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Ken Bolton

A selection of poems

(Pinkham)
Some Thinking
Home Town
Poem (“I do a drawing ...”)
My Father
On a Page Beginning “Dear Laurie”

                                     for Gregory O’Brien


I wonder how
             Gregory does this
                                       these three line

stanzas & whether I
             can do them —
                             to any good effect.

I make coffee, check
             various things around
                             the kitchen — find

the new clock
             I got Gabe for his
                             birthday, note the

milk is almost
             gone, bring the tea back
                             & sit at this finely red-&-

white checked table cloth
             again, pick some rice off it
                             from the meal tonight

chew it, & start — which means,
             mostly, I stop here
                             & see how I’ve done

It has my characteristic choppy
             rhythms, etcetera. Oh well.
                             It is called after

Albert Pinkham Ryder
             — Gregory’s poem —
                             “called after” an American

phrase, that I guess
             comes to mind
                             as I recall

what little I know
             of the American artist —
                             19th century? or

very early 20th?
             I visualize small
                             emblematic paintings

typically
             with a dark image
                             centered — briefly

silhouetted —
             against a dark background —
                             a sort of horse-&-rider

against a storm? (The image
             my mind remembers
                             may even be

some late sketch by Moreau
             — you know: the late,
                             atypical unfinished

heavily impasto
             fragments that
                             art historians love to suggest

the Fauves might have seen —
             miles from the
                             stillness, & detail,

of Oedipus & the Sphinx
             say — or “in most ways”
                             Anyway this is miles

from Ryder. And I am
             briefly sure
                             it is Ryder I can imagine

& the Moreau too — his
             horse & rider
                             in reds & blues

lemon yellow, the American’s
             black & deeply
                             varnished colours — browns —

against a discoloured
             white, or cream
                             & a larger dark ground.

Tho who knows?

             Ryder
                             is not really our business

a reverberation of US
             culture: local news
                             like CNN, the

American breakfast program
             we get at night. What a
                             hopeless analogy. Ryder is better.

Moreau —
             well, I like to bear in mind
                             his presence

along with Manet &
             that revolution. Tho
                             give me Manet

any day, if I had
             to choose. Tho, um, you don’t.
                             I like the portrait

— full face, almost filling
             the frame — of Moreau
                             in a bowler hat

high collar, & tie, narrow
             moustache — very
                             1900s modern

by Roualt (pupil
             & friend) that is
                             slightly ‘cubist’:

the one eye furthest from us
             — it is three-quarter on — & that
                             whole plane, of cheek

& wide wide forehead,
             swells out, flattens,
                             just slightly.

It seems an irony
             of history —
                             or perhaps the irony

was Roualt’s. It was
             mine too eventually
                             (though less originally)

when I did a copy
             of it  . . .
                             that I liked

& seem to have lost now
             Misplaced. I haven’t seen it
                             for a while

(I could do it
             again.) I take the rest
                             of the tea

& toss it on the
             pot-plant, beneath the goldfish.
The plant had dried out.

The fish wake slightly
             & begin to move —
                             at this angle

a few vague red shapes,
             a diaphanous white,
                             in a tank that looks


                             dark

Does all art aspire to the condition
of music? — While someone

is always prepared to say so I put on
a tape, a CD, instead of writing

or put it on to write to.
As far as the art gets.

A tape rolls quietly — “Light Blue”,
“Soul Eyes” — to which I’ve done

a lot of reading, a lot
of pottering about, a few drawings —

& to which I’ve ‘cleaned house’ —

& a lot of writing — or of ‘trying to write’,
which comes to the same thing. Mal Waldron

wrote both these tunes.
                                                               I first heard of him
in the poem for Billie Holiday — “The Day

Lady Died”, with the great last lines
where she whispers to him across the keyboard —

“& everyone & I stopped breathing.”
The great thing

about the line is the uncertainty: is it “everyone
& I stopped breathing”? or that Holiday whispers the song

“to Mal Waldron & everyone” — & it is then O’Hara
“stopped breathing”?

It makes for a pause, a hesitation, a number of them —
that evokes the magic & tension

of her timing. And there’s Frank, leaning there
— near the door to the toilets? The ‘john’,

which always suggests the hard American 50s —
& ensures I think of him in a white shirt & narrow tie,

suited. Already the texture of life is disappearing
— exactly how it felt, to be in those suits, in that time, at a nightclub

how anxious or not, how preoccupied & with what —
how people held themselves — is gone. Well,

it survives somehow, unverifiably, hard to quantify,
in poetry . . . we still have the music, films —

but films lie. Cassavetes suggests the era to me —
was he ‘the type’ of the hipster — cool, up tight, hip, witty?

suited, a drinker, free, & maybe more exploratory —
within limits more circumscribed than now?

