Call history
She said there are messages on hold for you,
though some of them are a bit hard to make out.
They want to hear from you, speaking in different
washes of insistence, erupting out of what sound
like unknown passages of life, with scattered
background noise. Hi we’re on the verge of a cyclone up here,
on amarelo alert, but I’m on the track of a copy of Tropic Days,
can you help with that? and who knows, Buongiorno
this is Captain Hatteras, I’m now moving south,
in fact I’m calling from Tasmania. It’d be good to talk.
Their perspective is generally street level.
Although one mentions a perilous cruise that you might like
to join, across the Tasman Sea, through the Cook Strait
and up the Rangitata River. Perhaps it wasn’t serious,
it was from someone calling herself one of the early Mesopotamians,
said you’d remember her. But she also wanted to remind you about
always talking with direct social purpose, in the form
of cascading surrealist images. Another message describes a scherzo
of cloudbursts across the valley and a severe weather alert,
all of which has made it hard to synthesise things.
That was from someone in south-east Queensland,
about some deadline in Guangdong for a grant application,
a bit paranoid sounding, worried about the intimacy effect I think.
Jane, who sounds seriously impatient, left a message that you just
need to open the window, whatever the weather, do it.
Watch the humming birds flying in reverse,
marry Camille, write a chickpea rondel. Then one day you’ll be yourself.
Someone called Jo is arriving from Lombok next month
and wants to stop for a few days, wants to talk to you about what
she’s learned about black rope. Asks how are your mitochondria?
There’s a sad message from someone you know who’s been
making an experimental film, In a Humid Day, near Daly Waters,
apparently it’s turned into Thunder Road, lonesome glockenspiel and all.
Johnno left three messages in a row, unfortunately he’s hearing
chimes again, says he’s watching war footage on the net
and trying to get the moon out of his hair.
That colleague from Mainz says he’s working on a footnote
and asks do you think Baudelaire really knew what benjamin smelt like?
There are others but the last one, from last night, is in a small,
overflowing voice: it’s April-time and the trees are as fresh as rain,
why not come on up to Cuppacumbalong?
though some of them are a bit hard to make out.
They want to hear from you, speaking in different
washes of insistence, erupting out of what sound
like unknown passages of life, with scattered
background noise. Hi we’re on the verge of a cyclone up here,
on amarelo alert, but I’m on the track of a copy of Tropic Days,
can you help with that? and who knows, Buongiorno
this is Captain Hatteras, I’m now moving south,
in fact I’m calling from Tasmania. It’d be good to talk.
Their perspective is generally street level.
Although one mentions a perilous cruise that you might like
to join, across the Tasman Sea, through the Cook Strait
and up the Rangitata River. Perhaps it wasn’t serious,
it was from someone calling herself one of the early Mesopotamians,
said you’d remember her. But she also wanted to remind you about
always talking with direct social purpose, in the form
of cascading surrealist images. Another message describes a scherzo
of cloudbursts across the valley and a severe weather alert,
all of which has made it hard to synthesise things.
That was from someone in south-east Queensland,
about some deadline in Guangdong for a grant application,
a bit paranoid sounding, worried about the intimacy effect I think.
Jane, who sounds seriously impatient, left a message that you just
need to open the window, whatever the weather, do it.
Watch the humming birds flying in reverse,
marry Camille, write a chickpea rondel. Then one day you’ll be yourself.
Someone called Jo is arriving from Lombok next month
and wants to stop for a few days, wants to talk to you about what
she’s learned about black rope. Asks how are your mitochondria?
There’s a sad message from someone you know who’s been
making an experimental film, In a Humid Day, near Daly Waters,
apparently it’s turned into Thunder Road, lonesome glockenspiel and all.
Johnno left three messages in a row, unfortunately he’s hearing
chimes again, says he’s watching war footage on the net
and trying to get the moon out of his hair.
That colleague from Mainz says he’s working on a footnote
and asks do you think Baudelaire really knew what benjamin smelt like?
There are others but the last one, from last night, is in a small,
overflowing voice: it’s April-time and the trees are as fresh as rain,
why not come on up to Cuppacumbalong?
Philip Mead was inaugural Chair of Australian Literature at the University of Western Australia from 2009 to 2018. He has edited The Penguin Book of Modern Australian Poetry (1992), with John Tranter, has published a critical study, Networked Language: History & Culture in Australian Poetry (2009), and in 2018 a collection of poetry from Vagabond Press, Zanzibar Light.