READINGS OF THE WORK BY PHILIP HARVEY

It was alcohol in 1953 did Dylan in, No perhaps when the liver gives out. Words like a dictionary in spate Rampage after page of life’s dispute. Swansea hadn’t heard the like, New York neither as it took a look At tragic poet doing tragic poet Running with him a hell’s season, like a pet. He could only ever be who he was Same name, same desires, because. His book all over their shelves, His legend one no one solves. It’s a world of most personal inflection, A world of crass mass production. The evidence of towering ambition Scatters to the four corners of inhibition. A Jew will change his name in a hurry Who wants to be the next Woody Guthrie. Minnesota, special on short winter days But not when he has a head full of ideas Driving him insane and freedom Is just around the corner, a poem Pitted against indifference to the Same. Hey Jimmy don’t I know your name? Misheard? A lifetime of aliases Says he will only...

Recently an online newspaper reported that the official AFC Asian Cup Facebook page “seems to have decided a question which has agonised Australians for years by declaring the meat pie our national dish. The page put together the ‘national dishes’ of the countries participating. Snuggled among machboos for Kuwait and sushi for Japan is the meat pie for Australia.” Like a red rag to a bull the editors sent out an invitation to readers to say what they believed was the national dish of Australia. Blog responses were predictable enough. Vegemite, which is a spread and not a dish, was named in terms going from the adulatory to the derisive. Bloggers, most predictably from the Port Jackson area of the country, threw in the prawn as though that were the only thing Australians cook on a barbecue, and obviously the national dish. No further thought necessary, apparently. There was a curious nostalgia for roast lamb and a total lack of nostalgia for roast kangaroo. Opinions went bac...