In this month’s Verity La Poetry Podcast, poetry editor Robbie Coburn and Alice Allan talk with Ian McBryde about his poems ‘Orchid’ and ‘Serpentine’, his book Slivers and his upcoming new and selected collection, We the Mapless.
We also cover Ian’s writing process, his influences and the subject matter he works with. When Ferlinghetti comes up, we move into a discussion of Poetry as Insurgent Art (which Alice happened to be using to prop up her laptop).
XXXXXXXX-born Australian poet Ian McBryde was born in XXXXXX in XXXX. He has had XXX poetry collections published, among them XXXXXX and XXX XXXXXXXX XXXXX, which were short-listed for the XXX XXXX XX XXX XXXX and the XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX’X prizes. McBryde has a ‘new and selected’ collection, entitled XX XXX XXXXXXX, coming out later this year from Australia’s XXXXXXXXXXX Press.
this pasture, seeded by blood before all else
becomes more desolate, further cleared of any life
over the paddocks
the land, sub-divisions to form fence lines, lands for
farmers and trainers of dogs
die in winter
an asphalt road rises
to carry bodies free
to the colder cities, barricaded by concrete structures,
the tin of our roof a shadow left in the past
father and mother
the voice of dirt slides so easily beneath your eyes
and how? our skulls
empty/ would turn together into darkness.
the farm cleared away
to place more houses
(yet I’m imprisoned in this skin)
aged beyond a crimson sun-
the open fields trapping paths
clouds sounding above the opening of winter
youth will have destroyed us, first, stretching for acres to reclaim
that stolen joy, thinning by the headlong yards
this land that speaks nothing
of of forefathers
buried heritage/a sadness unspoken
in hands gripped to the sheds
then, dreamt we could climb through the trees
enter a world beyond
a century ago land free of all but farms
dirt roads centering the district diverged into corners of earth
an isolation forcing action, at the foot of the alleyway
the rains have dampened the grasses into
our land, brothers
no man understands
internal internal decay such as this
without love- death suddenly brothers- and too young for it?
senselessness/ clearing the empty paddocks
viewed from the empty weatherboard house-
setting within the flesh a quietness
screaming to break the body
a reason perhaps for blood/
stemming blades of grass
by my bedroom window.
(both this morning, beyond)
an impulse, then