THE BLACK SWAN

On Sunday morning Liz McQuilkin collected me and we drove up the Derwent River to Bridgewater to see the black swans. Liz is working on a poem about the black swan, part of her ekphrastic responsibilities for the reading at the Salamanca Gallery in December, and wanted to see actual birds as well as the painted one(s).

It was a gorgeous morning, sunny, and we had no trouble finding the swans. Mostly they were floating serenely towards the middle of the river, which is very wide, but we were able to find a few near shore where grass or reeds grew out into the water. In fact, we spied two elegant swan heads in the reeds not far from where we stood, presumably sitting on nests.

We watched a family of 6 fluffy grey cygnets and two parents feeding and drifting for quite a while. The adults are smaller than swans in Canada, and perhaps a little more delicate. They have a lovely curve to their necks and the feathers towards their tail seem to stick up like a series of ruffles. Black swans moult following breeding—and can’t fly for about a month—so I thought the ruffle effect might be because of the moulting. But the drawing in Simpson and Day shows the ruffle, so I guess it’s simply how their plumage sits. The backs of both the adults appeared to be more or less bare.

The young ones were fun to watch and very sweet. As the parents bent those elegant necks into the water and fed, the cygnets clustered about them, dipping their bills, perhaps scooping up food, paddling back and forth around the adults. Then they began to tip themselves up, heads under water and little blunt tails to the sky, like dabbling ducks, as they discovered things to eat.

We then drove a road that follows the river, stopping by a railway station (no trains running at the moment, Liz thought, and no passenger traffic here in any case) and were able to see a larger group of swans further from the bank, some in pairs, feeding, some just a gaggle, to adopt terminology from a cousin. While we were there a very large bird flew over and I was able to get it in my binoculars—a white-bellied sea eagle, not in full adult plumage yet.

An additional pleasure of the morning was the near-stillness of the river. Clouds and patches of blue sky were reflected in it, and occasionally the swans themselves, the double curve of their necks quite beautiful and a little surreal.

Black swans are native to Australia, but not found anywhere in Europe. In fact, they were long a metaphor there for something that didn’t exist. In current online economic conversations there are references to black swans in connection with the events of the last year. The term was defined in the Huffington Post (without citation) as “high-impact, hard-to-predict, and rare events beyond the realm of normal expectations.” So the metaphor hasn’t entirely collapsed, in spite of its inaccuracy.

I first encountered black swans about 30 years ago now, at the Kortwright Waterfowl Centre near Toronto. We were driving home after an early morning foray to the Mennonite Central Committee’s fair and quilt show in New Hamburg and stopped in to see the birds and found black swans.

OBSERVATORY OPEN NIGHT

I’m so far behind with this blog I may never get caught up! Time flies when you’re having fun. And, when you’re writing. I’ve been working on a short essay, hoping to get it into shape to submit to the CBC contest, since they’ll take online entries. That’s used up my writing focus for the past several days.

But I don’t want to let the blog dribble into nothing. So I’ll just plunge in and write about last Saturday’s open night at the Canopis Observatory here in Hobart. It was a Galileo night. This year marks the 400th anniversary of Galileo’s discoveries, and I suppose almost the beginnings of astronomy as we know it. Certainly what he say when he held that telescope to his eye completely altered the European understanding if the Earth and its relationship to the rest of the heavens.

Galileo’s text was called Sidereus Nuncius or Starry Messenger—a lovely title for a deep change in perception and understanding.

The Observatory is small, and its own telescopes are not the kind you can look through to see the stars. They operate digitally, collecting data and feeding it back to computers I think. The larger one was shown to us, its mirrors and the track that light takes through them pointed out. Outside the observatory buildings several amateur astronomers and sky-watchers had set up their own telescopes and were offering views of the moon (somewhat less than half-full) and of Jupiter. To see the moon’s surface clearly the scope was aimed at what the man called the terminator—that’s the line where the bright side meets the dark. The surface looked a pale grey and was as pock-marked as you’d expect. Why am I always so startled and thrilled when things turn out to look like their photographs? Jupiter was a little blurry—I found myself wondering if that was because of the speed at which it turns, but more likely it was distance and/or slight cloud. It was indeed striped with colours, a couple of dark bands interspersed with pale yellows, sandstone-like. There were four moons visible, three in a line to the right of the planet, and one to the left. Apparently Jupiter has over 50 moons, though some of them are only the size of small rocks.

