Some new words. I give them to you to use.

 Definitions still being worked out. The more imprecise the better.

furthermoreover

whenevertheless

thereforlorn 

whithersoevermoreorless

thingamijiggerypokery

irksomewhat/irksomewhatnot

somewhatever

howbeitchiness

whomniscience 

imprescient

contrariwiseguy

Ranto Danceparty, an obituary

 When the news came to me last week that Santo Cazzatti had died, I could barely believe it. I had seen him literally the day before at the crossing at Northcote station, in that great fake fur coat of his. And I had seen him, I think, the day before that on the seats at Clifton Hill Station, perhaps avoiding seeing me back. We always seemed to be meeting on public transport; he would often talk a mile a minute to cover up embarrassing silences. We talked of classical music: Schumann, Wagner, Bach, Larry Sitsky’s views on free form atonalism versus the twelve tone serial method described by Schönberg (and if you know what that means, good for you).

Perhaps one of my clearest memories of Santo – and of the whole Melbourne performance poetry scenes – happened at the beginning of one of the Passionate Tongues poetry nights, run by Michael Reynolds. Santo was always an amazing and original performance poet, but on this occasion he was performing a cover, a piece by Komninos about - exactly what you think it is about:

In the hustle and bustle of ball and muscle
Of suck and fuck and pubic gyroovic…

And, just as he attained a crescendo in the climactic final passage, Komninos, who had just arrived, bellowed out from across the back bar in chorus:

In the eyes of desire, I see… FIRE!
I see… FIRE!
And I see love.

Many poets would not like being joined in like this, but I do believe Santo – notwithstanding the fact that he could be something of a prima donna, asking, when featuring, for the audience ‘not to applaud between poems’ – was delighted. This was the passion he wanted, spoken word poetry turned operatic. It showed his generosity and modesty, his acknowledgment that he came before many other brilliant performance poets, and after him would come many more. He was brilliantly, fiercely original – but also part of a tradition.

And Santo was a fire: a fire of inspiration, in his brightest moments he blazed his way through the Melbourne poetry scene. By 2020, that fire had all but ebbed away. These were years full of recriminations, self-exiles from some, then gradually all, of the poetry venues. I know he was thinking of poetry and music in that time: he mentioned to me a few times plans for smaller sessions with keyboard and poetry at his house. He performed online over the course of the lockdowns, small poems and piano pieces. Over time I have no doubt the fire of inspiration would return, but it seems that time was not on his side.

A fire of musical and poetic inspiration as he was, he also wanted to be a fire for the revolution, the spark that would see socialism sweep across the entire world. I don’t know whether he ever truly understood what such a violent overthrow of power would do with him, if it ever happened. The Marxist revolution, like the end of the world, is something always just over the horizon, a ‘consummation devoutly to be wished’. Though Santo could expound learnedly about the finer parts of Marxism and Anarcho-Syndicalism, I think the appeal for him really was almost religious, an emotional substitute for the conservative Catholicism of his early years. Once I remember remarking to him that the more a piece is politically committed, the less the poem becomes. Santo replied that he wanted nothing more than to be a writer of agit prop, a poetic ideologue for the revolution.

(Another public transport conversation I recall from our early acquaintance:

SANTO: Oh, Lexi is a leftist, is she? What kind of leftist?

ME: Um… ah… she’s… I guess she’s a Fabian.

SANTO: OH, one of THOSE.

When I relayed this conversation to Lexi afterwards, she just laughed and replied: ‘You should have just said I was vegetarian!’)

He was first a performance pianist, and then a DJ. For many years he taught piano. It was I think at Passionate Tongues that Santo first discovered spoken word poetry: maybe this was in 2005 or 2006. I have a recording somewhere of some Passionate Tongues poets from that time, and Santo’s piece, an excellent send up of Dr Seuss, always sticks in my mind: ‘Rupertle McMurdoch the Turtle’. It was at that time that he adopted the name ‘Santo Cazzatti’ – it stuck, being a perfect stage name. In Santo’s first tongue of Italian, it is actually a blasphemy combined with a swear word, if those two things are really any different.
The hallmark of Santo’s style was always an impeccable musicality. His poetry could be chanted and sung, but I never saw it written down – in fact, I think he had a rule against allowing his poetry to be seen in publications. So intricate were the rhythms of his verse that I strongly suspect he used musical notation when writing his poems down, however. He would often chant pieces in a tango or Rhumba rhythm. Once, I remember he sang on stage at the Dan, to the tune of that old Broadway piece ‘Downtown’:

Why am I so PEE SHY!
Why am I so PEE SHY!

And there, aside from the music, you had in one his flair for being both dramatic and startlingly vulnerable, all at once.

At the venue Under the Hammer, the better part of a decade ago, he staged his own funeral. For that occasion I remember hastily improvising a poem on his own assumed identity – Santo Cazzatti. Ranto Danceparty. Fanta Man Smarty. The poem just wrote itself. (I stand by all of those descriptions – Santo really was all that.) Annie Solah MCd, vigorously shouting the translation of Santo’s Italian name – ‘Saint FUCK!’ – into the microphone. The whole event (and Santo’s set) concluded with Santo rising, renewed, reborn, before the audience.

