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Earth Hour
David Malouf once again shows us why he is one of Australia’s most enduring and respected writers.
David Malouf’s new collection comes to rest at the perfect, still moment of ‘silence, following talk’ after its exploration of memory, imagination and mortality. With elegance and wit, these poems move from profound depths to whimsy and playfulness.
As Malouf interweaves light and dark, levity and gravity, he offers a vision of life on ‘this patch/of earth and its green things’, charting the resilience of beauty amidst stubborn human grace.
David Malouf’s new collection comes to rest at the perfect, still moment of ‘silence, following talk’ after its exploration of memory, imagination and mortality. With elegance and wit, these poems move from profound depths to whimsy and playfulness.
As Malouf interweaves light and dark, levity and gravity, he offers a vision of life on ‘this patch/of earth and its green things’, charting the resilience of beauty amidst stubborn human grace.
96 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2014
10 people are currently reading
104 people want to read
About the author
David Malouf
85 books302 followersDavid Malouf is a celebrated Australian poet, novelist, librettist, playwright, and essayist whose work has garnered international acclaim. Known for his lyrical prose and explorations of identity, memory, and place, Malouf began his literary career in poetry before gaining recognition for his fiction. His 1990 novel The Great World won the Miles Franklin Award and several other major prizes, while Remembering Babylon (1993) earned a Booker Prize nomination and multiple international honors.
Malouf has taught at universities in Australia and the UK, delivered the prestigious Boyer Lectures, and written libretti for acclaimed operas. Born in Brisbane to a Lebanese father and a mother of Sephardi Jewish heritage, he draws on both Australian and European influences in his work. He is widely regarded as one of Australia's most important literary voices and has been recognized with numerous awards, including the Neustadt International Prize for Literature and the Australia Council Award for Lifetime Achievement in Literature.
Malouf has taught at universities in Australia and the UK, delivered the prestigious Boyer Lectures, and written libretti for acclaimed operas. Born in Brisbane to a Lebanese father and a mother of Sephardi Jewish heritage, he draws on both Australian and European influences in his work. He is widely regarded as one of Australia's most important literary voices and has been recognized with numerous awards, including the Neustadt International Prize for Literature and the Australia Council Award for Lifetime Achievement in Literature.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 31 reviews
January 25, 2016
Toccata II
A man sits pen in hand, paper
before him. What is on his mind
he will set down now, the word not to be spoken
lightly. As if of all
his words this was the one that touched the heart
of things and made touch
the last sense of all as it was the first, and the word
that speaks it loaded
with all that came strongest, a planet's-worth
of sunlight, cooling green, the close comfort
of kind. It is the world he must set down
now, also lightly, each thing
changed yet as it was: in so many fumblings traced back
to the print of his fingertips still warm upon it, the warmth
that came when he was touched.
The last, as he sets it down, no more than
a breath, though much
that is still to be grasped may turn upon it.
A man sits pen in hand, paper
before him. What is on his mind
he will set down now, the word not to be spoken
lightly. As if of all
his words this was the one that touched the heart
of things and made touch
the last sense of all as it was the first, and the word
that speaks it loaded
with all that came strongest, a planet's-worth
of sunlight, cooling green, the close comfort
of kind. It is the world he must set down
now, also lightly, each thing
changed yet as it was: in so many fumblings traced back
to the print of his fingertips still warm upon it, the warmth
that came when he was touched.
The last, as he sets it down, no more than
a breath, though much
that is still to be grasped may turn upon it.
January 13, 2016
Retrospect
A day at the end of winter. Two young
men,
hooded against the silvery thin rain
that lights the forest boughs, are
making towards
a town that at this distance never gets
closer.
One of them, not me, as he turns,
impatient
for the other to catch up, wears even
now when I meet his face
in dreams, the look of one already
gone, already gone
too far into the forest; as when, last
night
in sleep, I looked behind me out of the
queue for an old movie and you
were there, hood thrown back, your
stack
of dirty-blond hair misted with sky-
wrack, and when
my heart leapt to greet you, No, your
glance
in the old conspiratorial way insisted,
Don’t speak, don’t recognise me. So I
did not
turn again but followed down the
track,
to where, all those years back, you
turned
and waited; and we went on
together at the bare end of winter,
breath from our mouths
still clouding the damp air, our
footsteps loud
on the rainlit cobbled street, down into
Sèvres.
