Solly’s Girl: a memoir by Ros Collins: book review

In the opening lines of Solly’s Girl: a memoir, the author is wearing a Pierre Balmain copy wedding dress as she rides pillion on a Lambretta named La Cigale (the cicada) behind her “skinny Australian” through the icy streets of London. Straight away, we know this is no ordinary girl. Her name is Ros Collins and she is someone destined for an extraordinary life of bucking trends and taking adventurous paths.

I first heard from Ros, in response to a review I wrote of a collection of short stories by her late husband Alan Collins. I wrote at the time that I could easily have imagined myself sharing a glass of wine and a few tall stories with Alan, a writer described by Arnold Zable as a classic Australian yarn spinner. My disappointment at never having met Alan was assuaged by my first meeting with Ros when, joined by Lisa Hill of ANZ Litlovers who brought along a very fine bottle of bubbly, we clinked our glasses in a joyous toast to the forthcoming release of Solly’s Girl.

The title is suggestive of Alan’s memoir Alva’s Boy (review at ANZ Litlovers) and, despite the gulf between the respective childhoods of the authors, the books make fine companions.

In the closing pages of her memoir, Ros ponders the readers for whom she wrote:

At the beginning I thought I was writing for my children and grandchildren. Then it seemed I might be completing what Alan started in Alva’s Boy – albeit not in the same style. It’s hard to tell. (288-289)

As a reader who was not on the author’s radar when she first put pen to paper, I can tell you that this is a memoir for us all. Jewish-Australians, ten pound poms, home-grown Aussies, wives, husbands, lovers. Despite being a personal account of a life, Solly’s Girl is universal in its themes of love and loss, duty and freedom, joy and despair. It unfolds like a conversation. “Let me entertain you”, opens the chat and, in less than 300 pages, we are indeed entertained.

There is some delightful humour on show early in the piece. When her new husband Alan told her how much she would love living in Victoria, mentioning picnics and visits to the Dandenongs, the author, being unaware of the Dandenong mountains, instead imagines meeting “some Mr and Mrs Dandenong”.  And the suburb of Caulfield sounded – to an English girl of a certain class – like the name of a property “rather like Tara in Gone with the Wind” (13).

The Lambretta, La Cigale, is like a character itself in the opening chapters, having been shipped out to Australia by the newlyweds. She was a beacon to the local cops who were keen to check her out and when, as new parents, Ros and Alan reluctantly sold her, they kept her brass cicada mascot. A Lambretta just like La Cigale will form part of the décor for the Melbourne launch of Solly’s Girl. How fitting.

Parts of Solly’s Girl read like a missive of thanks from a daughter to her parents, an atonement perhaps for a perceived lack of communication years ago. The deep love that cemented her parents’ life together is enchanting. When Sadie died aged ninety-seven, Ros’s father Solly visited Australia twice more from London, each time bringing a silver framed picture of his beloved wife.

He slept with it under his pillow, together with the little red woollen mittens she wore to keep her hands warm. (62)

But back in Ros’s youth when a daring sense of adventure battled with her love and respect for her parents, adventure won the day. Despite the fact that “nice Jewish girls didn’t leave home unmarried” back in the fifties (89), Ros moved out to bunk with a school friend in a boarding house in Hampstead. What an interesting bunch they met there, living in the home of a Holocaust refugee composer and his family. Amongst the boarders: the photographer of Edmund Hilary’s Everest expedition; the first black actor to appear regularly on British television and his German girlfriend; and a man who allegedly doped horses.  Ros writes that the house “had a kind of raffish aura about it” and the exposure to the “intellectual European refugees and émigrés, artists and actors” (92) must have been terribly exhilarating.

The author also gives an insightful study of the lives that went before her parents – the grandparents and aunts and uncles who forged ahead, in some way shaping the lives that were to follow. Ros writes of her need to acknowledge a debt to grandparents she hardly knew:

Their worldly achievements were quite minimal, their material wealth very slight. … The fortunate made it to America, the goldene medine; the brave and hopeful young idealists went to Palestine; my ancestors chose England. One hundred years later, here in Australia, I am grateful. (53-54)

She writes freely about the challenges of married life and the exhausting and exacting tasks of a mother and wife in that era:

I hung on hopefully to a deepening sense of love for a man I hardly understood, whilst in his mind Alan created a fantasy goddess out of a confused and rather lonely young woman.  (32)

It is clear that the her suburban days spent in Box Hill mothering three small children, caring for a foster child and playing “straight guy” to her charmingly “offbeat” husband (120-121) didn’t amount to her ideal life, but she made the best of it and emerged, as the children went off to school, just as you would expect of a freedom-loving adventurous individual; by snagging a job, obtaining teaching qualifications, joining protest marches and offering her services to the technical teachers’ union. When the Collins family eventually returned to Ros’s beloved Elwood, there was no backward glance.

