e-books arrive. And the dead rise up. And you no longer know the cycle. You no longer understand or even know if there are endings anymore. You are asked, gasp, to read from a long-dead book of yours—the horror of it all, them all, with new lives lurching like zombies through the Internet and across the screens of tablets and e-readers, for which they were never written.

What have you done? Who can put an end to this, but you? But how?   

With an illustration of an un-struck match on its front cover, this issue of Poetry is, for me, (potentially) the one hottest in while. I say for me because who knows what opens a person to poems, or essays about poems, and when or why. I sometimes think that when I am drawn in to writing—poems or otherwise—it has more to do with my state of mind than anything else. Because, are there not always great poems to read? I’m not always prepared, willing, or open to them—is all. Evidently, happily, not the case presently.

I am over-eager for Les Murray and easily pleased by him. Meaning, I’m not an expert. Just enough of an Aussie and enough of a poet to really enjoy him with little resistance. I thought Michael Hofmann’s review of Les Murray’s Taller When Prone was a gutsy piece. I mean, gathering it together to approach a singular premise in which to frame a discussion of a book of Murray’s poems is admirable. And he manages to place this latest book of Murray’s as, if not among the best in his oeuvre, still better than just about anything else one could read. He also takes a critical look at a reissue of Murray’s earlier Black Dog book that charts (not really the right word) Murray’s struggles with depression. I’d agree, while not my favourite book due to its subject matter and therefore state of mind, I remember it as an affecting book less because of its insights into his own self, and more because it helped me think better (easier?) of those in my own life struggling with depression. Of Murray’s non-fiction, I turn back to A Working Forrest for straight thinking on writing, life and Australia.

Yes, though mate, the joy of this piece is that it hardly mentioned Australia. It was a refreshing read for me because of this context(lessness).

But back to Taller. I read it eagerly, earlier this year and realized in reading Hoffman’s review, that I need to return to it now that it’s had time to settle. Hoffman finds it, correctly I should think, a narrower book in scope and less energetic than much of Murray’s mid-period work. Indeed, Hoffman seems nostalgic for these earlier poems and spends much (wonderful) time resurfacing them, such as “The Dream of Wearing Shorts Forever.”My own favourite Murray poem would be “The Quality of Sprawl” which he also mentions briefly. It’s so huge. Hmm. The thing about reading Murray which Hofmann more than gets across, is the sheer capacity of the man’s tank. I read his books, but I drain them of so little—there’s always much more to go back to.

Also in this issue I enjoyed Spencer Reece’s “Road to Emmaus”.  I stopped wondering why it was written with line breaks and not in prose after a while due to the weight and honesty of it—a wonderful portrait and piece of writing. Though not the same thing, I recalled flashes of Quentin Crisp’s autobiography that I read many years ago and haven’t thought of in ages. Funny how that happens, the mind bouncing around from book to book, interior self to former self, whether the connections are astute or clumsy. 

Finally, for this reader, All This Could Be Yours by the young Canadian poet (nationality, happily, not mentioned) Joshua Trotter was reviewed by Abigail Deutsch. I met the charming Joshua after he read at Trent University earlier this year, and read the book soon afterwards. I would say my feelings on it were similar to Ms. Deutsch’s. The guy has a very interesting mind and fine ear and if he was to tip a bit more vulnerability or perhaps personal risk into his poems, I’ll become an even bigger fan. I wanted more to be at stake I think. Mostly, though, for now I love his light touch—I wish I could do things like that. And, fine I’ll say it because I thought it, how nice to see a book of first poems published by a Canadian small press getting reviewed in those pages.

Me: What are you doing over there?
Wendy: I’m crocheting an angry bird for Ivy. Don’t ask.

I’ll be reading from my book of poems, Civil and Civic, at the “Writers’ Reading Series” at Trent University, Traill College, 7pm, Thursday September 22, 2011.

All welcome. More info here: http://trentu.ca/english/events_writersreading.php

Today I received an invitation to attend and read at the launch party for the new issue of Southerly, in which I have a personal essay. Sadly, it’s in Sydney and I’m not. So, others will drink the wine and hob nob and the only thing of me that will be in the room will be about 5,000 of my words. Here’s to hoping they stay put and in the order in which I arranged them.

The issue’s theme is a fascinating one: Australian-Transnational writing. I received an advance proof and couldn’t help but dip into it. Turns out there’s more to Australians living across a pond than meets the eye.

This from the editors: 

This issue of Southerly focuses on modern mobilities, the movements of people across the globe and the attendant dislocations and complex affiliations. The issue asks how this feature of late modernity dismantles and re-creates notions of identity, home, family, nation and literature. What is the role of writing in this circulation and how does it shape the dynamic mapping of Australia?

The issue includes a range of work deeply engaged with these questions. Bill Ashcroft offers a manifesto of sorts in his call for a new conception of diversity and for literature to produce the “anticipatory illuminations” that enable us to conceive of such possibilities. There are reflections by writers negotiating the movement to Australia and one, by expatriate author Jonathan Bennett now in Canada, that charts the fading of Australian idiom in his work as he becomes increasingly attuned to Canadian English and its writing.

If my piece is posted online, I will link to it. I am not sure how it will read to Canadians; I had only an Australian audience in mind as I wrote. Though one of the things I was able to finally write about was my friendship with the poet Richard Outram during, what turned out to be, the last year of his life. 

For more on one of Australia’s great literary journals visit: www.southerlyjournal.com.au

I believe this was exactly what Mr. Moore had in mind. It was taken last week after we visited the AGO’s NY Abstract Expressionist exhibit (Pricelessly, Tom dismissed Rothko very loudly; overwhelmed, Ivy simply refused to walk). Then we inched through Chinatown looking for that place Wendy had been before and liked, found it, whereupon we tore into a whole steamed crab (Tom’s choice), and later bought some unusual teas (again for Tom) before finally calling it a day.

I wouldn’t have put a penny on my liking Zadie Smith’s writing (simple career envy). Likely why I’ve never read her. But my mate J.C. Sutcliffe tucked Smith’s Occasional Essays under my arm the other day. And wasn’t I thoroughly, and unexpectedly, charmed. The one that interwove a discussion of British comedy with her father’s death was among the best personal essays I’ve read. Her thinking on novels, has a nice breezy way about it that makes for readable criticism—as opposed to so much of what is out there, showy, insincere, incompetent. I liked her prose. Tight, but not overly so. She’s got a fine mind and is free of snobbery. When she’s funny, she’s snot-out-your-nose funny. Now I’m wondering if I should I read her fiction? Or will I undo all the good that her non-fiction has done for me these past few days? If so, where should I start? I don’t know if I can stomach a first novel by anyone right now (loathsome things as a rule). Was her last novel good and a place, perhaps, to begin? I will ask Jules, for one, and see.