My Last Balmain Poetry Reading -

Poetry in Australia has since recovered and is now the most vigorous and exciting and imaginative of the genres.

Kate Jennings' Trouble   Evolution of a Radical/Selected Writings 1970-2010 was published by Black Inc. Much could be said.

Frank Moorhouse is supposed to be bringing out Days of Wine and Rage again. I hope he keeps the original cover drawing by Neil Curtis - it says it all.

MY LAST BALMAIN POETRY READING

Took place in Paddington in the mid seventies. In the hall of a church which had surrendered to hippiedom – massage, iridology and various therapies (but not I suppose primal screaming – the neighbours, and the rector, tolerant as they were, would have had to draw the line at that).

The reading was to make up for that deficiency.

It may have been March, in any case it was very hot and all Sydney was sick of the heat.

Though it was the late afternoon and the sun was remorseless, the living embodiments of the Balmainia of that period (see Days of Wine and Rage Frank Moorhouse ed) had trekked across in their muddied utes and battered Kombis to show themselves off in the east.

It is hard to characterise them now – pre feral but heirs to all the vaunting rudeness of the Push (for which see Ann Coombs’ Sex and Anarchy). Their vocal style was braying confrontational. Their look was styled carelessness and butch highlighted with tortured silver. Many of the men could hardly be bothered to hide their utter male chauvinism; many of the women felt the same and down to the last straight woman who amused herself with the idea of lesbianism they were all homophobic. Kindness and generosity had no place in their ethos.

Despite the fact that silence could not be obtained, in desperation the Presenter declared the occasion begun. And the poets proceeded valiantly against the background natter.

It was a period when people demanded to be listened to, when the rules of committee and debate had become suspect as a patriarchal blind to ensure only male voices produced by thicker vocal chords and born on bigger lungs were listened to. People were used to interrupting and demanding their item be put on the agenda and dealt with now. Getting things on the agenda was much admired; hijacking the agenda was what others did. The patriarchs didn’t have to – they were always the agenda. In any case Balmainia was not about to shut up for a few poets. What were they on about anyhow?

The nattering was turning into the characteristic barnyard when Kate Jennings, tantalisingly late and chicly attired despite the heat in retro crushed velvet (black, of course), was announced. She was beautiful, slim and pale and heat or no heat, she was crushed velvet (silk).

Up until then Balmainia had not paused in its disputes and harangues but it did cast a sideways glance in order to dismiss each poet victim in turn. However Kate Jennings was a name – what was it she had done again?

And there she was, looking like she had her shit together, so they rotated a little towards her and took the opportunity to pour more flagon wine down their parched throats.

The Presenter explained that she had edited Mother I’m Rooted. Oh, that’s right, she’s that one. Right on.

I do not recall what poem(s) Ms Jennings read at this scarifying event but think she said something about being on Valium and leaving the country. And then she wept a little and sensibly walked out. As I recall.

She had written ‘Couples’ –

     ‘this is a poem for couples from which i cannot escape

                  this is a poem for people who are not couples but who

                  want to be couples from which i cannot escape a poem

                  …’

But did return to Australia later to show off the husband she found on Wall Street. Then she came back again to say he’d died but she was still on Wall Street. So good for her. I admired her most for taking the mike at an anti Vietnam War meeting to say the work of liberating women was more important than dealing with men’s messes like this. A comment which almost everyone there was too invested in the status quo to take seriously. Or so I recall.

Once she’d evaporated into the blinding heat there was no stopping them.

But someone tried. He announced to a particularly loud woman that this was a poetry reading; he could not hear the poet.  Though thus appealed to, she was not to be influenced. Louder than he, she announced back, ‘Get you! You’re so gross’ (a word much used at the time) and went back to her discussion and schooner of Riesling.

I knew it was time for me to go too.

I had to step over the legs of Michael Wilding slumped in despair (I took it) on the stone steps outside. We regarded one another (I took it) out of our mutual misery at the hopeless barbarity of the event and I was for a moment tempted to say, ‘Come and have a drink,’ but realised in time this would probably have been misinterpreted and greeted with contempt or worse still an indulgent polite rejection. Thank you God.

Something was over for me.

Perhaps Balmainia inadvertently had a point; much of the poetry of the time was so dreadful –

Sonnet 69

Sitting in front of the fire farting

  after my old lady’s bean stew,

recalling the good times

  we had up the commune

  like the tin of camembert

  she confiscated from David Jones

wouldgowith                                         the bottle of good red

we found                          – was it just luck? –

in the pub in good old Nambucca

  not to say Heads.

She was in the kitchen listing               the I Ching.

                      Was it luck?

Anyway the forces converged

                 she opened the tin while I popped the cork.

that people turned to A D Hope for relief.

I think the problem was, Balmainia didn’t take anything very seriously, except themselves. The residue is their vacuous wit and embarrassing pomposity.