The Observatory is involved in interesting and important international research projects. We heard a presentation on it, principally on the search for new planets or exo-planets. (I meant to look that term up, but haven’t.) Three methods of discovering planets exist: the Doppler Wobble (best name!), transit, and microlensing. The last, microlensing, is the method of the Canopus project. It involves, if I understood correctly, the recording and measuring of light emitted by a star from directly behind another star. The position is important because the light bends around either side of the front star, an d creates a curve. If there’s a spike in the curve the light has been interrupted and a planet is the interruption.

Apparently this method is the one most likely to yield planets or systems of planets that are most like our own Solar System. It reveals planets that are 1-10 times the mass of Earth and a half to three times our Sun-Earth distance from their own star/sun. Quite a few planets have been found that fit within these numbers, though the research is relatively new.

The event was a slightly dizzying combination of facts and numbers and diagrams which provided interesting if sometimes hard to follow information, and the astonishing experience of staring at the grey surface of the moon and the round colours of Jupiter trailing its moons as tiny dots of light.

BOOKS I READ AT LAKE ST CLAIR

One of the great pleasures of time away from the regular daily routines is time to read, and while I was at Lake St Clair I indulged myself pretty thoroughly --

Van Diemonian Essays, by Pete Hay (a wonderful selection of essays on Tasmania and arguments for local identity)

The Walk: Notes on a Romantic Image, by Jeffrey C. Robinson

A Book of Silence, by Sara Maitland

Nameless Earth, by Robert Gray (gorgeous poems)

I am here and not not-there, by Margaret Avison (autobiography, engrossing)

who wants to create australia? by Martin Harrison (intelligent and compelling essays on poetry)

The River Wife, by Heather Rose

Cross-pollinations, by Gary Paul Nabhan

I also spent a fair bit of time paging through the staff library in the Visitor Centre, learning specifics about birds in particular, but also glancing at material on trees and geology. And then there were the papers stacked up for starting the fire--they included a few review sections from The Australian, so I had a good time browsing those before I burned them.

BACK IN HOBART --ISLAND LAUNCH

It's Thursday, 15 October here in Hobart, and about 12:30 p.m. I've just posted the material that I wrote while I was at Lake St Clair but didn't post there. I've been back here long enough to be unpacked and semi-sorted out.

Last night was the launch of the issue of Island magazine with my essay in it, at the Republic bar in a lovely large upstairs room. There was a good crowd of people there for it, and I finally got to meet Gina Mercer, the editor, with whom I've been emailing and Chris Gallagher from the Tasmanian Writers Centre. I had been invited to read briefly from the essay following the announcement of the winners of the Gwen Harwood poetry prize and a lovely speech about Island and the occasion of its 30th anniversary. I was a little anxious, and also a bit disoriented at being surrounded by so many people after my time in the woods but it went well and it was a real pleasure to put faces to names and to meet some others too.

SOME INFO ABOUT WHERE I AM .. OR WAS

October 3, 2009

My little writer’s residence is at Cynthia Bay on Lake St Clair, the southern end of the Cradle Moutain-Lake St Clair National Park, which contains the popular Overland Track walking trail.

In 1982 roughly 20% of Tasmania (and isn’t that figure amazing?) was declared the Tasmanian Wilderness World Heritage Area. (The World Heritage Convention was established in 1972 by UNESCO to promote the protection and celebration of the Earth’s natural and cultural heritage.) A site must meet at least one of four natural and/or six cultural criteria to be designated WHA—and the Tassie area met all natural criteria for inclusion, as well as three of the six cultural criteria.

Lake St Clair sits in a basin that was created by glaciers over the last two million (!) years. It is, at 167 metres, the deepest lake in Australia and home to some rare ancient shrimp. It’s also the headwaters of the Derwent, the river that flows through Hobart. The Visitors Centre, which is scant minutes away from my house, is a handsome building that won an award. It’s full of displays and information about the park, tempting cards and books (including some great activity books for kids), and clothing for those who find themselves here without enough layers. The Park staff, though surprisingly few in number, are knowledgeable and very helpful.

Cynthia Bay marks the southern end of the Overland Track. Its other end is at Cradle Mountain. That track is 80 km of alpine walking, and takes about six days. From Lake St Clair you can take several short walks and some longer ones through this changeable forest.

