NEWS & EVENTS

Monday, November 11 2019.

 

 

 

 

 

DIE LIKE A KELLY is the Microflix adaptation of my Microfiction,                                                                                                              ON THE HOUR, published by Spineless Wonders online and in their 

collection of prose poems and microfiction, OUT OF PLACE (2012).                                                                

                             on the hour

      you’ll be on your way     you’ll be walking down that corridor 

 putting one foot in front of the other breathing in breathing out                                                                                                       listening  your body what’s it saying  your good body  blood and                                                                                                         bone  raced horses  felled timber  hammered nails    danced jigs                                                                                                         dripped sweat  swam creeks  stamped   shivered  cursed    sang                                                                                                       held squalling babies as tenderly   as bleeding men     your body                                                                                                       that you’ll be walking into a room it’ll never  walk out of     how                                                                                                       can you do that  set one foot in front of the other up to the drop                                                                                                       look    the drop   you’ll be holding out your hands to be pinioned                                                                                                         flexing your fingers  long strong sinewy fingers always kept your                                                                                                     nails clean    now    bending your neck for that rough collar   like                                                                                                     you bent it for me to kiss  goodbye  my fingers  stroking the soft                                                                                                     hair at the nape    like they used to stroke   the soft down  where                                                                                                         the bones hadn’t set   your fingers were chubby then     kneading                                                                                                     my breast as you latched on     kneading     eyes shut    bliss  but                                                                                                         open now    awake    wide wide awake  under the hood                                                                                                                            what do you see my     son  what do you say                                                                                                                                             die like a kelly       die        like a kelly

Click on this Link 

  

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1URNpA51xDYQroe9GmSjLNlH9Q8HF2Vqn/view?fbclid=IwAR01t_QYKzkoomfgnFfnlxkzmlwAkZfp8wj2pSPejZCHi9DXxDekEdXzfg0

November 2019

Apparently a 2 year hiatus... does not mean I haven't been writing.

My novel 'OF BREATH AND BLOOD' is ready to be published....

My short story, 'To Liberty' was a finalist in the Historical Novel Society's competition;

and I won the 'Best Writing' award at the Microflix awards in Green Square, Sydney, 

for 'on the hour', adapted to 'Die like a Kelly.'


Sunday, February  19 2017.  

   

MEET THE AUTHOR: first of the Historical  Novel Society Australasia's events leading up to their conference in September. 

Gabrielle Ryan of the Wheeler Centre was MC for the panel, which comprised Greg Pryers, Ella Carey, Kali Napier and myself.

About 30 people crowded into a small room in the Mail Exchange Hotel, corner of Bourke and Spencer Street. 

 

We fielded questions about where our stories originated, the process of writing them, and the ideas they sparked. Conversations

continued over afternoon tea, where a few books also changed hands.  It was a good introduction to the Historical Novel Society,

and motivated me to attend their conference in September.  Also, it showcased the usefulness of social media... and how much it

is now 'embedded' in our lives, personal and public. 

 

 

 

 

 Tuesday, June 27 2017

 

Some good news during a family trip to Ireland: the acceptance of a poem in Tamba, a Shepparton literary magazine. 

 So here it is..... look forward to reading the whole issue...number 60. 

 

                                                      MONUMENTAL

                                           Western Hill.     Monument.  

                                     Straight as a die, white as a bone.

                                                   Lest we forget.

                                    Modest plaques spell out their names:

                                   boys who knew to dot ‘I’s and cross ‘t’s,

                                  put ‘i’ before ‘e’ except after ‘c,’ not forget

                                      full stops. Ypres. The Somme. Fromelles.  

                                                           Lost at sea.

                                                               1925.

                                              Architect, General, Builder, Mayor,

                                              smiling still up on Western Hill

                                                 for the camera, which blinks  

                                                      like an eye.

                                                               2015.

                                              Pre-dawn drizzle. Cars left empty.

                                                Dripping brollies, bowed heads:

                                                    the last phantom note.

