Featured Poet -
Frank Faust
"I would write to try to make a
still-life out of a situation so as to be able to understand it -
almost as a way of reassuring myself that I understood." -
Frank Faust
Frank Faust is a well known participant on
a number of on-line poetry lists. As this months PK Featured Poet
those of us who have benefited from Franks interesting and
down to earth comments on their work will be able to find out a
little more about the man behind the persona.
Featured Poet 3
- Frank Faust
My name is Frank Prem but I write my poetry
under the by-line of 'Faust' or 'Frank Faust'. The choice of
by-line came about a few years ago when I first gave in to
writing seriously, as a vocation, and decided to seek an audience
willing to read and critique my scribblings. I made a deal with
the devil to write my soul in return for the reward of being
read.
My parents, sister and myself and my
father's parents and their still young family emigrated to
Australia in 1957 from what is now known as Croatia, having spent
a year in Germany in transit. I was born in Hamburg during the
period of transition and was 10 months old when they arrived to
settle in the small town of Beechworth in country Victoria. My
mother's family all remained behind in either Croatia or Germany.
The primary reason for emigration was statelessness as one of the
aftermaths of war - our people were termed 'yugo-schwabs'
due to German ethnic connections and were dispossessed.
There were few immigrant families in the
Beechworth district, as most chose to settle in the cities of
Melbourne or Sydney. This had the mixed blessing, for me, of
growing up outside the immigrant enclaves, while also being an
obvious 'new Australian' subjected to the occasional taunting
that goes with being an outsider. To some extent I feel I've
always retained some capacity to be the outsider looking in and
analysing what others are doing. My first language was
Serbo-Croatian, with English only being learned after I attended
school.
I was fortunate to grow up in a gorgeous
rural environment with all the freedom that goes with being a
latch-key kid whose parents worked in the local mental
institution for long hours and too-frequent rostered shifts on
duty.
I was a bright kid with aspirations who
never made it past high school and had to make up for it with
many years of night school and distance education. I eventually
became a psychiatric nurse and had some small roles to play in
the revolution of the mental health system in Victoria during the
late 1980's and early 1990's.
These days I work as a freelance consultant
in health and disability services - still mainly in mental
health.
How/when did you start writing? Was
there anything that particularly influenced you?
As a troubled youth (is there anyone who
wasn't?) I indulged myself in adolescent scribblings and black
demeanour. My mother still drags out some of the drivel from my
adolescence, as though there might be some value or meaning, but
they only make me shudder.
My influences were the songwriters of
popular tunes and ballads. For years (and until quite recently)
when I wrote, I strove to produce verse that could hold it's own
as song (a completely wasted effort as I cannot play a note and
my singing makes dogs howl).
I think that what appealed to me most was
the sense of story and the way a song is complete - beginning,
middle and end. I also admire the way a good song can capture and
reflect, in a popularly accessible way, emotional states that men
in particular do not expose frequently.
My earliest effective writings were
attempts to capture the complexities I saw in my time as a
student psychiatric nurse. I would write to try to make a
still-life out of a situation so as to be able to understand it -
almost as a way of reassuring myself that I understood.
The writer that was my single greatest
influence was undoubtedly H. E. Bates - the master of the short
story.
Sadly, I have only very passing familiarity
with poets - Henry Lawson and Banjo Paterson being the standouts
- exemplars of bush writing and galloping rhyme.
Do you have any strong influences on
your writing now?
I started writing again in 1998 after a
break of many years where no words would flow. It is since then
that I have taken the craft seriously.
In that time the major influences have come
from singers, such as Emmy-Lou Harris and Lucinda Williams, and
Paul Kelly (a local artist), poets doing spoken word readings
every Saturday at the Dan O'Connell Hotel and other sites on the
Melbourne poetic map, and the poets that so generously give
feedback and appraisal online at PKList, the Pennine Poetry Works
and Ozpoet.
The discipline of looking critically and
constructively at the work of other poets with a view to
identifying patterns, forms and places where improvement is
possible or needed, and finding lines that take my breath away is
my first formal exposure to poetry and I am immensely grateful
for it. Feedback that I have received has resulted in a major
change in my writing style and (arguably) the discovery of my
poetic 'voice' which had previously been glimpsed but not fully
sighted.