If I stand on the viewing platform beside the Bay, which I do usually once a day, I’m looking more or less north and can see Mount Olympus as well as several other mountains. (The Greek gods have made their mark on the land here—Cynthia’s another, an alternate name for Selene, the moon goddess.) I’m photographing Mount Olympus in different weathers and at different times—some days it’s barely visible.

Aboriginal people called Lake St Clair Leeawuleena, which means Sleeping Water. The local people were the Larrairremener, a band of the Big River Nation, the last few members of which were deported to Flinders Island in 1832. I don’t know if there are Aboriginal stories associated with this lake, but there is a short walking trail, the Larrairremener tabelti, that memorializes their presence here through four noticeboards along the walk. Behind one of the signs there’s a tremendously tall eucalypt, with red on its otherwise pale huge trunk. I don’t know what kind it is and the first couple of times I walked past it I thought it was dead. But it’s not-- it’s just so tall I hadn’t managed to look high enough to see that it had branches with leaves! Something about that tree itself evokes the people who once dwelt here.

In the Visitors Centre there’s a fibrework made by three Aboriginal artists (one of them Lola Greeno who was part of the tayenebe project), in 2000, from materials gathered here. It’s woven from buttongrass, cutting grass, and spreading rope-rush, and also incorporates moss, currawong and ground parrot feathers, possum fur, and snakeskin.

BACKSTORY

October 5, 2009

Again I find myself staring out the window at this forest, wondering where I am—it all seems strange and unbelievable, that I should be in Tasmania, on the other side of the world from Canada, from Toronto—

If I backtrack to the beginning of this adventure I’d have to say it started in a bookstore—Writers & Co on Yonge Street in Toronto, to be exact. I remember my first visit there and my half-disbelief at discovering what was on the shelves: poetry, essays, literary criticism, fiction, every kind of book I loved. After much browsing and arguing with myself I gathered an armload—spending more money at once than I ever had on books—and left, feeling giddy.

Of course I was drawn back—it was irresistible—and slowly I got to know the owner, Irene McGuire. I’d go there when I was tired and needed time out. Every visit I’d spend at least an hour looking through the new books and then comb the shelves. I’d always discover something I didn’t know about and had to have. An added pleasure was the conversation that wound through the browsing. Irene and I became friends, In 1993 when A Possible Landscape was published, Irene invited me to launch it at the Writers & Co.

Not long afterwards I dropped into the store early one morning—a book I’d ordered had arrived—and told Irene I’d decided to leave my job at the University of Toronto Library. I wanted more time to write and was both gleeful and terrified. Irene looked at me and said: “Would you like to work here on Mondays?” That offer felt like a sign from the gods—my decision was right. And yes, I did want to work there on Mondays.

But what does any of this have to do with Tasmania, you’re asking, perhaps yawning slightly, distracted by the wind blowing outside or the mutter of traffic along your street … Well, in the late 1990s Irene gave up the store and moved to Hobart, her husband’s home town. Our friendship continued by letter, and through their intermittent visits to North America. I never imagined going to Tasmania—it was simply too far away and too expensive. Then, in 2005 my second book was nominated for the Trillium Book Award for Poetry. Someone asked what I’d do if I won and I heard myself say “I’ll go to Tasmania to visit Irene!” I won the Award …

But there’s another twist.to my arriving here— Through Irene I’d learned of the WildCare Tasmania Nature Writing Contest. For some years I’d been working on an essay about Toronto’s Don River. The contest prize—a trip to Tasmania with a two-week residency in a national park seemed reason enough to finish that essay. But I’m a slow and somewhat reluctant writer and I missed the 2007 deadline. The essay languished until last February. Since I’d decided 2009 was my year to get to Tassie—and if I won the contest I could extend my stay—I settled to the writing. To my great surprise and shrieking delight my essay was awarded the Prize—

And the rest, as they say, is history. I’m really here in this glorious forest. And it’s not just a naturalist’s imagined place, backdrop for a painting of an exotic bird or flower, but actual. Not magic, but material, specific, full of particulars, even if I can’t sort them into familiarity.

Except perhaps for the currawong, with it’s swooping flight, large presence, and bright yellow eye examining me closely.