                                                           Lest we forget.

                                          Her son tugs her coat.  ‘Ssh! Not yet!’

                                             Snub nosed impudent face,

                                                upthrust middle finger:             

                                          straight as a die, white as a bone.

   REVIEW         

 

   ‘If the world was just a sock’.  (by Mary Pomfret)                                   

    Living Like A Kelly    (Dorothy Simmons)                    

    Australian Scholarly Publishing 2015

    ISBN 9781925333138Pb 196pp

    AUD 24.95  

 

    As I started to read Living Like A Kelly, I had to wonder what else could possibly be written or debated                 about Ned Kelly, ‘a widow’s son outlawed’ (39), and the Kelly gang. Living Like A Kelly is, however, a

    woman’s story which privileges the female point of view and gives value to women’s work and honours

    female suffering.

 

    The novel begins with a coincidence. Journalist Brian Cookson’s brief is to investigate and write about the

    possibility of members of the Kelly gang, namely Dan Kelly and his friend Steve Hart, being alive and    

    living in Africa. A thunderstorm forces him to seek shelter in a cottage. And who should this cottage

    belong to? None other than the Kelly matriarch, the now elderly, Ellen Kelly. Cookson’s taking refuge from

    the elements bears some similarity to the beginning scenes in Charlotte Bronte’s Wuthering Heights,

    where Lockwood becomes finds himself trapped in a haunted room after finding refuge from a blizzard.

    However the fictionalised Brian Cookson is not part of a literary framing device as is the character

    Lockwood. Cookson’s story appears at intervals through the main plot trajectory and is secondary to the

    powerful heart of the novel: the dark internal, angst-filled and haunted world of Ellen Kelly and her

    memories, dreams and trauma.

   

    When Cookson crosses the threshold of Ned Kelly’s mother’s cottage, he surmises that here is a ‘cicada

    shell: brittle. Used Up’ (13). Ellen Kelly spends much of her time sitting by the fire, ‘Mending and minding,

    mending and minding’ (26), trying to make sense of her life and her loss. Dorothy Simmons portrays Ellen           Kelly’s internal landscape as ‘a place where it’s wild and windy and dark, a banshee hollow with voices cal

    calling and re-calling down through the years, across all the empty spaces’ (24). Simmons leads us into

    Ellen Kelly’s world through the metaphor of women’s work – done inside the home – stitching

    patchwork quilts, darning socks. But as Ellen knows, ‘the world’s no sock, and no amount of minding, no

    amount of thinking what if you hadn’t said this, what if you had said that, what if you’d bitten your

    tongue instead of letting fly … was ever going to mend it’ (18). Nevertheless, Ellen knows the value of

    work. It was work that helped her survive her three year jail sentence resulting from her attack on

    Constable Alexander Fitzpatrick who attempted to assault her daughter Kate Kelly. While she was in jail,

    after they took her baby Alice away from her, Ellen survived her captivity through work, ‘soaping and

    scrubbing and rinsing till her back ached’ pretending to herself that the sheets going through the mangle

    were ‘Fitzpatrick or Barry screaming as she squeezed every drop of blood out of them’ (70). At night,

    alone in her cell, ‘Her hate fogged the walls; curses clung like cobwebs, sticky and white’ (71).

    Simmons’ hints that Ellen’s relationship with her daughter Kate was not a simple one; that Ellen’s

    defence of Kate was not as straightforward as a mother defending her child. In a disagreement, Ellen

    yells at Kate, ‘Wagging your tail like a bitch in heat! You think I can’t see what’s in front of my own eyes?

    With a policeman, for chrissake!’ (55). I found this conflict between mother and daughter particularly

    intriguing, despite the fact that the causes are never really fleshed out, only hinted at. The conflict

    continues after Ned’s execution until Kate finally dies in what appears to be misadventure. But Ellen Kelly

    knows what killed her daughter and ‘it wasn’t the drink’ (81). It was ‘The fact of guilt’ (81) that killed Kate,

    as far her mother is concerned. Did Ellen blame her daughter for Ned’s death and her own jail sentence?

