The Divided Self: A Tasmanian Odyssey

By Graeme Hetherington

'Graeme Hetherington's ninth collection of poems portrays the poet's troubled journey to escape an 'afflicted self' shadowed with loneliness and paranoia. During the journey, the poet feels 'twisted and deformed' as he confronts a personal sense of psychological dislocation - a divided personality and confused sexual identity. Such feelings are

• Language: English
• Publisher: Debbie Lee
• Release date: Aug 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781761093739

Book preview

1

My Friends the Mountains

Rosebery, West Coast, Tasmania

---

My father thought I was a ‘nance’

For singing in a church choir dressed

In cassock, surplice, lizard frill,

My mother chased me with his belt

---

And screamed ‘you little bugger’ as

We went. My brother was my foe,

And when my sister’s coming turned

My love, forbidden, into hate,

---

Mount Black, so close our lawn was dark

And wet all year, confirmed my need

To hug shadows, see on nearby

Sombrely grey, deceptively,

---

Sometimes-sunlit, Mount Murchison,

A face resembling mine, to which

I felt welcomed to give my lone,

Unforgiving, cold-hardened heart.

Mount Black

What’s in a name?

---

Folk guessed it must have been called ‘Black’

After someone with that name, since

In truth the mountain was as green

---

With trees as phlegm the miners spat.

As kids we baked spuds in the fires

We lit up there and then, stomachs full,

---

Stamped on till they looked out, but not,

Painstakingly enough to risk

A hiding for if boots were scorched.

---

Though to this day I wonder if

The flames that followed swiftly on

Our last feast, leaving darkness as

---

Their legacy upon the slopes,

Were caused alone by this or our

Subconscious need as well to sort

---

Confusion out, the word as taught

To us at Sunday school made flesh,

As Holy Writ clearly ordained.

Taking It Out On the Wood

---

On Sunday afternoons behind

Rosebery’s Community Hall, blocks

Of wood like torsos were set up

---

For blokes to get life off their chests

By savagely chopping through them.

Hungover, down at mouth from not

---

Winning even a brass razoo

From the bookie on Saturday,

My father took part in this sport

---

After the Roast where he’d inveigh

Against injustices at work,

Mother serving, withdrawn, cold,

---

As in bed, he’d confided to

Me, arm around him as he threw

Up, crying-drunk in the woodshed,

---

While gran, mad from religion, said

We all deserved to choke to death

Because it was the lamb of God,

---

Nevertheless eating her fill,

And I’d be asked if ‘ciss’ was still

The name kids called me by at school.

---

Taught how to sharpen the axe with

A hand-sized spit-wet grindstone, blade

Facing away from me, I had,

---

As part of being made a man

To go with him and shout ‘come on!’,

Watch white chips fly instead of blood.

A West Coast of Tasmania Atmosphere

---

Hot summer Saturday in Zeehan

In nineteen forty-eight as folk

Incorporated the week’s news

---

Of yet another folded mine,

A wicked wind niggling the town,

In Main Street emptying the pot-

---

Holes only recently filled in,

Knocking off-centre, edging up

Blokes out of work nursing their heads,

---

Kids listless, whining, wanting more

Parental attention than was

Theirs naturally to bestow,

---

The women bored to snapping point,

Dads trying to give everyone,

Including their frayed selves a break,

---

Mine placing bets, having a quick

Furtive few over the road as

I clung too fiercely to his knee

---

And intermittently tugged at

His trousers to hurry him up,

Getting a smack under the ear.

The Two Bowlers

---

My father was a tricky left

Arm round the wicket, leg and off-

Break spinner for his local team.

The googly was his wrong’un, used

---

In time of need and seldom failed,

Well-flighted, floating, dipping to

Deceive, end threatening partnerships.

While I was right arm over, fast

---

Enough to open the attack,

But had no cunning hidden swing

To left or right to dismiss bats-

Men caught behind, and had to straight

---

Up and down with sheer pace clean bowl,

Or, much less satisfying, win

An lbw appeal.

No wonder