Simon West The Weekend Australian: April 8, 2017

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Meteorites (Whitmore Press, 48pp, $19.95) is the first collection from Carmen Leigh Keates, who won the Whitmore Press Manuscript Prize, which led to this publication. From the opening of the first poem we are again roaming, either in search of something or to escape from something hard at home, ‘‘The lightning is concerned with a secret / affair far off in the unlit Baltic. / Only the rain comes home’’.

A biographical note describes how Carmen Leigh Keates goes either very far north (Scandinavia) or very far south (Tasmania) when researching new work, but there are other types of travel here, too. Most prominently there are voyages via the cinema of Andrei Tarkovsky and Ingmar Bergman to the worlds of dream and screen. Often the experiences of the geographical traveller and the cinematic one merge to create a dreamscape that is mysterious and suggestive, for as Leigh Keates says, ‘‘There are many rooms, frames. We make them / move by passing through and remembering our own ­sequences’’.

These are poems that take ekphrasis (poetry that responds to a visual artwork) to the realm of cinema, combining elements of narrative and character with the eerie atmosphere of Tarkovsky’s films, such as Andrei Rublev. As Andrei carries out ‘‘this faith painting’’, the poem describes how ‘‘he feels impelled to the crossroads / of yellow flowers buzzing / so full of bees that if this scene were shaken / upside down it would not be pollen / that trickles out but legs and wings’’.

Such surreal journeys are anchored by other poems that are trips into family recollection. Here a more earthed and nostalgic note dominates, as for example in the long poem Burning Train: ‘‘Mum and Dad would sip / from glasses of port / that looked like the blood / sap from those trees / down near the lines beyond / the field, where with sticks / we’d draw pictures in the river sand / while the match played out’’. Drawing pictures in the river sand, and recomposing the sequence of frames we view and pass through are both good images for the intelligent and suggestive poems of Meteorites.


Martin Duwell Australian Poetry Review: December 2016


Carmen Leigh Keates: Meteorites

Geelong: Whitmore Press, 2016, 49pp.

I have to begin this review with a declaration of interest. Most of the poems in this book I have seen in earlier incarnations when I myself was in an earlier incarnation as an academic and Carmen Keates was a doctoral student for whom I shared responsibilities with Bronwyn Lea. I don’t think I have had an intimate, editorial relationship like that with any of the other poems which have turned up during the ten years of this site’s existence. I realise that I might be accused of having a sort of foster-parent’s fond regard for these poems but, as someone said, there are two kinds of hometown referees: those who shamelessly favour the home side and those who treat its players harshly out of fear that they might seem to be playing favourites. I like to think that I belong to the second group. At any rate, many of these poems are pared down and so much improved from the early versions that I saw as to be almost unrecognizable.

Having said that, I also want to say that this is a really striking first book announcing an important talent with the ability to engage with issues and perspectives far from the habitual ambits of most readers. It’s something we always look for in poetry: a sign of a unique voice which we hope is good enough to engage us and take us with it on a journey we might otherwise never have made. And the journey of the poems of Meteorites is a complex one touching base with the films of Tarkovsky, Bergman and Kurosawa, dreams, family history and travels in Scandinavia. And the mode of journeying is distinctive: these poems do not operate by smooth, lyrical graces but rather by sudden juxtapositions and detours.

Two examples will demonstrate this nicely. The book’s third poem, “Gålrum Gravfält”, is based on the author’s surprise discovery of one of the great Bronze Age sites on the Swedish Baltic island of Gotland. We know from other poems that Keates is riding a bicycle on a longish journey from Ljugarn to Nãrsholmen in order to visit the site where Tarkovsky’s last film, The Sacrifice, was shot in 1986. (To the north of Gotland is Bergman’s island, Fårö, where, three years after Keates’s bicycle ride, the annual Bergman Week festival would celebrate the film’s thirtieth anniversary):

. . . . .

Today I bike for six hours

in an upright sickbed inside a fever-dream

where a Baltic Sea island creates a road to move me

in an unwitnessed procession past actual milestones.


