Johanna's BlogRobert Adamson
b. 1943, Neutral Bay
Robert Adamson has lived near the Hawkesbury River for most of his life. A series of juvenile misdemeanours resulted in him being sent to various detention centres. It was during this period that he first began writing poetry. With a career spanning more than three decades, Adamson is recognised as one of Australia's leading poets. His books have been published in the UK and the USA and his poems have been translated into several languages. He has published fifteen volumes of poetry and has organised and produced poetry readings, delivered papers, lectures and readings at literary festivals throughout Australia and internationally. He has been writer-in-residence at Australian universities, and was President of the Poetry Society of Australia, 1974-1980.
Adamson was a key player in the growth of the 'New Australian Poetry' and was an editor of the Poetry Society of Australia's magazine,New Poetry, from 1968 until 1982. He worked as a poetry editor and consultant with Angus & Robertson/HarperCollins and he established several small publishing companies, including Prism Books and Big Smoke. Adamson, with Juno Gemes and Michael Wilding, established Paper Bark Press in 1986 – a small press that went on to become one of Australia's major poetry publishing companies with a backlist of over thirty books. He was also the poetry editor the literary magazine Ulitarra from 1993 to 1997. In 1997 he became a founding editor, along with James Taylor, of the international poetry journal Boxkite.
Publications
1997: The Language of Oysters (Craftsman House)
1990: The Clean Dark (Paper Bark Press, Australia)
1994: Waving to Hart Crane (A&R/HarperCollins)
2001: Mulberry Leaves, New & Selected Poems 1970-2001
2004: Inside Out (Text Publishing)
2004: Reading the River, Selected Poems (Bloodaxe Books)
2006: The Goldfinches of Baghdad (Flood Editions)
My Grandfather’s Ice Pigeons
My grandfather would walk into the house,
on a summer evening after his work, then empty
his catch of mudcrabs into the bath-tub;
they'd flow out in a stream of ice-flurry from
his four gallon drums, then settle in a heap of
black and olive speckled claws, spikey legs
and back flappers waving frantically. One night
my mother caught me holding a broom-stick
with an angry muddie's claw clamped around it.
She ordered me to stay away from the crabs
reminding me why Uncle Eric lost his finger,
besides they could snap a clothes prop in two.
My mother went back to the city. I stayed
a week and my grandmother showed me
what to do, first throw one into a bucket of ice
to slow it down, then bind the claws together
with kingfisher-blue twine in a slip knot.
Old Dutch would come to take them
to the Co Op in his truck, packed in fishboxes
covered in ice. My grandfather would leave
again for his next catch, he'd take some pigeons
with him in a cage on his trawler. If he
had a good haul, he'd let one of the birds go,
when it came home it was my job to ride my bike
into town to order the ice. When I reached
the Co Op, Dutch would ask how many pigeons?
If more than one, it was a box of ice a bird.
He'd send the ice to my grandfather next morning
on the mail boat. They talk about the time
Fa Fa got drunk up the river at Spencer,
the river postman saw him through the mist
one morning, balancing on net-boards at the stern
of his boat, singing aloud, throwing pigeons at the sky.
Mooney Creek
June 2008
