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Graham Lindsay


about Graham Lindsay
 

A Conversation with Graham Lindsay

Jack Ross

Originally published in Complete With Instructions, ed. David Howard (Christchurch: Firebrand, 2001): 49-52. The eight interviews with Christchurch poets which appear in the book were commissioned by David Howard and conducted by Jack Ross in February 1998.

Graham Lindsay is married, with two children. A former resident of Dunedin, he moved to Christchurch ten years ago. His books of poetry are:
Thousand-Eyed Eel
. Taylors Mistake: Hawk Press, 1976
Public
. Dunedin: Ridgepole, 1980
Big Boy
. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1986
Return to Earth
. Christchurch: Hazard Press, 1991
The Subject
. Auckland: Auckland University Press, 1994
Legend of the Cool Secret
. Christchurch: Sudden Valley Press, 1999

 

Why is our art so introverted?
It doesnít mean a thing

to the seagull or sun
the clouds donít understand
a word

their language is silence
and movement and colour.

Ė Graham Lindsay

 

ĎSilence and movement and colour.í At Graham Lindsayís house, little silence, much movement and colour, as I met his wife, two sons, and mother-in-law collaborating in complex dinner preparations. We retired to his study at the back of the garage.

JR: Could you tell me something about your own writing methods?

GL: I started writing and publishing when I was in my late teens, and thatís twenty, twenty-five years ago. Over that period of time Iíve been using a kind of notebook process. When something occurs to you, you have a notebook handy so that you can actually put down some approximation of that idea or thought or feeling at the time, whilst youíre hot, whilst youíre familiar with it. So, having adopted that approach, Iíve found that I donít really know at the time that Iím writing something, whether or not Iím going to be able to do anything more with it. Iíve got to go through it, perhaps months, years later, to see what is of interest there, what I can do something more with.

At this point Graham got up to show me the notebooks in his desk. The bottom drawer was packed full of red, hard-backed 4B1 notebooks. Above was another drawer, perhaps slightly less full. There were, he told me, 132 of them.

JR: Taking up again this idea of the moment when youíre hot, Iím afraid I actually do tend to take a mystical view of the creative moment.

GL: Why do you laugh?

JR: Oh, just because itís a sort of reflex to laugh whenever you say anything that goes out on a limb of belief, asserting the existence of anything.

GL: Why is that? Because youíre absolutely right, all sorts of people make these remarks, and then theyíre ambiguous about it, as if they were somehow embarrassed and ashamed to make that reference, to let that kind of idea crop up.

JR: Well, Iíd simply be theorising, rationalising, but to me itís because we donít live in an age of faith, and therefore asserting faith in anything becomes a difficult stance.

GL: Iím inclined to think, too, that itís quite difficult to talk about those things other than in art Ė other than in, say, a poem, or a piece of music, or a painting, because thereís a very real sense in which thatís the only way you can say it Ė in that particular form. Getting back to the process of selection, deciding what youíre going to keep working on, or what you think is worth working on Ė if it does have a source or an impulse in notions of the Ďmystical,í then youíve got to be careful how far youíre going to go, how much youíre going to say, what youíre going to let out.

JR: Yes, itís difficult, you want to assert love for the cosmos, and all sorts of things, but you canít say ĎI love the universe and the universe loves me,í because it sounds silly, and yet you can Ė by extraordinarily adroit craftsmanship Ė create a context in which it works.

GL: Thatís exactly right. And it seems to me (since weíre supposed to be talking about regionalism), that an ideal regionalism would be one where people were passionate about the landscape in which they lived, and were passionate about the people they lived in proximity to Ė friends, family Ė and were passionate about the works that were produced by their colleagues living in that same vicinity.

JR: Which brings me to the question of what Christchurch means, in these terms, to you?

GL: Yes, well, unfortunately the short answer is that it doesnít mean a lot. Iím sorry to say that, because I would like it to mean a lot. I actually havenít been able to get terribly moved by it, certainly in terms of the physical nature of the place. I love the people I live with and work with of course. And I like attending the meetings of the local poetsí collective Ė which is a bit like going to church, except that the congregation is the preacher.

I did use to be quite drawn to, very taken with the landscape Ė probably too much so Ė when we were living in Dunedin, prior to coming here about ten years ago. But now Iíve been here for that period of time Ė and Iíve spent a lot of that time going out and actually looking for interesting parts of Christchurch which could engender some response Ė but I havenít been able to crack it.

It does figure in some of the things I write. I do have these little pieces of information which I write down from time to time, which are probably fairly directly about my environment, and they do find their way into the pieces of writing that I am spending time on, but theyíre not touchstones. I frankly donít find a lot of magic in the landscape here. I mean, there are interesting buildings to look at, and the light in the southern sky is interesting. Sometimes in Spring you get a low cloud cover, and the light coming down through this partial cloud cover can make the landscape look rather intriguing.