Did Santo feel rejected at the end? He saw his volunteer work at 3CR almost as a kind of archivist; he wanted to make a living record of all the voices in Melbourne poetry in the present day. He interviewed so many of us. I remember when he interviewed me he played filler pieces of his own – not exactly poetry, not exactly music, kind of scat singing with a Latin dance feel. Was that egotistical of him? I actually loved it. I never heard it again. So many pieces of Santo were like this, actually – you heard them once and never again, but they made an indelible impression on you.

And – the piece of his that made the deepest impression on me, his self-styled ‘performance poetry opera’, titled ‘All that is solid melts into air’, which I saw in its entirety at the Dan. It was extraordinary, set in Northcote Shopping Plaza, interspersed with baudy farcical scenes about relations between different storeholders in a shabby temple of suburban capitalism. (He later told me it was based on a Ravel opera). You can bet I applauded long and loud at the end, and I vividly remember Santo, the diva, the teacher, gesturing to the audience: thank you, now it is yours. I give this to you, this poem, opera, this new genre. Make something of it.

Hilarious. Infuriating. Generous. The Saint of Melbourne poetry. Can he be truly gone? We should all pray for him. If he’s in heaven, it will annoy him hugely and give him something to argue with us about when we get there.

Bag

The Bag Poem

Some like to drink in bars and pubs, go on a night-long jag; 

Some like to go down alleyways and look for walls to tag; 
Some like a spotted cormorant, while others like a shag - 
But Robert Timms responsibly has coffee in a bag. 

In a bag 

In a bag
Coffee in a bag; 
Robert Timms responsibly has coffee in a bag. 

Some like to eke their days out on a tea leaf and a fag; 
Some sing the song of Ganja, for life, man, is a drag; 
Some like to go on café dates, and brag and brag and brag, 
But Robert Timms, most frugally, takes coffee in a bag. 

In a bag 
In a bag
Coffee in a bag; 
Robert Timms, most frugally, takes coffee in a bag. 

Some like to rock, some like to roll, while others like to rag; 
Some like to troll the comments, with a needle, nope and nag; 
Some like to join the culture wars and raise the battle flag - 
But Robert Timms is far off with his coffee in a bag. 

In a bag
In a bag
Coffee in a bag
Robert Timms is far off with his coffee in a bag. 

To some, life is all over; to some, life is a lag; 
To some, the parents are a bore, the husband is a dag; 
To some, the taste of life is sweet; to others, it’s a gag; 
But Robert Timms is carefree and makes coffee in a bag. 

In a bag 
In a bag
Coffee in a bag; 
Yes, Robert Timms is carefree and makes coffee in a bag. 

Monthlyitis

 Morry Schwartz's ongoing fanzine for those sophisticamated US publications, the New Yorker and the Atlantic, arrives in our postbox again. Its name, The Monthly, sometimes feels more like a threat than a statement of chronological intent, and let me say that Schwarz Inc is as good as its word - every 30 days duly inflicting culture upon us. And it's more than we deserve, I guess. 

It is one of the enduring mysteries of contemporary Australian literature, this: why Schwarz's magazine should have been started in imitation of unabashedly snobbish, proclaimedly elitist magazines such as the New Yorker, and yet should fail to imitate the good qualities of the same magazine: the humour, the cartoons, the ongoing chronicle of life in a bustling city. What city is The Monthly centred in, even? The publishing house is in Melbourne, but it seems to be a nowhere magazine, attempting to be all things to some people, but being nothing to everyone. Is this another Sydney versus Melbourne rivalry thing? 

If people ever wonder why I am still into zines, it's because in zines I would never find a sentence as boring as 

Which makes the political challenges in this month's budget far more significant than any in recent history. 

Whole swathes of the magazine are colonised by phrases like this. Articles appear on the regular about Important National Infrastructure Projects. Schwarz's commitment to social democracy, in practice, turns out to be like Daddy Pig's commitment to reading every book he can about concrete, albeit with less grunting*. When you turn to the arts pages, meanwhile, you are typically met with a blank wall of abstract art. Sometimes, there is nothing more expressionless than abstract expressionism, more inhuman than the humanities. I remember turning through the pages of one issue and marvelling at how studiously the photographers avoided actual faces, because it's boring photographing faces or something like that, and yes, it might be boring, but there's nothing like a face to make you feel actually included, part of an actual discussion, instead of being excluded at talked at. 

And who reads all this stuff, anyway? The prose gives off a similar effect to prose in middle management staff surveys, or intergovernmental department communiques: brisk and efficient, bland, highly functional, but also vaguely threatening - as if, in the long run, it might turn out to actually mean nothing at all. Just this issue, I happen across an article on the decline of public literacy by James Ley, linking the same decline to the decline in democratic liberalism across the globe. Which is all well and good, so far as arguments go, but who is Ley writing to in the article? He agrees that literature is there to connect, to communicate, but his prose is singularly opaque; he gives no concrete examples; he wields the obscure verb 'to arrogate' repeatedly to display his intellectualism; and he seems embarrassed by the topic, ending up talking about all the talk about it that other people give - as if he doesn't really want to commit himself to a position. It is as if he were given the topic rather than chose it for himself, like a student being given an assignment. 

