Wagga Wagga Sonnet Sonnet
For the February writing workshop at Booranga, Keri Glastonbury presented the group with ‘prompts’ for seven couplets to construct a kind of modern sonnet.
Here are her notes:
Let's all write a contemporary sonnet that is just a 14-line poem (no rhyme scheme). The contemporary sonnet can reflect our era of distraction – the sonnet used to be structured with specific points where it would shift or swerve. But as David said last night what if attention shifted mid-line or didn't wait until the last rhyming couplet to put a different spin on the preceding stanzas?
I wrote Newcastle Sonnets with around three seconds of conscious memory, then jump cut to the next phrase or idea. ADHD? It's like bricolage or collage (nothing new but infused with effect of the internet on our concentration spans). Your sonnet will be a container for noticing. It will map attention. I often think of mine as a form of mental chimney sweeping. Quite instinctual, though sometimes I come up with actual metaphors (like casting Kelpies in muster dogs).
Wagga is already fragmented: river/highway/defence/Uni/agriculture/heat/fog/suburbia/Wiradjuri Country. So we'll be writing a place sonnet (even though sonnets are traditionally about love). When we put the fragments together the poem thinks for us. The meaning comes from juxtaposition, not explanation. This is called parataxis.
Write two lines that name a Wagga Street (mapping); two lines that reference the weather; two lines that address a specific person; two lines that reference a past memory in Wagga; two lines that mention The Daily Advertiser (perhaps satirically); two lines that give instructions to the reader related to a rural or regional activity. The turn – end with two lines beginning ‘Meanwhile I…’ (to replace the traditional volta).
Each line is a co-ordinate and forms a map of place that couldn't be described directly. If a line surprises you, it's the moment the poem becomes smarter than the writer.
When we read our drafts we were all surprised at some of the continuities in our discontinuous imagining. Keri suggested we publish them as ‘The Wagga Sonnets’. Lachlan Brown suggested we might seek to collaborate with local artists to publish a visual version.
Here is the first iteration … David Gilbey
Wagga Wagga Sonnets
The palpable relief of Fitzmaurice Street—
the groovier end (ever since the opium dens)
then all the way down to the old tip where I’d crack
frozen puddles with my hockey stick.
At the old Ambo Station David’s still taking names
for the open section like a working Kelpie:
I’m 17 and Les Murray is up the stairs
at Romano’s Hotel, teetering majestically!
The Daily Advertiser owns that particular font—
but the font of all knowledge now requires media literacy.
Agronomists recommend adding lime
to the dahlia beds of our dotage.
Meanwhile, I eye off the shortbread on the table
like dominos. Keri Glastonbury
chewing on Peppermint Drive
a helicopter unwraps the apiary
no rainbow for kangaroos heat-
struck, shit-hopping the saplings
the ghost of my dead wife would be astonished
at Lloyd’s creamy, crowded sprawl
I’m last chorus girl on the plaque
of the Shakespeare Club’s knot garden
Neill emails Daily Advertiser blips but
Sam and I like ‘Mountflattened’
ag. students debate better to scatter
wild oats broadly than direct drill
meanwhile I must inspect my bees for varroa
still hopeful of a honey bounty David Gilbey
Fitzhardinge shorted along terrace flats
heat melting established potholes
dry wind captures singed leaves
of stressed trees shedding
Michael is missing no action
‘Where are you?”
Newtown Park was abundant
animals and birds now caged
news grows old in the Daily Advertiser
kept for tomorrow’s fish and chip scraps
propagate plants amid the solar panels
leave some nature to survive
meanwhile, I toss shower water
on the wilted frame of the hydrangea Robert Rathbone
Trail Street looms – old D.A. building
Next, former mayor’s house, ‘Gissing-lite’
Brucedale horizon – January 12th
Storm is approaching; now hits with brute force
My first day in Wagga, a day of beginning
Workplace consuming; no time to reflect
Adrian Wintle, sharp critic of ‘Arts’
His weekly D.A. piece a humbling reflect
School teachers say how discipline’s lost
I say, ‘Bring back the cane!’, then teaching can start
I contemplate now what the future may hold
I’d love to predict but that’s being too bold Ian Stewart
Gregory Crescent has a new surface
pot holes buried under bitumen layers
heatmelt gives off tarry fumes
sun-perfumed
don’t call the ambulance
let’s have a party instead
nosebleed in a caravan
sleeping on carpeted floor
fireman states ‘it was hot and smoky’
scrapmetal clear-out by fire
John Deere sales leap skywards
oversized machinery self-drive
Meanwhile I empty crumbs from the toaster
hum four seasons in one day Claire Baker
Will there be a park in Morrow St?
Tomorrow for the SOACT show
Don’t expect to get a shady spot
’Spose Basement Theatre’s cool enough?
G’day Sam! Of course you’d be here!
Your element – final performance time
Nooks and crannies hiding fine
Entertainment for the town’s great and good
The Addy gave the last play a rotten review
No more free tix wasted on that rag!
Out in full force were Wollundry Rotarians
Narrandera poets lamented “We’ll all be rooned!”
Fearless audience could only agree – treading
The boards with local repertory – a tough gig Carolyn Dodd
The old Union Bank on the corner of Forsyth and Johnston
Italian porticos and a ruptured convex traffic parking mirror
slanting shadows and gusty winds
guard and buffet a grand edifice
I see ‘Ducky’ crossing the street past the servo
recognise his eponymous hairstyle and shuffling gait
on our first visit we patted donkeys and were surprised
to find our motel led onto a Baptist church and the Myer car park
began by consulting the Daily Advertiser everyday
wouldn’t advertise the fact now
the RFS reminds us to clear our gutters
and have a water source ready
meanwhile I contemplate how stealthily Wagga has impinged
from getting lost on campus to sitting here entrenched Jan Pittard
I dream sometimes of Ziegler ... Street? Crescent? Road?
(I can’t remember)
Oversaturated by sun
and burnt parchment dry
Maisie lives there so it’s ’78
(old then, much older in the dreams)
In her acid-green house
Which is never where it should be
Reading of her death in the local paper
And laughing. A lot.
Well, crashing a tractor in Anzac Parade
That is newsworthy (dreamworthy) yes.
Meanwhile I keep walking
Past a house only there when I sleep. Lorraine Manton
Booranga Writers’ Centre acknowledges the Wiradjuri people as the traditional custodians of the land in which we live and work and write, and pays respects to Elders past, present and future.