Thereís a very good diorama in the Canterbury Museum of one of the bays out the back here. I donít know if itís an actual bay, but someone has tried to recreate pre-European Maori life and what it might have looked like. And it looks quite paradisal. There are intimations of something here, but it never seems to amount to much.

JR: Do you think thatís because itís not your birth landscape, or in the blood?

GL: Iím not sure, because I wasnít born in Otago. I was born in Wellington, but while I was living in Dunedin I did become very moved by those sorts of things.

JR: The Subject certainly strikes me as a very Dunedin, Otago book.

GL: Oh yes, thatís correct. It really did strike me then that it is one of the places which, for some individuals, enables them Ė and this sounds a little over the top, perhaps Ė to actually have a sense of universal in the particular. If I were to use another word, that word would be Ďwellspring.í It seemed at the time very much like a wellspring.

This is probably getting into my more quirky territory, but I have this sense of people, and things generally, being manifestations of an eternal upwelling Ė and of writing as well being a manifestation of it. And I feel that if you are able to be in a place where you can achieve this coincidence between your self and that place, you can almost have something spoken through you. I donít mean that literally; I mean it figuratively. But because you feel creative all the time, this upwelling of ideas Ė which almost anything can touch off Ė you feel youíve noted down something thatís potentially quite exciting, because it seems to be saying something about who we are, what it means to be human, where we came from Ö

JR: The place is endlessly assisting Ö

GL: Yes, the void eternally regenerative Ö

JR: That was the case in Dunedin?

GL: Oh, yes, absolutely. No two ways about it. Thatís why when we arrived here I went looking for it, hoping I would find something akin to that. Initially when we were looking for a house here in early í88 we went over to Lyttelton to look at a couple of houses over there, and Christchurch on that particular day had been really very overcast, but it was apparent there was some sort of break in the clouds to the south, and when we got over to Lyttelton, sure enough, the clouds were lifting, still very low and very fog-like, but the sun had also dropped in the sky Ė it had gotten later Ė it was coming through underneath, not exactly a northwestern arc, but certainly an arc, that was allowing light through, and it really did seem very possible. And again, there was a harbour configuration to the landscape Ė almost like the jaws of heaven. I didnít actually get a piece of writing out of it, that particular occasion, though I did try. That was probably the most enlivening moment Iíve had here.

JR: Clearly one can imagine a Christchurch poetry which exists at a distance in time and space. But when people are thinking or talking about your poetry, would the term Christchurch poet seem to you to have any meaning at all, to be useful?

GL: There was this anthology which came out from Dunedin a few years ago, called From the Mainland, and I had to laugh really, because in the biographical note I was described as being a Dunedin poet currently living in Christchurch. I think now that itís actually a fairly good description, because I certainly do have a hankering to get back down there as soon as possible. But by the same token there are all these other things that start happening when youíre in a new place which may not happen in the old place. Iíve also got to be taking into consideration the value may not be as great.

JR: It is stepping twice into the same river, isnít it?

GL: You do wonder if itís possible. Smithymanís quite clear about that. ĎWay back is way forward.í

JR: Yes exactly, and of course heís someone whoís a very potent presence for the north of the North Island because heís endlessly fed by the landscape in a way that hardly anyone else ever has been.

GL: Itís wonderful the way he gets himself around the landscape of Northland, and talks about it at the same time. I do admire that kind of writing that gives you this sense of someone just going through a process, doing something.

There are lots of people in this country who have an inability to let themselves down (so to speak), into a poem of that detail Ė that sort of thing, that kind of presence. And you do have to read hard, but not only that, youíve got to be in the mood to read hard. Youíve got to have something happen. And an act of reading, an act of close reading is as much a stroke of luck as an act of writing.

JR: Yes, thatís right, because your lifeís involved in the reading, just as your lifeís involved in the writing. It can take twenty or thirty years to read something right, or just read it in a way that works for you.

GL: Teaching gives you a good reason to actually get around to doing that hard close reading. If you have to talk about something to a group of students you feel itís important for you to know what youíre talking about; it can be a good impetus.

JR: I think Nabokov says that the work only gives up its essence when itís crushed in the palm and inhaled like a fragrance.

GL: Not a bad metaphor. I do sometimes think of writing as being a bit like crushing a whole load of quartz in order to come up with a couple of ounces of gold to a tonne of quartz. A sort of gold mine process, where the words are the rock, the quartz, and youíre just punching words, just looking for that little slip of gold.

