While in Byron I was asked to write the preface to a poetry anthology by the local writers’ group, ‘Dangerously Poetic’. The work was of a high standard, and thoroughly recommended. 

While visiting Byron recently, I strolled towards the ocean. Although winter, it was warm and cloudless, the sea a glossy brochure-blue. I sat on the grassy verge above the beach, among lolling couples, families and hung-over backpackers. Below me children paddled, several youths swam recklessly through the still-cold water, and wet-suited surfers bobbed up and down, barnacle-like on their boards. I noticed a commotion in the water some way out to sea. Terns and gulls were dive-bombing a patch of water, encircled by frenetic dolphins. One dolphin leapt, Flipper-like, completely out of the water! A large school of fish out there, I thought – then looked harder. Slightly away from the commotion, a differently-shaped fin was coasting just above the water.  I looked around in alarm, but no-one else seemed to have noticed, perhaps lulled by the scene’s postcard beauty.

Here is one metaphor of the poet’s role – that lone voice in the wilderness – even if only a psychological wilderness. After Tennyson, poetry – and poets – lost favour with the popular reader; but contemporary practitioners have used this marginalisation to their advantage. It’s given them an unparalleled freedom to speak the truth, or to investigate what the truth is.

I really like the name of this group: Dangerously Poetic – no accident, I think. In All The Way Home, easy sentiment is eschewed; in poem after poem, uneasy truths raise their fins above our placid suburban seas. There are aesthetically pleasing poems here, yes, but then you come to Kathryn Boorman’s Chuc Mung Nam Moi, describing a meal in Vietnam where ‘the main course is grilled chicken/ squashed flat on the plate, wings in full flap/ head back, beak open in a silent scream.’ This impressive poem allows no escape from the legacy and folly of war.

In Radika Mecredy’s 7-day silence retreat, a quiet, meditative beginning leads to a defiant internal revolution. ‘This moment is huge/ I’ve climbed onto the roof/ I want to yell to the world/ There’s nothing of you … left inside me.’ But rather than devastating, it is a triumphant, energizing hymn to renewal, ending, ‘All my lovers are waiting …’ The often brilliant poems are tellingly arranged by the editors. Boorman’s poem is preceded by John Bird’s tanka sequence on war, which ends: a bronze statue/ of the unknown soldier/ dawn service/ my son points saying/ he can’t close his eyes.’ It was also an inspired choice to include paintings by well-known Mullumbimby artist, Robyn Sweaney; superficially comforting images of traditional suburbia, but laced with irony.I’d come to Byron to announce the winners of the Writers Festival poetry competition, and I’m delighted that the anthology opens with DP member Max Ryan’s winning entry, Jim; its closing lines still prickle the hairs on the back of my neck. In addition to the work from sixteen local poets, the anthology contains the three winners of the national Jean Ringland Memorial Poetry Prize. Dr. Shirley Walker’s comment on the winning entries can also apply to this impressive anthology as a whole: ‘In a mechanical age of instant and meaningless twitter, the ancient craft lives on and is strong.’ “All the Way Home” is $24.95 plus $3 for p&h, from Dangerously Poetic, PO Box 524, Byron Bay N.S.W 2481 Australia