Amongst her many professional achievements, Ros became director of the Makor Jewish Community Library, received an award for outstanding services from the Zionist Council of Victoria and was awarded the Woman Achiever of the Year in 1999 by the National Council of Jewish Women. Between the lines, it is clear that Ros has a deep connectedness to her Jewish roots, a respect she has passed on to her children, but she is obviously not one to drown in dogma and tradition:

I am writing these sentences on Yom Kippur, a day on which I should be fasting and praying for forgiveness. But I don’t fast, and repentance is something I deal with as soon as I realise I have made a mistake. (175)

 Wise words.

There’s a description in the book of a wonderfully Aussie celebration of Jewish New Year. After a failed fishing expedition on the Alligator River in the Northern Territory, barra is purchased from the local fish shop and an apple pie concocted in a hot caravan oven.  Rosh Hashanah was celebrated “sitting around a deserted swimming pool in a caravan park”. The accompanying photograph shows three generations sitting at an outdoor plastic table, their beaming faces testament to the occasion which would become a precious memory.  The candles were “like little mirrors of the stars in a vast mysterious sky” and there were “cans of beer and bottles of lemonade to wash down the pie” (236-37). What a celebration!

Solly’s Girl is a beautifully produced memoir with quality photo inclusions and, above all, it is superbly written.

You can find details of the launch and where to purchase Solly’s Girl here.

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The Tasmanian Writers’ Prize

Delighted to discover that my short story ‘Dear Ethan’ has been Highly Commended in the Tasmanian Writers’ Prize. A real thrill.

Congratulations to the winner

Rachel Leary (VIC) A Concrete Aborigine.

The winning entry will appear in the June edition of Tasmania 40° South

The other selected entries will appear in the Forty South Short Story Anthology 2015 – to be published in August/September. They are, as listed:-

HIGHLY COMMENDED

Karenlee Thompson (Qld) Dear Ethan 

Melanie Cheng (VIC) The Honeymoon

FINALISTS (alphabetical order)

Jamieson Allom  (TAS) In Two Minds

Verity Croker (TAS) Grasskiller 

Keren Heenan (VIC) The Island

Carmel Lillis (VIC) Island seeks Island

Andrea McMahon (TAS) Penal Colony

Andrew Stiggers (NZ) Island of Flowers

Simon Stuart (VIC) True North

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A Couple of Shorts

Despite the lack of online posts while studying these past months, I have been writing (I don’t know how to ‘not write’) and I’m pleased to report that a couple of my babies have found a home. The Education department has accepted two of my short stories for youngsters: Cars in a Bucket and The bewildering case of the beeping at dawn. The School Magazine has a long lead time – usually over six months but I’m looking forward to seeing them in print.

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Wittgenstein Jnr: a novel by Lars Iyer. Book Review

It has been a while between posts due to current study commitments but I am compelled to comment on Wittgenstein Jr, a novel by Lars Iyer. My literary taste-buds fairly tingled upon reading Lisa Hill’s review at ANZ Litlovers in which she alerts us to Iyer’s laugh-out-loud humour and clever satire. Unlike Lisa, I am unfamiliar with the real Wittgenstein and his work but that didn’t lessen my enjoyment of this romp of a read.

Wittgenstein Jr is the nickname given to a philosophy lecturer by his students. Our narrator, Peters, is of the group, yet slightly distant, partly because of his northern non-elitist background and partly – I suspect – because of the depth of his own philosophical bent. In fact, when I wasn’t laughing, I worried between lines about the fate of both Wittgenstein Jr and Peters (the other characters seem far more urbane and centred).

In addition to the humour and delightful insights into the world of the undergraduate and the university dons, Wittgenstein Jr has moments of great poignancy and, in places, I found the underlying sentiments to be deeply, darkly sad.

