Find your bag and water-bottle, remind them you don’t have a hat. Holding Poppa’s hand, ask what’ll happen if a pussy cat does battle with a lion or cheetah, what do you think would be sweeter, toast with honey and baked beans or ice cream made on submarines? In the car to get your sister, watermelon yes, peach no, swimming lessons – 'I won't go!' Then a confidential whisper: 'Will I see my mummy soon?' A normal Wednesday afternoon
I have written this blog post on the land of Gadigal and Wangal of the Eora nation. I acknowledge Elders past and present of all those clans, and welcome any First Nations readers.
Tug Dumbly, Tadpoems: 400 Shorts (Flying Island Books 2024)
Most poetry books are at least a little intimidating to most people. Tadpoems is not one of them.
In an introductory note, Tug Dumbly (offstage name Geoff Forrester) calls the poems ‘little squibs’ and explains that many of them were born on walks, his mind ‘conversing with whatever it passes at the moment … or maybe just playing with words’. Most of them first appeared on Facebook. ‘A few,’ the note continues, ‘are shameless life-support systems for dad jokes’. It’s rare for a book of poetry to include such a clear and unassuming account of itself.
In addition to the 400 tiny poems, there are more than 40 photos, many of water scenes around Sydney, and close-ups of insects, birds and plants. The book is not only accessible fun, it’s also gorgeous.
It’s a book to be dipped into, enjoyed a moment at a time.
Many of the poems nudge the dad joke genre towards something satirical of even at times profound. One of my favourites:
After too much talk in the cultural hub it's good to wing home over a bay of beautiful banality.
I like this too:
Recycle. Be re-astounded by the same dear things.
Page 78* is a striking photo of a dead seagull among fallen jacaranda blossoms – a very Sydney image, and not at all typical of the abundant life in most of the book’s images. There are four ‘tadpoems’ opposite:
The poems include a throwaway, bitter criticism of the commodification of everything, ending with a mildly erudite reference to Arthur Sullivan’s song ‘The Lost Chord’:
Plus they found the Lost Chord. (You can't play it. It's owned by Sony.)
There’s a not-quite-successful joke about changeable weather, and a pun on lit crit terminology. I wouldn’t mind seeing the movie Narrative Ark
And a bit of wordplay that is exactly the kind of thing you can imagine happening in a wordy person’s mind as they go walking:
Went shopping when chopping wench hopping in the shopping centre. Unexpected item in the brain area.
It’s silly and makes no claims for itself, but something sticks. The last two lines could refer back to the first three. A paraphrase would be, ‘That discovery of homophones that just popped into my head is unexpected.’ A humourless discussion of the poem might use terms like metapoetic or recursive. One nerdy person might see a reference to shopping malls as pickup locales (I just googled “shopping mall pickup” and sure enough it’s a porn trope). Another might see the poem as enacting an important non-linear mode of mental activity. I think they’d be right, but I’d be too busy moving on to the next ‘squib’ to join the conversation.
It’s a friendly, unpretentious book. Reading it is a bit like going for a walk with someone who points out interesting things in the environment, and who shares his thought bubbles. He’s good company.
I have written this blog post on the land of Gadigal and Wangal of the Eora nation. I acknowledge Elders past and present of all those clans, and welcome any First Nations readers.
* My blogging practice is to focus on the page that coincides with my age, currently 78.
Me fail? I fly! 