Youíve got all this language experience, all these words going into you, from all your reading and all your listening. And itís hard to claim ownership of the group of words because you never quite know where you got them from, who else you got them from, if itís not just a community of all the reading and listening youíve done. And therefore itís probably impossible not to be a regional writer.

JR: I was kind of struck by the thing you said on the back of The Subject, about getting away from language to the Otago Heads. Actually you said Ďgetting way from Ė and to Ė language.í And yet, getting away from language in order to talk about it in language is this awful bind that everybodyís caught in, isnít it? I mean, you want to talk about silence and you can only do it by talking.

GL: Yes. Sure, and as a result of having felt or in some way participated in that silence Ö Itís a difficult thing to get your head around: that paradox. It was probably rather awkwardly written on that blurb, which was in fact part of a letter to an American poet living in Kyoto whom I used to have some correspondence with. Whatís involved, I suppose, is a kind of escape Ė of putting behind you your habitual ways of thinking, especially the daily environments Ė and interrupting it in order for the cessation of patterns of thinking to occur, and out of that for new combinations to arise that may be more interesting because there has been a cessation of your habitual ways of thinking and of brain-chatter. Not that itís impossible for those things to contribute also, theyíre both feeding into each other.

JR: Is what you were saying earlier about having got tired of worrying about line divisions and precise arrangements on the page related to that? They are a way of gesturing towards silence, arenít they? Ė stopping and breaking line-noise.

GL: The effort towards lineation primarily is to sing the song, or have the tune sound the way you want it to, given all the things you have to think about at the same time: the semantics of the words, the logical patterning of the groups of words, that whole sort of juggling act. But silence I think of as being something quite other.

I think of silence in a very literal way, where you get this utter cessation of thinking, of thoughts, and Ė harping back to what we were talking about earlier Ė where you may get moments of presence. There is this utter cessation that enables this new thing to arise, and itís the shedding of anxieties, of worries, of thoughts, of the whole sort of cacophony of thinking. And itís this refreshment (that wellspring notion), in those very minor, very small moments of not thinking where you are perhaps able to achieve this kind of relationship with things, you are able perhaps more clearly to get that insight. So, having allowed that moment of silence to occur, inevitably of course youíll have a thought come along, but in all likelihood that thought may be a good deal more interesting than it would otherwise have been had you not had that silence, that non-thinking.

Which is why I have been practising Buddhist meditation for quite a long period of time now. And I do my sitting breathing activity a couple of times a day. Every now and again, perhaps once a week, you just get that brief moment of silence, that wellspring thing, where youíve just got the water just bubbling up over the lip.

JR: And you recite a mantra?

GL: No, no mantras. The meditation technique I employ is simply the controlling of oneís breathing, accompanied by the letting come and letting go of whatever thoughts that arise, as well as the posture; youíre concentrating on your posture and concentrating on your breathing. For up to an hour; there are many thoughts that come and go, but eventually they just go.
 

diorama

Daubing the belly with radioactive blue
jelly, the radiographer says, Thisíll be

quite
cold.

Then cocks her head at the screen,
kneading with the scanner Ė an aluminium

paintbrush handle minus bristles Ė
to bring up a feature. We interrogate

a lampshade-shaped room Ė inquisitors
archaeologists, grave robbers Ė

for the image of an ancestor
entombed in a sandbank;

an Anzac kipped down in the cobwebs
and dust of a war museum diorama;

an underwater shot of a stricken aircraftís
plunge-arrested passenger door.

That black dot there is babyís stomach.
This white line here is babyís thigh.

An arm here coming up to a hand.
The head quite low.

Measuring across now through.
Lips here with nose.

And hereís the heart.

 

keep in touch

What, other than memory,
is our experience of each other?
Appreciation some way down the track
as shortest day follows longest night.

Back on stream with a bowl of pasta,
a sauce of pureed vegetables: in the pate-sized
patch of sunlight on the back step, overtaken by a hiatus
of stillness, a minute pause in the stride
of the kitchen clockís katipo stripe.

An especially lovely day. Enough to make anywhere
the place to be Ė Woolston, for instance, and because
itís the last place some people say
theyíd want to have to drive through on their way to work:
the view of the volcano unsurpassed in this neck of the woods
and at least the equivalent of sunrise over the sea,
the silence in the valley at the back of Sumner.

Keep in touch Ė as if we could ever not. Earthís tectonic plates
intermittently shifting us about
on the confluence of land and sky,
just often enough to remind us
this thingís not entirely up to us,
not wholly our call.

Keep in touch ticks the metronomic title.
The old man Ė once so real
and hero of his own impermanence;
self-styled ball-of-string-and-pocketknife handyman,
a memory.

 

© Graham Lindsay


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Last updated 19 December, 2003