    In Simmons’ portrayal of the mother daughter relationship, Ellen seems especially disappointed that Kate

    takes part in ‘The Kelly Show’ (79), a theatrical performance in which Kate Kelly stars, the purpose of

    which is to raise money for the ‘Revolution’ (79). Ellen’s angry memory of her daughter’s part in this

    performance is, ‘She had rouge on again’ (79).

 

    According to historical records, Ellen Kelly was able to read but not write. It is interesting to muse

    whether Ned Kelly’s mother would have produced her own version of The Jerilderie Letter, the inspiration

    for Peter Carey’s novel The True History of the Kelly Gang, had she been able to write. Simmons surmises

    that Ellen wanted to release her trauma through the writing of it. ‘How much safer, though, how much

    surer, if you could just write it down’ (76) the old woman contemplates. ‘Specially the parts when she

    wasn’t there’ (76). Trauma haunts Simmon’s fictionalised Ellen Kelly as it may well have haunted the

    historic character. Disassociation is a well-known symptom of trauma, and in one of Ellen’s graphic

    dreamscapes in which she recalls the Fitzpatrick incident with Kate, she stands outside of herself and

    watches herself: ‘I’m standing outside the back window, looking in. I’m looking into the kitchen; that’s

    me in there, peeling the spuds’ (94).

    Dorothy Simmons’ Ellen Kelly has the authentic voice of a woman whose dire circumstances and

    traumatic memories hold her in captivity. According to Wilson, Ellen Kelly’s final words to her son, Ned,

    were: ‘Mind you die like a Kelly, son’ (Wilson 2005). Simmons writes with insight and realism. In Living

    Like a Kelly, Simmons appears to channel the thoughts of a historic character whose only way of coping

    with overwhelming loss is to mine her memories, over and over, as if by doing so, she can resurrect the

    past. Ellen Kelly’s son Jim worries about the way she seems to lose herself but, ‘She tells him it’s not

    losing, it’s finding’ (97).

     Works cited:

    Wilson, JZ 2005  ‘Kelly, Ellen (1832-1923)’, Australian Dictionary of Biography, National Centre of Biography,

    Australian National University, Canberra. Available at http://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/kelly-ellen-

    13021/text23543 (accessed 10 October 2015) return to text

     * Mary Pomfret completed a PhD in creative writing at La Trobe University in 2015. Her stories and poetry

       have been published widely in literary journals and Ginninderra Press has published two collections of

       her short fiction.

     Return to Contents Page
     Return to Home Page

   TEXT: Vol 19 No 2 October 2015
   http://www.textjournal.com.au
   General Editor: Nigel Krauth. Editors: Kevin Brophy & Enza Gandolfo
   Reviews editor: Linda Weste
   text@textjournal.com.au

March 2,  2018

There's fiction and microfiction... where less is more.

IN THE AIR

 

Over 50,000 people are in the air right now. But she’s not one of them.  On the wall of the departure lounge, the pretty poster child stares endlessly out of the plane window.  How much longer? She glances around:  why doesn’t the overloaded sky fall in, squash all these chicken lickens?  What does right now mean anyway? When it’s already right past, no sooner said than gone?  How did they count the 50,000? When? How can they know for sure?  They could redefine cloud streaming, some kind of cumulo-nimbus conveyer belt…   which her father, hands clasped in prayer, bound for glory, would simply rocket straight through. Her dear departed Dad: like that Irish comedian he used to quote, may your God go with you.

Boarding now, they said: five minutes later, please return to your seats. Why? What have they found? Some ticking time bomb? Should she be grateful instead of irate? Isn’t it better to be late than… the late? 

The gold braided steward is talking to his mobile again. Do we have lift off? Can we join the 50,000?

Boarding passes, please.  Finally. Why?  No answer. Nobody knows.  Nobody ever did.

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