I am still working at fuller revelation of
the elusive little bugger.
How do you write? Do you have any
particular method for writing - time of day?
I mainly write without a plan. I find a
phrase emerging in my mind and let that phrase grow to a stanza.
The first stanza shapes the ideas for the rest of the poem.
I prefer verse that has a form or shape,
though I don't really care what that form looks like. Often a
second and following stanzas will aim to reflect the shape of the
first.
I also like to include some stanzas that
change the pace of the reading - a little of the song structure
that remains in my mind.
I prefer to write every day - generally new
work. I have been accused of being prolific, but how can it be
otherwise? There is such a vast string of ideas floating through
the universe, and all that is needed is to put my hand in the air
to catch one, to look at it and to write it down.
Critique is of enormous assistance, not so
much for the individual suggestions (though these are very
helpful) but particularly in helping to identify major points of
weakness that need to be revisited.
Why do you write poetry?
Poetry has become a part of who I am. One
of my great fears is that the words will dry up again. I have to
write to reassure myself that I am still able to. I need to post
what I write to be reassured that it was worth the effort and to
know that I'm not fooling myself.
I write in the hope of touching the lives
of people that I have generally never met with comfort or
understanding or with joy.
Is there anything else you would like to
add?
The look of joy on a child's face when I
have composed a poem and created a little world, with them or for
them, is something I will carry with me to my grave as one of my
achievements while on this earth.
- POEMS
-
- ~~~~~~~~~~
- The Storyteller
- ~~~~~~~~~~
- A very early poem, and it shows in
form and style. 'The Storyteller'
- reflects a sentiment that I still
hold. I think readers (as an audience)
- respond best to stories that are well
written and that are the stuff of
- common life.
- Open my hands,
- Give you roses.
- Open my hands,
- Give you sun.
-
- I open my hands,
- You see worlds in their palms.
- Without you believing
- There are none.
-
- Open my hands,
- Walk the valleys.
- Open my hands,
- Climb the hills.
-
- If I open my hands
- To new worlds and magic charms,
- They came there
- By your will
-
- Open my hands,
- Fight the battles.
- Open my hands,
- Sail the seas.
-
- If I open my hands
- Into tempest or calm,
- We two may sail
- As we please.
-
- Open my arms,
- Taste a promise.
- Open my arms,
- Kiss your dreams.
-
- If I open my arms,
- Yes, if I open my arms
- To tell you my stories,
- Your dream is as real as it seems.
-
- ~~~~~~~~~~
- I Can Hardly Wait To Show You
- ~~~~~~~~~~
- A more recent piece, this describes a
little of the town I grew up in and
- the surrounding areas. It serves as an
introductory piece to a series of
- small poem-memoirs of my growing-up
days. The poem also reflects my current
- reluctance to use capitalisation and
punctuation. I have tried to reflect
- the rhythm I was seeking in the line
breaks. I have mixed success in this.
-
- july is finally gone and i am
breathing
- in the air of august a taste of
weather
- that teases promise of days
- when the sun is warm again
- and the shivers worn since may
- can be packed away for another season
-
- i can hardly wait to take you in the
sun
- to the places where my spirit lies
- along singing waters and scrubby trees
- the green and granite hills that never
stop calling
- and will not let me deny them
-
- i want to show you where i grew
- and what i saw when i was small
- if something remains of those things
- still so clear in the picture in my
mind
- of a small boy and a curious dog
- with a long way to travel from
breakfast
- to the coming darkness of evening
- on so many shining days
-
- will you walk with me on balmy days
- in the mayday hills and the woolshed
valley
- along the silver creek and orchards
- to the places where rabbits went to
ground
- before the sound of approaching
adventurers
- crossing the old scars left by miners
seeking gold dust
- where i also found small treasures
once
-
- take my hand in the main street
- of this town hewn from granite hills
- and i will tell you what once stood
here or there
- and you might help me rediscover what
i knew
- when i was in the springtime of my
life
- and before a later season comes
- to settle on my shoulders
-
- i can hardly wait to show you
-
- ~~~~~~~~~~
- Mrs O'Neill
- ~~~~~~~~~~
- This is the work of a student
psychiatric nurse. It was an attempt to
- capture and reflect some of the
complexities of situations I was witnessing
- or experiencing that were so far out
of my depth of experience that I felt a
- need to still them as an attempt to
understand.
