I am reading Rime of The Ancient Mariner(said marry – ner)
while looking out at the bobbing boats of the Mariner (said maree – ner) from the breakfast table. If my name was Marie Nuh then I’d be Marie Nuh on a Mariner (marree – ner) reading about an ancient Mariner (marry – ner). Such are the great and deep thoughts that occupy my mind.
The sun is reflecting off of the windows in the breakfast hall of The Granville restaurant and I am baking nicely. I’m transfixed by the story, bewitched by the tale. I’m transported, and to read it here of all place’s, by the glassy bay.
It’s about a man cursed to forever tell the story, trapped by a betrayal (his own) and the penance. He has learned to cast a spell to tell his story. Like any good storyteller.
It is a nature poem too, in many ways: The albatross and the reckoning. It is many things. It’s a poem about climate change, that we must look after earth and the nature within it because if we don’t, if we take the crossbow to the albatross, nature will turn against us with an almighty wrath.It is both religious and Pagan not unlike the wedding ritual at its heart.
As I finish at the breakfast table Hal Wakethe festival organiser strolls in to say hello. He has a warm and organised presence. I gush about the
Mariner and he welcomes me to the festival.
Damn it is civilized to let an artist have a free day to recover from jet
lag so he can sit by the sea and read poetry. It never happens. But it’s
happening here. Hal is one of the great literature festival directors in the western hemisphere. Sounds grand but its true.
A short while later Morganics and I step out into the city the sun has risen and the light is golden and crisp. The city awakes and we drink in coffee bars and chat about “spoken word” scenes around the world; New York, Australia, London, Canada, New Zealand, all places we’ve both been to.
We are definitely doing the male bonding thing: lots and lots of laughter, mutual respect and deep talk about the nature of spoken word, it’s pitfalls and new generations. Male bonding is important and the older I get the less I do it. The other poets will be arriving tomorrow. Can’t wait.
We step into a gallery of first nation art, aboriginal art? And the gallery staff tell us that this is were Damien Hirst buys first nation art for his home in England. Spending time around this art makes you stoned. The Totems are incredible and have all the resonance of the story held inside the cedar wood. The story of The Ancient Mariner is here too.
Lemn,
Going back a bit, the show was well worth the journey from my Midlands home…Thought your comments on the reviews were spot on and think there's more 'gestation' to come… I felt the show – like a child in the womb, is still a-shaping… There's something around the coldness yet the illumination of the harshness of 'white' in the snow sequence/s that hasn't yet found the 'settingness' for your lifestories that it could….like in the best of beautiful pieces of jewellry, jewels are set in something that pulls the disparatness of the individuial stones into a single great whole…
Anyway….this most recent post reminded me powerfully of Charles Causley's poem, The Dancers…so here it is, below…
Go well,
Tag
The Dancers
To a clearing
in the foyer
at the Gallery
of Art,
and a chatter
of spectators
waiting for the show
to start,
five young men, black,
naked, dotted
white and daddy-long-
legs thin
out of forty
thousand years of
dreamtime came lightfoot-
ing in.
Ssss! hissed the dancers from Arnhem Land.
And a primal
stillness fell as
when arose the earl-
iest sun,
each dancer an
emblem painted
on rockface, or scored
in stone.
With an unpre-
meditated
seemliness they took
the floor,
staring sightless
as in lightening
through a bronze by Hen-
ry Moore.
Ssss! hissed the dancers from Arnhem Land.
To an insect
buzz of music,
snap of sticks, high nas-
al whine,
touched with brown and
saffron ochre,
and their teeth a yell-
ow shine,
five young men came
barefoot, dancing –
the sun halting in
its climb –
effortlessly,
forwards, backwards
through the littoral
of time.
Ssss! hissed the dancers from Arnhem Land.
Beaded and in
feather bracelets
to the hoarse-voiced didge-
ridoo,
they were emu
and echidna,
swirling snake and kang-
aroo;
razoring this and
that way sharply,
swifter than the bush-
fire flame,
each a demon,
each an angel,
each a god without
a name.
Ssss! hissed the dancers from Arnhem Land.
Suddenly the
dance was ended,
clocks took back the Mel-
bourne day,
and it was as
if the dancers
melted like a mist
away.
In the restaur-
ant I saw them,
serious, and at smil-
ing ease:
five young men in
T-shirt, jeans, with
pavlovas and five
white teas.
Ssss! hissed the dancers from Arnhem Land.
Charles Causley
1984