THE SUPERB FAIRY-WREN (Malurus cyaneus)

October 5, 2009

ON the kitchen wall of this house where I’m living someone has pasted a picture of the Superb Fairy-Wren—the paper bird more than five times the size of the actual bird—though perhaps not five times the size of that actual bird’s real presence. (Search the wren at www.ozanimals.com to see it for yourself.) I think of it as the guardian of the house, and of me its inhabitant, the long, nearly-upright tail shedding blessings over me as I sit beneath it to eat. In fact, I’m coming to think the Superb Fairy-Wren is one of the resident spirits of Tasmania itself, or at any rate of the small parts of it I’ve been exploring.

Through Peter Grant’s blog*where he writes affectionately about its bubbly personality and behaviour, I met it before I arrived here. When I read what Peter had to say about it I could hardly wait to see this tiny wren with the brilliant turquoise cap, cheek, and collar, but wondered how likely that was to happen.

Wrens at home are shy and secretive, scolding from tangles of shrubs and underbrush as you walk past, darting rapidly from twig to twig behind leaves when you try to see them. And their plumage—perhaps they are the original ‘lbb’s (little brown birds) or ‘lbj’s (little brown jobs) of birdwatcher parlance. In my experience their chatter and furiously rapid singing, and/or the glimpse of a long cocked tail, identify them far more often than a good look at the whole bird. So my sighting a Superb Fairy-Wren at the Frog Dam on Knocklofty within the first few days I was here was an unexpected pleasure. (And by the way, I can now say definitely that the brownish wren I saw there was the female.)

Fairy-wren sightings have continued, threading through my days here in the park. Shortly after I arrived a pair flitted about in the back yard of this little house, and they’ve been visible just outside my windows every day—a zip of vivid blue crosses the yard, or a piece of the faded duff on the ground suddenly stirs revealing a long tail. Several times a male has perched like a glittering blue jewel on the moss-covered stump barely 4 feet from where I’m reading. Often three or four of them together bob about the yard. And it’s not just this yard they fill with their presence—such tiny mites to take command of the eye as they do: I’ve seen them on the beach at Platypus Bay, by the viewing platform that looks to Mount Olympus, and at various times on the forest walks I’ve taken. These wrens are less secretive and hidden than those at home; often they stand still on the ground or perch on branch or stump for several seconds. Every time I see them they make me smile.

I’ve trolled through the various bird books in the staff library here and discovered they have many common names: Blue Wren, Superb Blue Wren, Jenny Wren, Superb Warbler, Bluecap, Blue Bonnet, Cocktail. They are one of several species of blue wrens (though the only one found in Tasmania), all part of the fairy-wren group. Most of them have some blue plumage and they include: the Turquoise Fairy-Wren, the Blue-breasted, the Lavender-flanked, the Splendid, and the Lovely—words do fail sometimes.

The books have told me that Fairy-Wrens are one of four groups of Australian wrens, all feeding on or near to the ground. According to Simpson & Day, they “are part of the ancient Australo-Papuan bird group, which evolved locally and spread throughout Australia” and definitely not related to the Old World thrushes, warblers, and flycatchers. I’m ashamed to say my knowledge of bird family connections and binomials is poor and so I don’t know if that means they also have no direct connection to North American wrens. If not, it’s interesting but perhaps not surprising that a bird so similar in both shape and some behaviours should emerge here—and no surprise at all that it would be deemed a wren by anyone from Great Britain.

Fairy-Wrens are social, living in groups within a territory. As far as I can make out there will be a breeding pair in the group and some non-breeding birds of both sexes, as well as juveniles. This explains why I’ve frequently seen three or four wrens amicably together—those two females darting after a male along the beach at Platypus Bay were not necessarily in ardent competition for his attention after all. They build domed nests close to the ground. It’s possible the nonbreeding adults help raise the young, as do crows, but I don’t know this to be true. The Superb Wren’s nest has a side-opening, like the North American Ovenbird’s, but is not actually situated on the ground.

I’ve learned that Superb Fairy-Wrens engage in a distraction display if a nest is threatened. Again from Simpson & Day: “the bird scuttles away in a rodent-like manner, the ‘rodent-run’ display.” (The female Superb has also been described as “mouse-brown” … ) Perhaps one evening I’ll muck around at the edge of the yard where the thickety bushes are growing, where I frequently see the wrens, and see if I can occasion that ‘rodent-run’— Or, perhaps I’ll leave them in peace and hope only that I’m watching if some other creature gives cause for the alarm.