-
- Born that way!
- Just a quirk of fate
- Made him how he is.
- And how do you fight fate?
- Live with it, that's how!
- And push him.
- Push him to try.
- To be like the rest.
- To feel the same.
- To feel important.
- To like himself.
- Push him!
-
- But you can't do that alone,
- And dad always gave in.
- When he showed his temper.
- When he had a tantrum.
- Dad always gave in
- 'do what you like but stop that
noise'.
- Dad indulged him.
- Couldn't deal with it.
- Was too weak with him.
- Wanted just a normal son.
- Tried to ignore the fits.
- Avoided the useless arm.
- Didn't dare to see
- What would break his heart,
- So he always gave in.
-
- And I pushed them both!
- I pushed and I pushed.
- I pushed and grew angry,
- And I pushed and I cried,
- And broke my own heart.
- I pushed and I knew,
- Knew I was losing the fight,
- Losing my love,
- Losing myself,
- Losing.
- Losing everything!
-
- You know,
- Dad O'Neill was always a big man.
- Big and burly,
- And strong, like a bullock.
- But when he grew ill
- Our boy was away.
- He didn't see the change.
- Dad's flesh fell away,
- till he was just a skeleton.
- Oh, I worked and I worked
- I nursed him
- Night and day!
- But, I grew weary, do you see?
- There was too much pushing,
- Too much nursing - both of them.
- Too, too weary,
- And too broken hearted.
- I'd had enough,
- I had to rest.
-
- Dad went to hospital.
- He was dead before morning.
- They said he just gave up.
-
- Oh, God, how could it be?
- How? So, so soon. How?
- I should have kept him,
- I know I should.
- I still can't believe
-
- There was nowhere for me.
- He wouldn't understand.
- Wouldn't accept.
- Hated me for failing.
- Shut his feelings off.
- Stopped it all, just cold.
- Withdrew away.
- Refused to go on living,
- Tried to change the dying,
- But, you can't do that.
-
- Oh, do I have to go on pushing?
- I want to stop.
- I want to cry.
- I want to cocoon myself away
- For a long, long, wintertime,
- Until I can start again.
- Until he can try for himself
- And I
- Can just be his mum.
- Oh, can anybody help us?
- Because we're so stuck.
- So helpless, so angry
- So sad.
- O'NEILL!!!
- Why did you need to go away
- And leave us?
- Or is the world
- Just trying to deceive us?
- Can that man,
- That good, good man,
- So grieve us this way?
-
- We needed him here,
- To live beside us,
- To be between us,
- We don't know how to live together.
-
- Oh, Neil,
- Why'd he have to go?
- And what, oh what,
- Will we do?
-
- ~~~~~~~~~~
- Picnic Story
- ~~~~~~~~~~
- This is a recent piece that tells of
some of the pleasures that come with
- growing up in my small patch of the
world. Please excuse the quasi-musical
- introduction. It's how the piece came
to me.
-
- papa said,
- mama, come on
- we've got to
- get away
- get away
- come on, I want to get away.
-
- mama, get
- the picnic pack
- and let's all
- get away
- get away
- mama, I'm taking you away.