Or do we always see ourselves as more free —
& get it wrong? Did he

& O’Hara meet ever?
Different worlds.

The thing I was going to say about nightclubs
was that maybe how people feel & act in them

never changes. (I heard some magical things
at Lark & Tina’s, for example. I’ve been as tense

as anyone, at the Cargo Club — & wore suits there.)
But night clubs themselves might’ve changed — with the music:

amplified is different? the fashion for recorded
dance music, or for dee-jays, might have altered them.

On tape one of the moments I like best is the voice —
a little shakey, a little spaced — Jim Carroll’s by repute,

asking for tuinols, in the space between songs, at a great
Patti Smith gig. Or Velvet Underground —

they’re both on that tape. There’s some great
& wonderfully casual, relaxed things said, over the music

at a late 50’s date that features Miles Davis
guesting with local hero Jimmy Forrest: a type of music, & experience,

continuous with the live recordings of Charlie Parker —
the same carefree ambience & same reason to pay attention

whereas Patti’s music gets to you pretty much
whether you listen or not. You don’t have to choose of course.

“Jesus died for somebody’s sins but not mine”
is always great to hear said. This track,

the badly named “Soul Eyes” (how can you not roll it
into one word?), is not live but so sad & so unhurried

it makes time, development, almost its subject. John
Coltrane. Well within his limits — as

somehow imagined — & great the way conservative paintings
by great artists often are — a Gauguin still-life

that looks as though it wants to be Manet, or Fantin-Latour.

Driving into work while
Cath reads about driving around London
& wondering when will I next write a poem
or whether to just work on Gwendolyn
a poem of John’s & mine   & maybe I should
it is half mine, I drop Cath off, do a
U-turn & scoot down to the EAF, park, go inside
check the mail empty my bag a little
lock up again & set off for the coffee shop
where I’ll read or write a poem or a
review — or work on Gwendolyn, I suppose, is
a possibility . . . I feel sophisticated to be
wearing my long black coat — which, however,
does not really make me look
like my idea of a New Yorker: it’s a little
beaten  & more groovy than suave
& doesn’t reflect wealth, & the thought of
my poverty — when I ask for coffee — makes
me amused & reflective. “The heater’s on,”
I say to the waitress. And she says “Yes.
You like?” “It’s Great!” I say. It is.
I ask could I have some banana cake please
with such diffidence she is surprised and
I realize the thoughts about my poverty
& entitlements have affected my emotions a little.
She says I can have some & goes off to get it.

Which is where the poem could end. It could all
be about the small things in life — how I
do get coffee etc.
                             Cath thought Laurie’s
latest poem could be broken up into lots of
smaller ones, or broken with numbers, asterisks —
so you’d know when to stop re-read & have a think  (etcetera).
Not that she wanted little poems, of shape & mild
flick-of-the-wrist closure.
                                                          This waitress has served me coffee
for over ten years now. She used to work at the Flash Café
— actually called Flash Gelateria — but known to most as just
‘The Flash’ — but they changed hands finally
& she came down here where this new place opened. Whose name
I don’t even know — where I’ve been coming nearly a year
now. What is it called? Baci — I look out the window
find the sign. The Baci is big & airy — you can stay all day
I imagine. The view is very Richard Estes — in a busy kind of way —
which I think recommends it. Though to whom does it
recommend it? No one I know, to speak to, daily
knows Richard Estes’ paintings. Except Paul, & Richard
at a guess — Richard would & Paul would like the aesthetic
though not, probably, the art — my only Ruscha friend,
Paul — “if I may so term his aesthetic”. (Ha Ha.)
Though who am I on daily speaking terms with? Cath
— & Laurie & Pam & John Forbes & John Jenkins —
in my mind. Realler I guess than talking to Frank O’Hara
or Tony Towle — whose speaking voice I have no idea of —
probably silent &, alternatively, garrulous. I imagine him
mostly staring plumply out a picture window — floor to ceiling
— is that ‘picture’? — hands in pockets, shirt untucked slightly
saying something rhapsodic & complaining. It’s dark outside
& raining. Hullo, Tony. There, I did it. Now I realize
I am beginning to talk like him. Which amuses me — though
talking like him is not my purpose. What is my purpose in life?
the joke answer & the serious, & why am I not up to either
or both? Because that’s life. One is to fail exemplarily.
“We are gathered here today ladies & gentlements ...” — SPLASH —
Somebody has fallen off the pier. The Fellini figure pauses briefly
& they carry on — it was Malcolm Lowry, the outsider. He
fell off. Not me — I’m in the Richard Estes painting
in the middle of Adelaide, that only I know about,
going, tonight, to the Post-West opening, that everybody
knows about. Their shows are so frequent & the gallery
so small I think the artists have them just to drink
& natter every fortnight. Though tonight the art
promises to be good, or not hurtful, maybe in fact allright.

