The Persistence of History

By Graeme Hetherington

'The majority of poems in The Persistence of History describe Graeme Hetherington's engagement with David Keeling's paintings. As a form of ekphrasis, Hetherington's responses to Keeling's art are rarely detailed descriptions of the paintings themselves, but rather personal responses to the works evoking memories of his own life's circu

• Language: English
• Publisher: Debbie Lee
• Release date: Oct 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781761096358

Book preview

PREFACE

Many thanks are due to David Keeling since many of the poems in this collection were written in response to his paintings as reproduced in David Hansen’s book David Keeling published by Quintus Publishing in 2007.

It should also be noted that these poems represent, quite simply, my personal response to some of his work, as one Tasmanian to another, so to speak, and are not to be seen in any way as a critical appreciation of his art.

Thanks are also due to Ralph Spaulding for his valuable suggestions, to Elizabeth Love for her typing and to Ginninderra Press for previous publication of some of the poems.

1

The Poem I Was Born to Write

British Empire legacy

1

Van Diemen’s Land convict kin thrown

Out of Paradise, their home in

England, as was Lucifer by

God from heaven, I wonder if,

Spiritually bruised, I view

My left thumbnail splitting apart

As vestige of a cloven hoof

To equate with my inner state,

Choose pyjamas of mixed hues that

Evoke beaten flesh to go with

My Hell’s Gates prison origins,

And if a purely bright red pair

Induces dreams of bursting in

To flames from which I wake intact

Because I am inured to them?

2

Disdaining nose, cruel thin mouth in

Portraits suggest the governor of

Van Diemen’s Land, George Arthur, whom

I strip of other titles, was

An autocrat contemptuous of

The sweepings from England he ruled

With hangings floggings ball and chain,

Thrilling to pain knifing his arse

As with puritanical zeal

He gloried in his duty done,

Whose buttocks as he held himself

Stiffly aloof were tightly clenched,

As though to defecate demeaned,

Was something only lowly folk

Like my convict kin dumped there did,

Whom, distastefully, as the turds

Of curs toed aside, he’d dismiss,

His boot’s imprint much deeper on

The island’s foully conceived soul.

Thus on the throne I fantasise,

Fear the door being broken down

By secret police come to drag

Me off to be grilled then shot for

Thoughts harmful to a state evolved

From his harsh ways and able to

Sniff out descendants of old lags.

And always mixed in with these thoughts,

My business half-done, trousers down

Around my ankles as I strain,

There’s toilet training, gloomy strict

Indoctrinated mother who

With hers religion has deranged,

Hiss either side, right in my ears,

Smacking pinching as I strive to

Expel the enemy within,

The Devil