Philip Harvey
Les
Murray is not a Luddite. He drives a tractor, watches television, and relies on
Rolls-Royce engines to take him in jets to conferences in antique lands. From
time to time he writes wistfully of outmoded technology or design, a riding implication
being his hostility toward the things that have replaced them. I think here
especially of his poem about library card catalogues and the cabinets that
carry them. When he visited the Carmelite Library earlier this year, Les made
several unequivocal statements about computers that some would construe as
harsh. A recent example of this kind of Murray poem was sent to me via email,
after the sender cut-and-pasted it from a poetry website in the United States. It has been published
in paper print, but in a journal (‘Little Star’) that is also a weekly mobile
mini-magazine with app, only lending to the irony of the poem’s own existence on your screen:
The
Privacy of Typewriters
I am an old book troglodyte
one who composes on paper
and types up the result
as many times as need be.
one who composes on paper
and types up the result
as many times as need be.
The computer scares me,
its crashes and codes,
its links with spies and gunshot,
its text that looks pre-published
its crashes and codes,
its links with spies and gunshot,
its text that looks pre-published
and perhaps has been.
I don’t know who is reading
what I write on a carriage
that doesn’t move or ding.
I don’t know who is reading
what I write on a carriage
that doesn’t move or ding.
I trust the spoor of botch,
whiteouts where thought deepened,
wise freedom from Spell Check,
sheets to sell the National Library.
whiteouts where thought deepened,
wise freedom from Spell Check,
sheets to sell the National Library.
I fear the lore
of that baleful misstruck key
that fills a whiskered screen
with a writhe of child pornography
of that baleful misstruck key
that fills a whiskered screen
with a writhe of child pornography
and the doors smashing in
and the cops handcuffing me
to a gristlier video culture
coralline in an ever colder sea.
and the cops handcuffing me
to a gristlier video culture
coralline in an ever colder sea.
Les
Murray knows that poetry is means to escaping the traps of life, of saying
words to free us from the bindedness of the world. Yet in that process, poetry
often succeeds just precisely in admitting that we are trapped. The poem is
expression of the need for freedom, while being an admission that we are bound
by dilemma. It’s a bind, wherein the poem still must be written.
Les
Murray articulates the state of mind of many modern readers. He is always good
at exploiting binary opposites in his writing and here he presents graphically
the distinctions between print and digital, typewriter and computer console,
book and e-carrier. Though tongue-in-cheek, Murray nevertheless touches on certain
aspects of modern media delivery that are cause for concern and not just the
paranoid complaints of conservatives: the worrying awareness that anything we
do online could be being tracked and recorded; the sense of the text on a
computer as just endless words without a human creator; the fear that our
society is captive to a media entertainment nightmare. Murray’s belief in
writing comes from a lifetime of intrinsic acceptance of the rightful connection between the poet's written (or typed) page and
the printed page.
Sources:
‘The
Privacy of Typewriters’ first appeared in Little Star #5,
2014