                                                   *

When I get there Richard is sitting against the wall with Suzie.
Paul is hanging about the door, drink in hand. He does
know Richard Estes I am relieved to find out
& I talk to all the artists — Aldo & Shaun, & Louise
shows up & later Michael & Mary. Shaun’s bought my book.
We discuss Raymond Roussel, Micky Allan’s photographs,
Harry Mathews, Perec, Svevo, Jr Walker & Wilson Pickett,
employment

                                                    *

What matters? What is important
to say?
                                    From reading all morning
I can manage
                                     a series of assertions
— or I feel that way —
                                                                I can remember
none, right now
                                    except: “Daniel Buren’s art —
(followed by some blunt denial of his importance)”
                                                                  But I always knew that.

Walking into town
                                                   to deliver an article to the
Advertiser
                                         feeling deliciously alone
                                                                                                           — & modern,
the way John Tranter feels
                                                                     when he cleans the pool,
but actually for the tranter-je/ Benjamin reason
                                                                                                              : Paris,
the streets, arcades, the
                                                        winter light & clouds, the
suggestion of rain
                                           another article done, anonymous,
but it will appear above my name
                                                                                  but I feel anonymous —
I see Tubby Justice across the street, waiting.
                                                                                             I wave.
She waves, & disappears
                                                   hurries off, ahead. I smile
& she reappears & we say hullo. My friends
are like ghosts in Adelaide.
                                                        What is real here? The only
intelligent people I know who read The Advertiser
buy it for the TV guide & movies
                                                                     & I think movies
are crap.
                  That’s about it
                                                                  for my relation to an
audience.
                                   Still, it helped me feel modern
that day
                          crossing the road. I could just
as easily
                    have written a poem —
                                                                             & I’d’ve felt okay
in that light, in that atmosphere, in that coat,
in that cold, amongst the early morning crowd, in
the Central Business District
                                  though strangely, I’d’ve felt less a
public person — more crestfallen
                                                                             as Tubby disappeared,
scarcely assuaged when she reappeared
                                                                                           can “assuaged”
float about free like that?
                                                           can only hurt be
assuaged?  or something analogous?
                                                                                                              Adelaide
looked so Kertész at that moment
                                                                                     Life could make you
weep
                   It would given time, but we move so quickly —
                                                                                                                                   it
will, in time, maybe. Time now
                                                                             to look for John Forbes
to read
                                   to calm down : I can’t find my Strange
Days Ahead  (Michael Brownstein) a much liked book
to check from the cover how to spell Kertész
                                                                                                           & get it right
I am mad — but it must be somewhere
                                                                             I sometimes imagine
an open letter to Peter Schjeldahl
                                                                                    but there is so much I admire
that he doesn’t like
                                                     (e.g., Brownstein)
                                                                                                   though I admire him —
would that be a basis on which to write?
                                                                                                     So much of what
I write is an open letter to someone : Laurie, Pam
                                                                                                                      or is meant
to be read aloud by my collected peers a small society
that doesn’t exist, unfortunately, around a table
                                                                                                                             like
the Royal Society
                                                   meeting somewhere
                                                                                                               — instead, like Tubby,
they go their own way
                                                            each isolated, with their own projects,
own worries, own apostrophized thoughts / complaints to / versions
of things
                                                      as do I.
                                                                                     It is not Kertész anyway
on Brownstein’s book. It’s Sander. I did mean Kertész. On the streets
of Adelaide does anyone resemble the portraits of Sander? Some. But
who stands still that long?   Not me.
                                                                                                                       Here
are the newer John Forbes poems, in the later pages
                                                                                                                      looking
for a good first line :
                                                   here’s one with Spencer Tracy —
though I see it says  “Spent tracer
                                                                                       flecks Baghdad’s sky”
— I’m going blind —
                                                   & there’s the one for me “Frank O’Hara
never went skating
                                                                         but he liked to dance.”
                                                                                                                               If O’Hara
taught us timing like the poem says,
                                                                                    I wish I’d paid attention.
Did I learn anything from him?
                                                                          it has worn off with this moving around.