A day at the end of winter. Two young
men,
hooded against the silvery thin rain
that lights the forest boughs, are
making towards
a town that at this distance never gets
closer.
One of them, not me, as he turns,
impatient
for the other to catch up, wears even
now when I meet his face
in dreams, the look of one already
gone, already gone
too far into the forest; as when, last
night
in sleep, I looked behind me out of the
queue for an old movie and you
were there, hood thrown back, your
stack
of dirty-blond hair misted with sky-
wrack, and when
my heart leapt to greet you, No, your
glance
in the old conspiratorial way insisted,
Don’t speak, don’t recognise me. So I
did not
turn again but followed down the
track,
to where, all those years back, you
turned
and waited; and we went on
together at the bare end of winter,
breath from our mouths
still clouding the damp air, our
footsteps loud
on the rainlit cobbled street, down into
Sèvres.
July 11, 2019
I’m still waiting, as star-dots click
and connect, to look up and find myself, with nothing I need say
or do, in its magic presence,
as from the far
far off of our separate realms, two rare
imaginary beasts approach and meet. On the breath that streams from
our mouths, a wordless out-of-the-body singing. On the same
note. From the same sheet.
and connect, to look up and find myself, with nothing I need say
or do, in its magic presence,
as from the far
far off of our separate realms, two rare
imaginary beasts approach and meet. On the breath that streams from
our mouths, a wordless out-of-the-body singing. On the same
note. From the same sheet.
March 30, 2020
Wow!
Library copy. To buy.
Also available in other formats for Lockdown.
ISBN (pbk) 9780 7022 50132
ISBN (PDF) 9780 7022 52570
ISBN (ePub) 9780 7022 52587
ISBN (Kindle) 9780 7022 52594
p.33 Long Story Short
This is brilliant. This poem takes a light to holding grievances. They eventually destroy the holder.
"The Book of Grievances has its roots
In singular griefs, A man has his list,
his hit list. Writes down times
and places where the knife went in, was twisted. Writes it down in the ample folder of
his heart as we call it, to be underlined
in red and revisited. The gun he keeps
oiled is also there in the heart's darkness.
He takes it up and aims. Somebody falls, only he knows who
and where. In the place where grief
began and the wrong was done. When the dead
are as many as his griefs and the books are balanced he too will be done.
The book, like the gun, is as warmly secret
in him as hoarded sweets. Along with the rough plan sometime soon
to light out to the Territory, and once
gone send back no message."
Library copy. To buy.
Also available in other formats for Lockdown.
ISBN (pbk) 9780 7022 50132
ISBN (PDF) 9780 7022 52570
ISBN (ePub) 9780 7022 52587
ISBN (Kindle) 9780 7022 52594
p.33 Long Story Short
This is brilliant. This poem takes a light to holding grievances. They eventually destroy the holder.
"The Book of Grievances has its roots
In singular griefs, A man has his list,
his hit list. Writes down times
and places where the knife went in, was twisted. Writes it down in the ample folder of
his heart as we call it, to be underlined
in red and revisited. The gun he keeps
oiled is also there in the heart's darkness.
He takes it up and aims. Somebody falls, only he knows who
and where. In the place where grief
began and the wrong was done. When the dead
are as many as his griefs and the books are balanced he too will be done.
The book, like the gun, is as warmly secret
in him as hoarded sweets. Along with the rough plan sometime soon
to light out to the Territory, and once
gone send back no message."
March 30, 2014
This quiet, almost modest collection is like the annual environmental hour with which it shares it's name.
It possesses a common stillness made fine by the deliberateness of its boundaries.
It possesses a common stillness made fine by the deliberateness of its boundaries.
November 30, 2017
Spleen
I’m like the king of a rain-soaked Low Country, young,
rich, effete, grown old before his time,
and bored, bored to extinction by his kennel
of fawning grey preceptors, his dogs, his roe-deer,
his falcon, all his beasts, and the people howling
for bread at his forecourt gate. Even Sir Fool,
his shadow once and bawdy dwarf familiar,
now stales, a peevish sad-sack. The great bed
where he’s laid, with its fleur-de-lys, has become his tomb,
and the ladies who surround it, for whom a prince
is Bold always, or Fair, as they toy with a tie-string
here, an eyelet there, raise in this death’s head
no spark of the old quick leap to concupiscence,
nor can alchemists, as they fossick and assay
his stools, sniff out the prime cause of corruption
in him, or bloodbaths, in the high Roman style
passed down by senile tyrants, revive in organ
and nerve dulled to stupor a warmth past all
rekindling, manly vigours now long spent.