Peters tells us that Wittgenstein says he has experienced every kind of mental illness:-

He’s heard hostile voices. He’s felt that his mind is being read. He’s felt persecuted. Tormented, by alien forces. He’s experienced great highs, manias. He’s felt grandiosity. He’s felt chosen. He’s felt that only he could save the world.

And he’s experienced terrible despairs, he says. Abysmal depression. He’s had to keep away from sharp knives. From exposed pipework. From bottles of bleach. From high places… (p146)

But I’ll leave this mini-review of what is a fabulous novel with a lighter quote.

Notes passed in class. Mulberry to Doyle: You’re a whiny little bitch. Doyle to Mulberry: You have a micro-penis. Mulberry to Doyle: You have a nano-penis. Doyle to Mulberry: You have a quantum penis. It’s both there and not there. (p21)

wittgenstein-jr

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Too Many Homes of Eileen Skuse: an autobiography. Book Review.

Eileen Skuse has lived in 53 homes … and counting (it was 53 at time of publication but I think that number is still increasing) so it is fitting that she has titled her autobiography Too Many Homes of Eileen Skuse. Having now read the self-published book, I think she could equally have called it too many jobs or too many courses. Eileen is obviously not one to sit complacently upon her laurels.

Let me tell you something about this feisty eighty-four-year-old first and why I have her book for review. Eileen was one of the original members of the Stanthorpe Writers Group which had its first meeting in 2012. I warmed to her straight away, as did many of the other writers in the group.  We soon found ourselves presented with beautiful name tags to wear at our meetings and she always brought along something interesting to share with us. Her sense of humour was immediately evident, as was her desire to help and her ‘can do’ attitude.  She has a non-conformity about her, a quirkiness. These are the things, together with her age and her knowledge, that shine through in her autobiography.

A tomboy who preferred her ‘train set and wooden building bricks’ (29) to dolls, the author was fascinated by numbers and maps from an early age. As an adult, she was not shy about sex and took lovers when it suited. Dating agencies, nudism and swinging were explored and are mentioned in the book.  Eileen didn’t seem overly phased by her husband’s sudden urge to visit a prostitute.  Of all the jobs that she has held throughout her life, the enduring image for me will probably be her as a ‘sworn in, kitted out’ member of the Women’s Royal Air Force. Somehow that seems a good fit.

Somewhat of a hoarder and, by her own admission, a lousy housekeeper, Eileen has instead spent her life learning and travelling and doing interesting things. Never afraid to get in and give things a go, she’s successfully installed ceiling insulation, driven taxis and travelled alone extensively. She has undertaken a multitude of courses, including SCUBA lessons, library organisation, compost-making, defensive driving instruction (to name just a few). She’s attended a Nanny school, private music lessons and a weekend Reiki workshop. And that’s just a tiny sample. I was exhausted simply reading about it all.

A good editor would have eliminated the overuse of exclamation marks and the unnecessary use of ‘apparently’ and ‘I believe’. An editor may also have cautioned against the inclusion of the prologue ‘1851-1930’. There are some fascinating historical facts in this section but they don’t often serve the purpose of complimenting the autobiography. Those few snippets that are particularly relevant to the author’s life could have been incorporated into the later text (in the same way that she has done with other historical fact in a more entertaining and readable fashion).

Once we move into Part 1 which covers from 1930 (the year of the Eileen’s birth) until 1978, the author hits her straps. She tells us her birth was ‘less than four months after the Planet Pluto was discovered photographically and two months after the poet and novelist D.H. Lawrence died’ (3), giving the reader a clear picture of her milieu.

It was certainly no picnic being a child of the 30s and 40s growing up in London. She writes of sheets cut in half and the sides sewn to form the middle (unheard of in today’s throw-away society). She vividly recalls the war-time days and nights of air raids, bombings, damage and relocations. We read about days spent grinding through the traditional spring clean (something my mother used to do here in Australia). She tells us of the tedious task of rehanging cleaned curtains and ruffles, leading to her later avoidance of pelmets in any of her homes. ‘Also,’ she writes ‘I don’t spring clean – I move!’ (14).

The author doesn’t sentimentalise or overstate her obvious loneliness (or should I say alone-ness) but it saddened me to read that her parents always referred to her as ‘The Kid’. Occasionally she ruminates on her lot in life and her place in the world: … ‘I’ve always seen myself as the child on the outside trying desperately to get into the group’ (27). So many activities were undertaken alone: swimming, ice-skating, jumping onto buses and planes and trains and, of course, moving house.