                      I do
a drawing, from
a photograph

of Jimmy Rushing
arriving in New York
— or Chicago :

maybe that is
the ‘El’, going
overhead.

He looks great
in the photo
and okay in the drawing

so I spray the drawing
with fixative,
& think about

going into
town —
for a drink

this thing
completed
making me

suddenly feel good,

as good as Jimmy
looks to feel
in the photograph.

I put my watch on
& take it off
(thongs too)

& sit again at
the desk, where a
clipping George sent says:

Otis Rush
backed by * the Hounds
* live * at the Village Gate *

beside a small picture
of Otis looking
pretty heavy,

& pretty classy,
& dude-ish too.  A
high-contrast

‘tone dropout’
it stands
against a small dish

with paperclips
& buttons in it
& a tiny artificial

flower —
cream-yellow petals —
from Hazel’s dress.

There, too,
beside a patch of
bright red on something

is a large badge
that belonged to my paternal
grandfather

it’s cream,
with a little shot
of him

on it —
his ID,
for his job

minding American ships
during WW II

a night-watchman
he stares back balefully,
looks like me,

though a tougher guy.
He hated yanks.

Yanks were who
he was tough to.
Though I

heard a story
about diving
into the water

to save a
Swede he’d
punched out.

Tucker Bolton.
I guess he’d lost
some weight
by the time this photo

was taken —
the only one
I have of him.

He died soon after
— in the war —
a heart attack

getting up one night
to go & mind
the wharves

I never met him.

He looks like me
on my last
book of poems.

Between him &
me stands my father.
I feel my features

merge back through his,
my father’s,
to those of the man

on this badge —
a mug shot,
head & shoulders — he stands

in front of a grid
of heights,
and is my height,

I can see, a shade
under the line that indicates
5 feet 9.

His name is a line under him
Thomas B Bolton
& under this

April 14, 1943, B.

around the photo
lots of USA initials, the
words Civilian Personnel,

& his number
B 2431.

I am Ken Bolton
& live in Adelaide

a poet, heir
to the toughest man
in Double Bay & Edgecliff, back then,

the father of my father.
Both of us violent.

In a way
that never gets expressed —
even through violence.


I look at the
tiny photograph.

1989.
From his eyes to mine
passes something I recognize.

I walk out on the pier
& in the dark the boats are each
a grey-white shape
facing into the wind. Slapping noises
come from them,
or more often a thud.
Unattributable to any
one boat, the sound lulls —
soon forgotten. There are
lights on the shore —
& from the few fluoros
on the pier itself
the water appears to move past
in mysterious diaphanous greeny
greys — (moody) — black-&-white
movieish. Further over the sea
is John Jenkins — a postcard tells me —
in India. How? Why? I sometimes
think of him wearing white,
tho I think it was 15 years ago
that John regularly
dressed that way. Cath is beside
me, beneath the red eiderdown. Pam
is in Sydney, Laurie in New York. The room
in the little holiday shack is brown. In Beachport.
Gaby & Yuri are playing cards, Anna
sleeps in the room in between. My dad rages,
lonely & demented — in Sydney
where I grew up & left him
& return, in a few days.

“Dear Laurie,”

late at night
in a bright light
I am beside a sleeping other

the night seeming endless, pleasantly

only their breathing for sound

A slight ringing
in my ears
is the silence,

the bed clothes
rustle
once or twice

Consciousness
seems
the only pleasure,

the gift of
being here —

Will I stay up all
night?

& in my notebook

I find this poem,
dedicated to you —

actually I could ‘go’
as Dad would say
a little Dukes Of Hazzard —
                 right now,
say 15 minutes worth
followed by a totally formulaic
70s detective show,
undistinguished, almost
for preference — but instead I read
The Religious Life Of Samuel Johnson.

I could go
down the back,
pinch one of
Tom’s cigarettes,
& play James Brown
— one of the
Live at the Apollo sets

How to explain
to Samuel Johnson
the thrill & special intensity
of James Brown?
demonstrate
the dance steps — some of
them — the twirls & spins
the one-leg shuffle across the stage,
          the time
Crab tried it in the
Westbury Street kitchen,
& nearly crashed thru the wall
broke a louvre in the window —
that we had to hide from Mary?
Johnson could explain to me
the efficacy of prayer. This guy,
who wrote on Johnson, could explain nothing.
Still.   Hullo Laurie

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