Not blood swells these writhen veins but the green putrescent
slime that clogs the slow tide of Lethe.
Rondeau
As long as
the stock keeps turning
overas long
as spring keeps knocking
on wood and willows bud
as long as
Jane and Jed and Lou are still rocking
on and have got
my numberas long as
a wet weekend in bed
with you in chill November
just the two
of us and maybe Sting
as long
as long as a piece of string
I’m like the king of a rain-soaked Low Country, young,
rich, effete, grown old before his time,
and bored, bored to extinction by his kennel
of fawning grey preceptors, his dogs, his roe-deer,
his falcon, all his beasts, and the people howling
for bread at his forecourt gate. Even Sir Fool,
his shadow once and bawdy dwarf familiar,
now stales, a peevish sad-sack. The great bed
where he’s laid, with its fleur-de-lys, has become his tomb,
and the ladies who surround it, for whom a prince
is Bold always, or Fair, as they toy with a tie-string
here, an eyelet there, raise in this death’s head
no spark of the old quick leap to concupiscence,
nor can alchemists, as they fossick and assay
his stools, sniff out the prime cause of corruption
in him, or bloodbaths, in the high Roman style
passed down by senile tyrants, revive in organ
and nerve dulled to stupor a warmth past all
rekindling, manly vigours now long spent.
Not blood swells these writhen veins but the green putrescent
slime that clogs the slow tide of Lethe.
Rondeau
As long as
the stock keeps turning
overas long
as spring keeps knocking
on wood and willows bud
as long as
Jane and Jed and Lou are still rocking
on and have got
my numberas long as
a wet weekend in bed
with you in chill November
just the two
of us and maybe Sting
as long
as long as a piece of string
September 12, 2022
Malouf more like Ma-stfu
January 11, 2023
For quite a number of years now I've been in the habit of reading poetry in the late evening before I go to bed. I usually have a small stack of books I choose poems from and, I must say, the stack I'm working on right now is fantastic. I just completed Earth Hour by David Malouf last evening. I've read just about all of his fiction but this is my first book of poetry by him and it just confirms my theory that great writers are, in reality, great poets. My favorite poem in the book is the following titled Retrospect:
A day at the end of winter. Two young men,
hooded against the silvery thin rain
that lights the forest boughs, are making towards
a town that at this distance never gets closer.
One of them, not me, as he turns, impatient
for the other to catch up, wears even now when I meet his face
in dreams, the look of one already gone, already gone
too far into the forest; as when, last night
in sleep, I looked behind me out of the queue for an old
movie and you
were there, hood thrown back, your stack
of dirty-blond hair misted with sky-wrack, and when
my heart leapt to greet you, No, your glance
in the old conspiratorial way insisted,
Don't speak, don't recognise me. So I did not
turn again but followed down the track,
to where, all those years back, you turned
and waited; and we went on
together at the bare end of winter, breath from our mouths
still clouding the damp air, our footsteps loud
on the rainlit cobbled street, down into Sevres.
A day at the end of winter. Two young men,
hooded against the silvery thin rain
that lights the forest boughs, are making towards
a town that at this distance never gets closer.
One of them, not me, as he turns, impatient
for the other to catch up, wears even now when I meet his face
in dreams, the look of one already gone, already gone
too far into the forest; as when, last night
in sleep, I looked behind me out of the queue for an old
movie and you
were there, hood thrown back, your stack
of dirty-blond hair misted with sky-wrack, and when
my heart leapt to greet you, No, your glance
in the old conspiratorial way insisted,
Don't speak, don't recognise me. So I did not
turn again but followed down the track,
to where, all those years back, you turned
and waited; and we went on
together at the bare end of winter, breath from our mouths
still clouding the damp air, our footsteps loud
on the rainlit cobbled street, down into Sevres.