*Peter Grant is one of the founders of the WildCare Tasmania Nature Writing Prize. He’s deeply interested in nature writing and is currently working on a book on walking. You can check out his blog at http://auntyscuttle.blogspot.com. Among other things he has posted an essay on nature writing that’s well worth reading.

TECHNOLOGY -- AND WEATHER

Today -- Monday, October 12 -- is my last full day here at Lake St Clair. It's overcast and chilly, though the sun scraped through for a few moments earlier. I'm not complaining; we've had several warm sunny days in a row. Russell, sitting beside me in the office just remarked, after glancing out the window, that the rain's about to arrive! I'll head back to the little house and hunker by the fire with my book, Margaret Avison's autobiography, just published by Porcupine's Quill.

About the technology, I have some small accomplishments to claim. I now have bird-in-the-hand available on my iPod, and can report that the lovely resonant calls I've been hearing just off the walk to Watersmeet (and near its beginning) are the shrike-thrush. I've seen the bird itself, right outside the little house several days ago, but didn't hear it sing. It's fun to press the sound icon and hear the calls, several of which are familiar to me now. Well, maybe I mean recognizable rather than familiar since much about this place is definitely still unknown and seems to change from day to day -- even that trail to Watersmeet. It develops new curves or slopes, I swear, from one day to the next!.

And the other accomplishment is, I've figured out how to use the little microphone with my iPod so I've been taping ... hmmm ... recording sounds along walks and outside my house. The mic is slightly larger than a large eraser, but of course meant to capture, not erase, and it seems surprisingly sensitive for something so small. I've listened to some of what I've recorded on my computer and was happy to discover that it records bird songs as well as the somewhat relentless tramp of my feet. I hope to learn how to clip out parts of these recordings so I can include some of the birdcalls in the blog eventually.

SUNDAY IN THE PARK WITH IRENE AND KEVIN

On Sunday -- last weekend, whatever the date was -- my friends from Hobart, Irene and Kevin McGuire drove up to see me and my retreat. And, incidentally, bring me additional food supplies. (They also brought me hat and scarf and gloves, which I've been happy to have.) They arrived about 10:30 and I took them immediately to see my little house. They were as startled at its commodiousness as I was when I arrived--and the washing machine whirring away as we walked in was further testament to the more or less all mod cons that I'm enjoying here.

Oh it's true, the fire had gone out--my fire-setting skills turn out to be intermittent. But it's also true that the season has been so wet and cold that all the really dry wood for the park and campsite has been used, so what we're burning now is not completely cured and takes more ooomph to get going. Kevin decided I needed some smaller pieces of wood and immediately set to creating them, with the fairly dull axe that resides in the woodbox. Before long he had enough stacked up to last beyond my stay, I suspect.

We got the car to a spot behind my house--not easy for me to guide him, I'm so poorly oriented to the connections between buildings, paths, roads, etc., but we found the spot eventually. It took only a few minutes for the three of us to get the supplies into the house and put away, with talk going on the whole time. And then we headed out to walk, so I could show them "my" park ...

We followed the track to Watersmeet, which I walk often. It's the shortest walk here and winds through varied forest to where the Hugel and Cuvier Rivers flow together in a torrent. From there we went into a stretch of rainforest, where the myrtles are old and tall and moss-encrusted, and sun gets through in small increments, making the mosses gleam. It's very cool and lovely, but not quiet, since the river runs right beside the path. We crossed the river on the track to Shadow Lake and walked up it for a few minutes to get the full effect of being surrounded by trees and moss--and then retraced our steps. There's a point on that track just before you get back to the bridge where I get lost, every time, and find myself suddenly facing a huge fallen tree with no further path. Sure enough, it happened again and we had to backtrack to get on the path.

Back across the Hugel we followed the Larrairremener tabelti back to where it joins the main Watersmeet track again. It winds up to some distance above the river, though you can still hear it, into much drier forest. And it was warm! We could hear birds but saw very few. A small skink of some sort sat in an opening in a rotting stump--a kind of metallic blue in colour--looking back at us as we looked at it. (Yesterday I took a look in a book about skinks here and I should have photographed it, because I couldn't begin to pick out which one it might have been.) Just before rejoining the other tracks the Larrairremener one goes through a stretch of buttongrass plain. I keep hoping to spy a ground parrot there, but so far no luck. We'd stopped to look at lichen-encrusted stones all along the way. Irene has a sharp eye for details, and saw all kinds of patterns. Many different lichens can grow on a single rock, and some of them seem to develop a border of dark green around their edges, creating continent-like patches. Kevin was good at seeing different countries in them.