If you read Eileen’s autobiography, I am sure you will come to the conclusion that she would be a handy woman to have around. If you were lost, she’d no doubt pull a map from her back pocket and guide you on your way. Or she’d calculate distances and directions by examining the night-sky. She’d roll up her sleeves and pull you out of quicksand or toss off her clothes and dive into the freezing ocean to save you. If your pilot lost consciousness, she could safely land the plane.  I imagine she could quote Shakespeare to soothe your broken heart or sit by your bedside reading the classics in her strong confident voice. One thing is for sure, she won’t be the one sitting quietly in a corner doing nothing.  Having met her, I can attest to those values she has, that idea that one just gets in and does.

The author uses the last few pages to share some advice, conundrums and ‘random thoughts’ such as ‘One advantage of constantly moving – nobody knows how old my clothes are!’(506). She also shares some regrets – just six of them – and, although it might be too late to learn to ride a skateboard (although never say never), there’s still plenty of time for her to find that perfect ballroom dancing partner.  Last time Eileen moved it was to Warwick in Queensland. If you know of a good ballroom dancer out that way, be sure to tell them to look up Eileen Skuse. I’m sure they won’t be disappointed.

To purchase Too Many Homes, contact the author:
eileenida@bigpond.com
T: (07) 4661 1705.

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AUSTRALIAN LOVE STORIES Edited by Cate Kennedy:Review

Love, luv, lurve.

I adore a good love story. And the short form is perfectly suited to the genre, as this collection will attest. Destiny, heat and lust, cold betrayal, unrequited. It’s all here.

Cate Kennedy’s introduction is superb and I hope other Editors will take note of it. There is no need for spoilers and academic dissections. Nor do we need explanations about how the reader should interpret any given story or what we should expect to gain from the read. I have always felt that writers prefer their work to be interpreted by the reader; it allows for so many possibilities. Kennedy (award winning writer and poet) clearly understands this and she gives us a beautifully written introduction on what it means to be entrusted with so many pieces of work, juxtaposed with the interpretation of love itself, and a vignette on her considered approach to choosing the stories to be included in the collection. She writes:

‘They’re not all pretty, any more than love is always pretty, but look, here they are, miraculous, tumbled and shining, from a stranger’s cupped hand to yours.  I hope you love them.’ (6)

The grouping of the stories into what Kennedy calls a ‘narrative arc’ is uncontrived and gives the Contents pages the look of a poem with stanzas introduced thus: ‘That Sensuous Weight’ and ‘The Unbroken Trajectory of Falling’ book-ending seven sections in total. Beautiful.

Are they all love stories? That will be up to the reader to determine but I wasn’t sure about a few. ‘Is that what you call love?’ I asked myself. I was sometimes puzzled. Are all these stories Australian? Not necessarily in setting, so the Australian of the title perhaps relates more to authorship.

Minor quibbling. Let’s get to the nitty-gritty. Let’s look at some of these stories.

australian-love-stories-edited-by-cate-kennedy

I am going to start with my favourite. As I began to read Susan Midalia’s A BLAST OF A POEM, I felt my spine relax. Aah. This is the one I’d been waiting for.  Other readers will have a completely different aah moment I expect. ‘A Blast of a Poem’ starts off in a domestic setting with ‘creamy songs’ of ‘moons and stars and rivers’ and ‘one that made me shiver without knowing why’ (179) and with paragraphs beginning ‘When I was fourteen years old and gushingly romantic…’ (179) or ‘When I was twenty-four and my heart was shattered…’ (180). There are layers of love, set over yet more layers, gently and succinctly unfurling a life for us to see in all its sweetness, heartache and devotion. The story takes us from the undoing of a poem to primal sex, and to a few places in between. There are so many beautiful phrases and sentences and words I could offer you here as a sample.  I have chosen this one, not because it is necessarily the best, but because it gives you an idea of it all, without spoilers:

As the weeks became months and the months became years, my life began to feel like an old time movie, in which the leaves of a calendar are ripped off and tossed aside by some cruel, invisible hand. (185)

 

Here are some other standouts:

LOVER LIKE A TREE
J Anne deStaic’s haunting tale of addiction left me breathless. Here’s a man caught in ‘his own private storm’ (56), his veins like ‘wide highways painted blue’ (54). Here’s a woman who lays beside him watching him breathe. She remembers ‘the heat of his skin on hers when all that will fit between them is one layer of sweat’ (56). All the man wants is ‘morphine and a lover like a tree’ (58).

