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This latest collection from the Australian poet Chris
Wallace-Crabbe is a varied and interesting book, wearing influences from D.
H. Lawrence and Yeats openly. ÔA VocationÕ, the opening poem, talks of Ôthe
dram of D.H.Lawrence deep inside me, / romantic as a thistle or a snakeÕ, and
several poems paint pictures of parched, bright landscapes full of lorikeets
and kangaroos. The Yeats influence is explicit in ÔThe StoneÕs in the Midst
of AllÕ in which the speaking stone casts a jaundiced eye over history,
dismissing Ôspeculative humansÕ when viewed against the slowly-changing
elemental panorama. These are traditional enough landscapes, then, full of Yeatsian
terrible beauty, but itÕs a mixture not seen much these days.
Other poems, however, suggest more interesting influences on Wallace-Crabb:
ÔMeanings of LowellÕ anatomises Robert Lowell as the dominant poetic voice of
the 1950s, especially the Ôfamily portraitsÕ famous from Life Studies. Here
he is presented as a poetic ancestor and when the poet finally meets Lowell
at the wake held for Randall Jarrell he concludes appropriately ÔI guess he
must always have brooded on warÕ. Lowell is part of the much more recent,
familiar poetic landscape, and a poem like ÔAnd TerrorÕ itself broods over
the present as Ôtwo liberal centuriesÕ come to an end, Conrad becomes the
startlingly prescient writer of the age and travellers unbuckle belts at
airports in the name of Ôsecurity and terrorÕ, both equally Ôempty
signifiersÕ. Dealing so directly with this contemporary situation, however,
does tend to point the finger back at YeatsÕ own political commitment and
comments.
ÔThe AlignmentsÕ, quite a long sequence in the middle of the book, exploring
KleeÕs comments on lines and dots, isnÕt quite as impressive and I do get the
sense that Wallace-Crabbe has yet to settle on one particular poetic voice
and style. I hope when he does, it is to write more poems like ÔOne Step after
AnotherÕ and ÔA Summons in the Peak PeriodÕ, short metaphysical pieces akin
to Charles Simic, mixing the profound and the banal:
A
phone is ringing in the cemetery
loud
enough to be from the Resurrection
Telling a Hawk from a Handsaw is a
rewarding and generous collection from a poet still developing; as per
HamletÕs comment, he only seems mad when the wind is in a certain direction.
There is a lucidity here that lives up to the title.
©
M C Caseley 2009
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