-
- hurry little
- children
- we're near
- the getaway
- get away
- children, today we'll get away
-
- ~
- around the base of Mt Buffalo
- between Myrtleford and Porepunkah
- on the low green flats of the King
River
- where it snuggles under the purple of
uncleared hills
- that run up the sides of the mountain
- the business was mostly tobacco
- from seedlings in hop gardens
- to planting growing picking
- and finally drying in rows of kilns
- before packing dry leaf to market
-
- a picnic visit to friends there
- needed a weekend and three families
- starting before one dawn to end
- not long before the next
-
- the slaughtered pig was collected by
the men
- for transportation to an old bathtub
- and cleaning in scalding hot water
- that made the flesh stink from the
water-burn
- and seared the skin for close shaving
- with a deftly wielded cutthroat razor
- honed for the job on an old leather
strap
- that reminded me of school
-
- offal for sausages and exotic
concoctions
- was cooked in the squat copper laundry
tub
- kept for occasions such as these
- and heated by a small fire in the
grate
- tended with precision to the right
temperature
- by my father who would often tell me
- that the only thing wasted from a pig
- was the squeal
-
- a long wooden pole was chiselled
- to a sharp point at one end to act as
skewer
- and the pig was held together with
wooden pegs
- that served as buttons for a belly
- filled with apples and onions
- before suspension above glowing coals
- for slow roasting
-
- the women were busy with cooking
- and preparation of the sausages
- keeping up the food supply
- for the men with their
responsibilities for the pig
- and for the close supervision of the
women
- while consuming the pungent treasure
- of liquid fire 'rakiya'
- yielded by specially grown white plums
- lushly productive but never to be
eaten
-
- my Opa had a special job
- that came with the honour
- of being the elder of the gathering
- while he was sober enough
- he would sit at one end in the warm of
the fire
- and turn the pig for hours over the
coals
- at just the right speed with the
apples and onions
- tumbling in a hollow and settled
rhythm
-
- sometimes when it rained
- the job was only made tolerable
- by the constant replenishment of his
rakiya supplies
- and on those days another man
- would sometimes take over much earlier
from Opa
- as was only right on a wet day
-
- my own special job
- was to keep well out of the way
- by going with a friend into the low
hills
- with a shotgun and a rifle in hand
- to frighten rabbits and snakes
- until early evening brought us back
- with the enticement of fresh roasted
pork
- coming to us on the breeze
- and the singing dancing and strange
card games
- played in the lights that banished
shadows
- from the row of tobacco kilns
- until the women put the children to
bed
- and the men could no longer stand
-
- ~
-
- papa said
- mama, come on
- I want to
- dance with you
- dance with you
- hey mama, come and dance
-
- ~~~~~~~~~~
- A Stretch of the Sand
- ~~~~~~~~~~
- I find great inspiration from living
close to local beaches and the
- beautiful Port Phillip Bay. This
stretch of the sand is not (despite
- appearances) about the beach or the
bay, but about beauty of a different
- kind.
-
- stretching out
- golden in the light
- away to the edge of vision
-
- contours and ripples
- where the waters have come and gone
- to shape a resting place
- at low tide
-
- before the waves begin
- washing higher with every beat
- roaring loud
- as the wind cries out
-
- then moving again
- in the rhythm and play
- of a restless building up
- until taken
- like a breath withheld
- for a trembling moment
- before the ebb begins
-
- and there she lies for me
- reaching out in ripple lines
- to the edge of light
- as a line of gold
- and contours
- at low tide
-
- ~~~~~~~~~~
- Reading Modern Poets
- ~~~~~~~~~~
- Finally, a piece about writing, or at
least about reading to an audience, in
- a smoky pub hall. Plying the craft and
paying the dues.
-
- i'm reading some modern poets
- because somebody said i should
- or perhaps it's more true
- to say i'm glancing at them
- peering through their lives
- and between their verses
-
- i really don't care for poetry
-
- but maybe there's an interest
- in the reasons why
- they wrote this line or that
- (if someone's done the analysis)
-
- or even better if they know
- what the writer was all about
- in the middle of that night when
- he or she should have been sleeping
- instead of burning candles
- and putting words around
- a spark or a flame
- before it sputtered or went out
- or simply faded out of mind
- the way i find my thoughts do
-
- but i really don't care for poetry
-
- and i hope they aren't just dull and
boring
- people not fitted out for anything
better
- than a life by pen and ink
- and fluffy words that try to sidestep
- each obvious cliché and overworking
of tired rhyme
- i wonder if they read their poems in
bar-rooms
- to check the metre and the flow
- under a half-spot light with a
home-made lectern
- that made their pages fall down
- across the stage in the middle of a
verse
-
- and did they have an audience that
listened
- to what they said instead of only
hearing
- bursting guinness bubbles or laughing
out loud
- at the old guy that always sits there
on poetry days
- propped up in the corner and reciting
shakespeare
- from the vaults of a thespian youth
- still taking all his bows if there's
any clapping
-
- i'm reading some modern poets
- but i really don't care for poetry
- all that much
-
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