DAWN
Bruce Pascoe
allows the reader into the bed of the narrator and into the depths of his thoughts so that we can see beyond what may seem like simple, everyday actions, to the enormity of the emotion that propels them.

HAMMER ORCHID
Sally-Ann Jones
has given us a hint of star-crossed lovers of different shades. A ‘Ten Pound Pom’ (130) and an older Aboriginal farm hand. Love barely hinted at, barely understood. ‘Biscuits’ (as the farm hand is known) is cool and knowing; he’s warm and open, he’s understanding and closed. ‘Don’t look at me, kid,’ he tells her (136) when ‘she was sixteen and he was twenty-four’ (135). And much later when she goes to visit him, he warns her to stay away.  She tries to entice him into what she has always yearned for on the eve of her wedding. ‘It could be a wedding present,’ is her desperate enticement. ‘No’ is his succinct response (138-139). Sexy. Intriguing. Sad, in a way. But is it optimistic as well? Maybe.

THESE BONES
Allison Browning writes of mature weathered love. Enzo has dementia and the home is both alien and familiar. He wants to awake beside his partner Nev but time warps and memories waver and he is constantly distressed by the current self and the self of his dreams. ‘He is no longer the young man he was moments ago, without lines and the notations that time leaves.’ (224) But Nev still sees him through eyes of love: ‘He looks worn, his body deflated, but the essence of him fills the space somehow like the echo of laughter in a room’ (233).

A LITERARY LOVE STORY (memoir)
Catherine Bateson’s
entry (which I read as a letter to a younger self) gives a nod to the Bronte sisters and [French novelist] Colette and, as the title suggests, literary allusion and metaphor abound. ‘Once I woke with a French phrase clinging to my morning mouth, the only language for unrequited love.’ (21) Strangely though, it is wonderfully Australian.

MOSES OF THE FREEWAY
David Francis knows how to amuse. Gorgeously laugh-out-loud politically incorrect at almost every turn.   Can’t resist these quotes:-

  • The lesbians just look awkward as usual (142)
  • Next came the photo of the foundling called Marvel from El Salvador (143)
  • I, myself, can’t go to the gym. It isn’t safe. I end up backstage in the showers for hours, wondering if I shouldn’t just stay there forever, have my mail forwarded. (146)
  • My own pittance sent each month to Amalia from Manila. Lagoon eyes and a slightly snotty nose. Save the Christians probably added the snot for the photo. (146)
  • Bette’s vaguely bipolar in a subversive downtown beatnik sort of way, her hair a tangled mess. (148)

A GREEK TRAGEDY
Claire Varley
. Beautifully written. Beautifully sad.

WHERE THE HONEY MEETS THE AIR
Carmel Bird’s stream-of consciousness comic monologue is fun.  I adore its word play and jokes about topics as varied as ‘Elizabethan roots’, dictionaries and bees and ‘the merry media, social and anti-social’ (288).

There’s a good review at Musings of a Literary Dilettante.
My review is cross-posted at ANZ LitLovers.

BOOK DETAIL:
Kennedy, Cate (Ed).  Australian Love Stories. Inkerman and Blunt, Carlton South, Aust, 2014.
ISBN: 9 780987 540164

 ***

In the interests of full disclosure – one of the fundamentals of journalism – I confess to entering into the call for short stories about love, boots and all, but my ‘baby’ didn’t make the cut. I certainly didn’t take it personally and recalled a 2006 interview with Jane Sullivan (the Age) during which Kennedy talks about one of her short stories finding a place in The New Yorker after it had failed to make a mark in a number of Australian competitions. Ruminating on the lesson to take these knock-backs in a professional manner, she said it was a case of ‘Some other time, some other place’.

 

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THE END OF THE WORLD by Maria Takolander: Review

Good things come, as the saying goes, in small packages.

Takolander-frontcover-214x300

The End of the World is a precise and economical collection of poems by Maria Takolander presented in a neat little 78 page paperback. It’s Takolander’s third poetry collection, following on from Narcissism (2005) and Ghostly Subjects (2009).