I’m on my way to somewhere else but pull in

where I see a sign saying something here is historical . . .

In other words we meet the “seven boat-shaped graves” – one of which has a “motherly juniper over it” – as a distraction on what is really a pilgrimage, usually the most end-focussed of journeys. And the pilgrimage itself is undertaken in a mildly bathetic way, riding a humble bicycle while “incredibly ill” from a long flight. All of this makes the sudden appearance of the graves of the site not so much a distraction, a turning at right angles to one’s road to explore another world, but rather a kind of ambush staged by another reality. And, as I’ve said, this is mirrored in the structure of the poem itself since what might have been a solemn meditation on the unreachable minds of the Bronze Age builders of these stone boats is interrupted by an account of a story told in Helsinki by an art historian about his deaf grandfather.

In the book’s title poem, a long meditation on the great scenes towards the end of Tarkovsky’s Stalker where the three protagonists are in The Zone, there is a similarly shocking irruption derived from an anthology of Eskimo poems edited by Tom Lowenstein:

The Eskimo Uvavnuk

has a poem in which she tells

how she was hit by a meteorite

and as a result was made a shaman.


Uvavnuk waves her arms towards

the bad fortune and spirits, crying,

Away with it! Away with it!

We should all try this in our homes . . .

I don’t want to be seen as hammering a simple point but this is a poetry whose structure and methods of development and movement follow one of its central themes: the irruption of other worlds, other ways of perceiving, other “levels” of reality into a life. The journeys of this book are never likely to be merely the movement from one country to another or one culture to another.

As we might expect, gateways (“portals” in contemporary argot) are going to bear a lot of examination. In “On the Border Between the Parishes of Garda and Lau” (a poem, incidentally, which alternates between scenes set in an art gallery in Brisbane and scenes on Gotland at a site near Gålrum) we follow a pathway which is both into a forest and back in time into the Bronze Age. Although gateways can be crossable in both directions, in this one “Hoof prints go in- / to the forest, yet none come back out” and the forest has an absorptive quality, sucking even sound out of reality. This is a feature of the most potent “portal” in the book, the well that Writer sits on the lip of at the end of Stalker in “Meteorites”. As the poem describes it, the scene begins with Writer being resurrected, rising from “a death pose”, though the interest is really in the way he has been “elsewhere”:

. . .

This place has killed him first

then released him and for a moment

he has been elsewhere –


like the owl that disappears

in that jump-cut

on those low, indoor horizons

over artificial dunes

of soft and dangerous dust . . .

Just as The Zone in Stalker is capable of making life (and owls) disappear, so it is also capable of rendering a well bottomless by making a stone thrown into it go “elsewhere” at a stage of its descent. The well is thus “a mouth that does not speak / but only swallows, / like outer space” – a more intense version of the forest that exists in the liminal space between the two Gotland parishes.

Although “Meteorites” finishes by pointing out that we always say that Earth was struck by meteorites, never the other way around, there are cases here of two-way portals. In the book’s first poem, “At the Bergman Museum”, the author rides away from a storm building up over the Baltic:

The lightning is concerned with a secret

affair far off in the unlit Baltic.

Only the rain comes home.


Tracking down the road, my bicycle, my eye,

past the Viking huts with their weird antennae,

I am riding a lightning conductor away

from a museum about a recluse . . .

The poem wants to explore the allegorical possibilities of a fraught situation: perhaps the pursuing cloud is Bergman himself, haunting his admirers like an avenging angel. But the poem finishes by considering the possibility of a two-way interaction between inspiration and masterwork:

For if Ingmar’s films broke


into his dreams and, as he said, sat at the base

of his soul, maturing comfortably like mighty cheeses,

perhaps now he haunts the work right back . . .

The final image of the final poem of the book, a poem about Tarkovsky’s Nostalghia, is, perhaps fittingly, about a gateway, in this case the strange gateway of memory whereby we can move into the past (when we remember) but the past can, often in dreams, move into our present. “Memory”, the poem says “is a demon that walks / like a soldier from a tunnel”. I think this image probably derives from the dream in Kurosawa’s Dreams in which a soldier is confronted by all his comrades killed in the war emerging from a sinister tunnel. Interestingly, the first one to emerge from the tunnel is a suicide dog, complete with explosives, a reminder of the dog in Nostalghia who in the previous poem, “Domenico’s Dog”, “stalks / the perimeter of Gorchakov’s sleep / as though there were a fence there he / finds a hole in”.