So there you have it; the problem is not so much with Schwarz and the Monthly, it is with the whole structure of Australian intellectualism, and literature: it doesn't so much pose the hard questions, as get given them; and the writing is for no-one. It is just a series of bland prompts and the world's most uninspiring writer's group. 

So, 20 years on, and I wonder why The Monthly is still so unconvincing. The question is not so much what is The Monthly doing: the question is why is The Monthly, even? Clearly Schwarz likes having it around. Will it bother to hang around after he is gone? 

But, you know, the magazine sometimes has a Helen Garner column. There is that. 

*'with less grunting'. Presumably. Who am I to say what Schwarz gets up to in the privacy of his own home? 

Indefinitions

When you sort a sort from a sort, and a sort from a sort - 

That's assorting. 

When you state that a sort is a sort of a sort (is a certain sort sort), - 

That's asserting. 

When you say that you're sorting, 

That's asserted assorting. 

When you say that a sort is a sort of a sort sort, 

But you say that a sort sort 

Is a sort of a sort, 

That's assorted asserting. 

Of this, I assert, I am certain. 

Time to raise the tone with some poetry

 I hope you're ready for some culture. 

One to remember

It is perfectly poised. It is neat and precise. 

It is dapper and cheerful and, all things considered, perfectly nice. 

 It has Gleichgewicht*, up there on the vert- 

-ical; standing there ever so perky and pert, 

 As it catches your sight and it catches your eye 

And heartily wishes a very good morning, good day and goodbye. 

 It is every way a fine and upstanding community member, 

 There is no doubt at all. A poo to remember**.

*German, 'balance'. Since we're truly in heady cultural territory now, allow me to make the remark that this whole poem is clearly a Mist opportunity. Ho ho ho. 

**Let us all thank beagle Patch for his contribution to world culture, which contribution forms the inspiration for this poem. 

Sometimes I Like To Bark At Things

 (Guest essay by Patch) 

Sometimes I like to bark at things, following which I will bark at things. Variety, they say, is the spice of life, so after that, I will bark at things some more. 

In the afternoons, I will considerately bark at things, and in the evenings I will kindly bark at things. I lead a full and rich life. 

All in all, matters with me are highly satisfying. After an exhausting day of Bark, I like to puff my pipe and perhaps engage in some improving literature or practise the fine arts.

Occasionally, it is true, I am met with the objection of 'Stop' or 'shut up' or 'can we please be quiet for one freaking second' from the humans. But to these objections, I merely reply: don't you spend the day barking (poorly) to one another*? And: aren't your television, radio, phone, etc barking at you all the time? And: once you get out and about in nature, what are even the trees doing?  

Bark. Bark. And more bark. 

In conclusion, I say, thank you for hearing me out. Bark. 

*Repeat after me: bark. Bark. B A R K. Bark. You'll get the hang of it. 

The anti-festival-festival

 Something strange has been happening. For weeks now on social media, people have been going on and on and ON about how terrible Australia Day is and it's not something they'd ever celebrate. Okay... I suppose it's not that strange. But didn't people used to keep their whinging about Australia Day to, you know, Australia Day? It's becoming like a public festival, I tell you - a festival of all round denunciation. A month long festival of being against a thing. Here's how I think things will happen at some point in the not-too-distant future... 

SCENE: Wazza arrives at his local Invasion Day party and is greeted at the door by Dazza. 

DAZZA: Welcome to our Invasion Day party, Waz! 

WAZZA: Thanks Daz, I mean, I had to come, didn't I - just change the bloody date, mate! 

(Someone laughs, Dazza claps Wazza on the back and ushers him in)

DAZZA: Can I offer you a beer mate? (Gives Wazza a beer) 

WAZZA: (Cracks can of beer and gives it a big chug) Thanks Daz. I needed that. 

(Someone cheers) (Several people clap) 

WAZZA: But remember... it's not a date to celebrate! 

(Someone blows a kazoo and his friends laugh) 

(Dazza suddenly looks solemn) 

DAZZA: I think it's time... 

(Gazza sits down at the piano and starts banging out an old, familiar tune - and to the melody of 'We wish you a merry Christmas' everybody in the room sings) 

Oh it's not a date to celebrate

Oh it's not a date to celebrate

Oh it's not a date to celebrate

Just change the date now! 

(Everybody cheers and claps) 

Since you asked

AN ANNOUNCEMENT 

If you ask me how I am, I won't tell you. 

That's just the way I am. 

If you don't ask me how I am, I won't tell you. 

It's important to be consistent. 

If you ask me how I'm not, I might tell you. 

Just to keep you on your toes. 

If you don't ask me how I'm not, I might tell you anyway. 

That's just the way it goes. 

So, to sum up: 

don't ask me how I am, because if you do, I won't. But do ask me how I'm not, because I might, and if you don't ask me how I'm not, I might anyway. So you might as well. Or might not. 

Thank you for your time.