When we got back to the house it was early afternoon and we were hungry. We drove out to Derwent Bridge, thinking we might get lunch at the hotel, but it was too late. So we went to the Hungry Wombat Cafe instead. I had a huge cauldron of pumpkin soup, Irene had a toasted cheese and tomato sandwich, and Kevin had a burger--all good.

After lunch we drove to Pumphouse Point, taking the Hydro road which seems to be basically sand, and is full of potholes. Good that Kevin's had all his driving experience--he got us through them handily. Soon after we took that road we stopped beside a large wombat rooting away on the verge. It didn't seem bothered by us. Its head was larger and less teddy-bear-like than the young one I saw on the drive here with Peter Grant. At the Point we got out and walked out the quay to the Pumphouse itself, no longer functioning. It's a very lovely building. But as we walked a growing crowd of small gnat-like insects began to surround us, getting all over and behind glasses, clinging to jackets and hats, and finally we turned and ran back. Once we were a certain distance from the water they vanished.

And it was time to head back to Lake St Clair -- and for the McGuires to hit the highway home again, perhaps to reach Hobart before dark. Irene assured me she was going to sleep in the car.

I got the fire going and settled into my solitary evening rituals of reading and watching the birds out the window. The time had shifted to Daylight Savings that day, so the light lasts longer and various birds are active till it's quite close to dark here.

QUESTIONS I'VE ASKED AT ONE TIME OR ANOTHER

Do currawongs mob hawks and owls?
What is mallee?
Will I ever see a platypus?
Where is the big for garbage?
Are dusky robins seen in this area?
How will I get back to Hobart? When?
Are rhododendron and waratah related?
What happened to my memorystick?
Does it really rain on one end of my roof and not the other?
What are the implications of "sclerophyll"? Do I know how to spell that correctly?
Will I see an echidna?
What are the crescent honeyeaters after when they scramble up the trunks of the little eucalyptus outside my window?
Will I ever get my bird notes caught up?
How do you clean gaiters?
Will I be able to find a copy of Pete Hay's Vandiemonian Essays to buy?
Why can't I find bird-in-the-hand in my iPod?
Why have all three of my ballpoint pens gone dry at the same time?
Do thornbills ever slow down enough to be seen clearly?
What's the name of that ..... ?
Etc.

GLITCHES

It's been several days since I"ve posted anything here. Since my own computer arrived I've written up some blog postings at "home", intending to upload them via my memory stick. This morning I discover that the memory stick is not working -- maybe it doesn't like the weather, or ... ?? So those posts will have to wait until I'm back in Hobart.

In the meantime, life has been full and busy. I've spent a day on the trails with one of the rangers -- more about that in another posting -- that was wonderful and exhausting. My friends from Hobart, Kevin and Irene McGuire came up for a day visit on Sunday when the weather was gorgeous and sunny. We talked and walked around, had a late lunch at the Hungry Wombat Cafe in Derwent Bridge (very delicious soups there, if you're in the neighbourhood) and then drove to Pumphouse Point, a very early Hydro Station. The old pumphouse and is dated 1940. It's a gorgeous building and so is another one, beautifully proportioned with lovely art deco motifs here and there. I believe there's a plan underway to convert them to accommodation -- a very fine idea. On the road in we passed lots of common heath in bloom, and one adult wombat rooting in the undergrowth right beside the road. It let us get a good look at it before trundling off into the undergrowth. At the pumphouse we were swarmed my very tiny insects of some sort, all around our faces and heads, clinging to jackets and hats. They finally drove us back to the car.

This morning I watched what I took to be a young Bennett's wallaby browse on the bushes at the back of the yard. It also appeared to me watching me for awhile, and then moved on. A few moments ago snow was falling into the parking lot, now the sun is gleaming--but the clouds are about to erase it once again.

I'm reading a very very interesting collection of essays on Australian poetry by Martin Harrison-- who wants to create australia? A book I found on Irene's shelves, but that I hope to own myself eventually.