The dominant issue of the poems I have looked at so far is the way the various levels of reality and “foreign-ness” that we live within and which live within us can be activated and explored and, when we have no control over them, accommodated. The poetic problem – which I think Keates handles with great success – is how to keep such poems unified and coherent. But the poems of Meteorites have other interests too. “Cloud on Mount Wellington”, a poem about a much homelier totemic site than those of far-off Gotland, has a decided interest in the interrelationship between perspective and creativity. It juxtaposes a tourist’s trip up the mountain (with the bus driver/guide’s comments inserted in a dry demotic) with a dream about the elements of a novel seen from above; that is, seen from the physical position of a mountain top:

. . . . .

Last year I dreamed I saw the plan

for some wunderkind’s novel laid out

on the floor of a warehouse. Chalk outlines

of different continents and Scandinavian coasts

were drawn on the bitumen. Regions demarcated.

Artefacts grouped on blue tarps.

Everything was meant to be


viewed from above. . .

The result (as I read it) is a description of what happens when an artwork “works”, when the bell, the forging of which occupies a very long stretch of Tarkovsky’s Andrei Rublev, actually rings:

This writer was revealing

something he knew to be right

but its elements had to first be

arranged properly, tended,

for it to manifest at all.


What he was preparing to reveal

would as much be disclosed to himself

as it would be shown to others . . .

There are a lot of complex things happening in the poem (the obsession with cloud and condensation, for example, which appears in many of the poems relating to the Tarkovsky films) and it would be oversimplifying to see this as a “poem-poem”, one engaging with its own method and the principles that lie behind the other poems of the book, but that is undoubtedly part of what it is doing.

Although reality and dream interact in “Cloud on Mt Wellington” it’s tempting to group it, in this book, as one of a series of domestic poems, a series which would include “One Broken Knife”, “Burning Train”, “I Bought My Father an Axe”, “I Remember Two Lines Upon Waking” and “Leaking Through”. Though the basic situations are far from those of Andrei Rublev or Nostalghia, the way the poems work and what they want to explore are not dissimilar. In “One Broken Knife” and “I Bought My Father an Axe” we are in the world of totemic objects, no less dangerous for having been (or being in the process of becoming) domesticated. And the poems, though domesticated and having none of the glamour of Gorchakov’s Italy or Rublev’s Russia, have their own, rather wonderful weirdness. In the second of them, the poet, having got her gift home, puts it on the kitchen table:

. . . . .

I put a bow on it. My axe. I tried to introduce myself more,

just until I handed it on. I had this feeling it wouldn’t come when called,

somehow, not just yet. No trust. I wondered, Is any axe new? . . .

It’s strange, distinctive and as far from cliché as it is possible to be.

“Burning Train” and “I Remember Two Lines Upon Waking” are dream poems, the former an especially powerful vision of passengers inside a passing train who barely register that it is on fire. But this dream is interspersed with memories from childhood and, especially, with the misunderstandings of childhood that create yet another reality:

. . . . .

As a child I remember Dad calling

the electricity company to report

that on the pole outside our house

the transformer was humming.


To me at four, these words meant war

was coming, and I packed

my baby doll’s clothes in a suitcase

and waited in that living room

to hear the tanks come down the road,

cracking our bitumen . . .

And “Leaking Through” recounts hearing (perhaps at the edge of sleep) a woman’s shout and deciding that it belongs to another world which is “leaking through” – not all interactions between worlds need to involve wide open portals that can be crossed in either direction.