Takolander’s poems are excruciatingly daring, despite some every-day domestic subjects.

The first two poems ‘Unborn’ and ‘Post-partum’ are linked in exactly the sense that the titles suggest.  Poetry can often seem inaccessible but I was instantly seduced by the recognizable in the surreal animal-ness of these poems about motherhood.

The very first stanza (Morning Sickness) of the first poem (Unborn) is a tour de force. A newly pregnant woman dreams of a sow giving birth to a litter. ‘…their lids were serene,/as if eyes did not exist, and their ears were closed/to the sound of their own not screaming…’ The two other stanzas ‘Ultrasound’ and ‘Foetal Movement’ continue the pregnancy journey.  What modern-day mother (or father) wouldn’t relate to seeing the first grainy pictures of their baby: ‘As I watch you shadow box with sourness, radiance and din,/the sources of which you must fear like a medieval Christian,/.’ It’s all here in these two poems: the joy, the blood, the recognition, the pain and violence. Every word perfectly precise, perfectly descriptive, perfect.

The motherhood theme continues in this collection (which Takolander has dedicated to her son) and, in ‘Night Feed’, the baby is a ‘time traveller at my breast’.  Once again, the poet is tapping in to the universal experience through the deeply personal for haven’t we all wondered where babies have been, what knowledge they are coveting, what their slot is in time and their place in relation to ourselves?

As two little girls in their pyjamas navigate the aftermath of violence in ‘Domestic’, we are confronted with the interior of a broken TV which looks ‘bereft’, and the mess of a broken pot plant with its soil and roots and shards of terracotta littering the room ‘as if Triffids had escaped.’

The collection unfolds naturally, from the deeply personal (a woman’s body, a mother and a baby, a family broken) outward to the wider world of alien surrounds and different countries, wars and dead relatives, to Stalin and convicts.

The hotel room of the first poem in Section two with its beige bed cover that ‘has been ironed of dreams’ is a place ‘furnished by sanity’. Once again, so accessible, so recognizable is this room, even when painted in the language of the poet.

‘Missing in Action’ is about men lost in wars, a grandmother ‘dead soon after she got an electric stove’, others who succumbed to alcohol and, poignantly:

Three other uncles: heart attacks – possibly euphemistic.
                (Pictures of those men, modest and blank faced,
                Suggest something already buried.)

Part three begins with ‘Cesare Lombroso, Criminal Anthropologist’ and as I read the following…

                4 rapists, sparkly-eyed.
                6 prostitutes, furnished thickly with hair.
                3 thin-lipped murderers.

…I realised that I was, rather macabrely, almost singing it a-la ‘and a partridge in a pear tree’.

‘Charcot’s Patients’ brings together the historic and the contemporary with a fine dose of black humour, ending with:

Years later – with Charcot posthumously celebrated
                as the founder of Charcot’s disease –
                the Salpetriere hospital in Paris receives
the body of Princess Diana, freshly deranged and photographed.  

The final poems use a kind of reverse anthropomorphism to highlight the foibles of the human animal.  Some bizarre imagery emerges from donkeys sitting at a plastic table watching the sunset, a goat dropping a fishing line from the jetty and then throwing a tantrum, and a spectator-pig watching a collection of animals playing sport.

After reviewing Takolander’s first collection of short stories and now this collection of poems, I had formed an imaginary view of her (in that way we tend to do when we’ve spoken to someone via phone numerous times over a period).  And, as is often the way, my picture was just about as far from the reality as it was possible to get.  I expected something haunted and hardened behind dark eyes.  Rather (as Google reveals) she looks soft and innocent, the girl-next-door in a Doris Day mode and most unlike a writer of such deep bleakness and violence.  That’s not to suggest that there’s not some light and laughter here between the lines but it is that kind of underbelly power that forms the lasting impression for me.

Thanks to Lisa Hill at ANZ LitLovers (cross-posted) for the opportunity to review this beautiful collection of poems, the publication of which was assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council. (A couple of poet friends of mine sense some irony in the fact that many of these poems have previously appeared in esteemed publications while exceptional works of unknown poets languish – without funding – in bottom drawers. A subject worth debating perhaps.)

BOOK DETAIL:
Takolander, Maria. The End of the World. Giramondo Publishing Company, Artarmon, NSW, 2014.
ISBN 978-1-922146-51-9

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