Of course, separating the poems of this book into those about Gotland, those about family and those about film obscures the fact that their interests and methods are remarkably similar. There are two newer poems though, “The Bandit Without Mifune” and “Smoke Talk” (the former alluding to Kurosawa’s Rashomon and the latter to Bergman’s Persona) that seem more like poetic meditations in that they don’t have the startling juxtapositions and alterations to a different mode of reality that the other, earlier poems have. Whether this heralds a new method is something that only a second book will reveal, but for the moment it’s enough that we should content ourselves with the remarkable poems of this remarkable book.

Alison Clifton Stylus Online Literary Review: March 2017.

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By Carmen Leigh Keates

Whitmore Press, 2016.
Reviewed by Alison Clifton.

Carmen Leigh Keates’s Meteorites plays a polyphonic tune comprised of the ethereal elements of smoke, water, and dreams. Yet this otherworldly melody is grounded by a solid rhythm of rock, from the meteorite of its title to the rauks of the Fårö coastline and the boat-shaped graves and burial cairns of Gotland.

In “Smoke Talk” (after Bergman’s film Persona), two women gradually merge into one another as cigarette smoke blooms from one woman’s mouth while speech emerges in a delayed reply from the other woman’s mouth: “In their night conversations / cigarette smoke drifts above the subtitles as / another line of language.” This language of smoke is not always clear or audible, as when the poet observes “those who take mute cigarettes / in the glass smoking room” at an airport departure gate in the rich, rewarding poem “The Dogs of God.” The poet is alive to the tiny details of the scene: “I see no smoke / and there is no door,” she says, as “behind the glass, all smoke / makes off through the canopy / before it even exists.” The smoke evaporates along with its meaning. Like smoke, language is elusive and liable to drift away into air: “Yes is a vapour if it remains unspoken.”

Smoke, for Keates, is complexly metaphoric. It is a kind of living miasma or spirit that emerges from the mouths of witches who dance around and leap over riverside campfires in “Tall Pagan.” Smoke is the essence that becomes “a God that floats like pollen and must be gathered / to the heart through ritual movements.” Then, in “Nostalghia,” the character Gorchakov is “in danger. / He can be both / inhaled and blown away.” In this way, smoke is as transient as mortality: symbolic of the frail, fleeting life-spirit that flows through our lungs until we take our last breath.

Water, too, seeps through the cracks of the craggy surface of these meteoric poems. It is another symbol of life and vitality and the cyclical nature of being. The “ice-plants” and “ice-rain” of “Cloud on Mount Wellington” flow once more into “a snow-melt waterfall” from which the poet fills her water bottle: a kind of elixir of life or a liquid muse and, “like breath made visible by the cold,” art emerges from the mouth of a dream figure of a writer who reveals “something he knew to be right” even before it was fully formed.

Dreams are vivid and sometimes disturbing in these poems, boding war and destruction as a train runs along a track with its carriages all on fire just as often as they portend creation and artistry. But, in “Burning Train,” the death-seeking inertia of “sleep paralysis” gives way to the certainty that “We are always here, walking” even as the tension of the nightmare is not quite resolved.

In the masterful final poem of the collection, “Nostalghia,” the question as to where accents come from at first is answered with “It must be something in the rocks” and, suddenly and rightly, dream merges with water, smoke, and rock to coalesce into a crescendo of poetic brilliance. “All the water in this film / is actually voice / that has decomposed” and it seeps through the rocks and the roof of the character Domenico’s house “even when it is not raining,” eventually solidifying: “Gorchakov’s old memory / is animated and it transitions through states.” The liquid that is “distilled from his country / is in his blood” and, at the moment of expiration, when he succumbs to a heart attack, “it is the gas of his country / that drifts from his mouth.” Life is in the land.

Indeed, all existence springs from the rocks. It seeps out in liquid form to be ingested by the writer-artist-poet and it is exhaled into language and song while we live and breathe until we take our final breath and return to the soil: the disintegrated rock from which we arose.

Keates’s remarkable, highly anticipated collection is an absolute joy to read. Although this is only a small collection of eighteen short lyrics, it is as spare and sparse as the misty moors and rugged, treeless coastlines inhabited by the characters of Bergman’s and Tarkovsky’s films, with no word wasted. If you only read one book of poetry this year, Meteorites should be it.