January 21, 2016
I am obviously out of practise reading poetry! While I will not pretend that I understood all or even most of the poems in this collection, they did elicit in me a range of emotions. Many seemed to be about mortality and the inevitability of death. Many also were beautifully composed commentaries of life; everyday, common details we often ignore, but when seen through a poet’s eye seem joyous and miraculous. I had several favourites, in particular ‘Whistling in the Dark’ and ‘Shy Gifts’, mostly the ones I felt a personal connection with. I believe I will revisit this volume in the not too distant future to reread especially the poems I failed to understand this time. I feel confident that each time I read ‘Earth Hour’ I will gain a deeper understanding and appreciation which will no doubt reflect my own personal situation and context at that time. I seem to remember that is what great poetry is all about.
August 31, 2025
This collection of poetry was very unique and evokes a lot of meaning into the cyclical nature of time and memory and the interconnectedness of humanity and nature.
August 18, 2021
hi
david
you tried
david
you tried
April 14, 2014
Reading these poems felt to me a little like floating in a warm pool of the poet's subconscious. You are taken to another place, and gently guided by the subtle currents of his words. I've been delighting in Malouf's short stories - the way that he can paint a deeply sensuous portrait of a time and place with the lightest of touches, and these poems take that even further. Some are sharply witty, others truly ethereal, but I'm sure this is a book I'll dip into again and again.
June 12, 2014
I love these poems. Malouf is still producing exquisite poetry well into his advanced years. He just makes you feel such joy in the sounds of the English language. He does it in his prose as well. I spent most of the day today looking at essays based on your exquisite novel, Ransom, and while not all of them were that great, they had enough quotes to remind me what a master you are at what you do. Thank you, Mr Malouf.
January 28, 2014
‘… brims with the intelligence, elegance and wit we have come to expect from Malouf. Discover the pleasures of this volume for yourself.’ - Stephen Romei, Weekend Australian
May 21, 2014
Beautiful, tender and wise, DM at 80 still gets inside the head and heart in equal measures.
December 19, 2015
Some nice poems in this but must admit Malouf's writing is a bit too ponderous and stylized for me much of the time. One of the poems that I quite liked was "Trees".
August 29, 2019
Nightsong, Nightlong -
Below in a garden
thicket, out
of sight under moonstruck leaves, a scrap of dust
that sings. But no more dark,
because it is unseen and the night
so wide that surrounds it,
than the heart, which is just its size
in the body's dark, and hidden.
Small miracles, both. Hour
on hour without cease,
assured, lightly insistent,
they beat against stillness.
I'm here. I'm still here.
Still now and listen.
Eternal Moment at Poggia Modonna -
Miss Mischa in her cool
reclusion curls on the mat.
Has a feel for
creaturely comforts and has sniffed out
this spot, though nothing
in nature or that the eye
can see marks it as special.
The sort of animal
warmth that a cat
is drawn to in a cold house; as if
the sun, centuries back,
in a burst of candescence,
had danced there, and the glow of
its presence can still be felt,
or a young god happening by had stopped
a moment to shake
a pebble from his shoe, and found
his soul struck by a mortal
dweller of the place, and the bewilderment
of instant attraction, eternal
loss still draws him back.
Miss M. has found it out. Basks
in the sun’s warmth even
at midnight; dreams of a cat
that sleeps inside the sleep
of one who, without waking,
from his tall cloud leans godlike
down and lovingly strokes her.
Below in a garden
thicket, out
of sight under moonstruck leaves, a scrap of dust
that sings. But no more dark,
because it is unseen and the night
so wide that surrounds it,
than the heart, which is just its size
in the body's dark, and hidden.
Small miracles, both. Hour
on hour without cease,
assured, lightly insistent,
they beat against stillness.
I'm here. I'm still here.
Still now and listen.
Eternal Moment at Poggia Modonna -
Miss Mischa in her cool
reclusion curls on the mat.
Has a feel for
creaturely comforts and has sniffed out
this spot, though nothing
in nature or that the eye
can see marks it as special.
The sort of animal
warmth that a cat
is drawn to in a cold house; as if
the sun, centuries back,
in a burst of candescence,
had danced there, and the glow of
its presence can still be felt,
or a young god happening by had stopped
a moment to shake
a pebble from his shoe, and found
his soul struck by a mortal
dweller of the place, and the bewilderment
of instant attraction, eternal
loss still draws him back.
Miss M. has found it out. Basks
in the sun’s warmth even
at midnight; dreams of a cat
that sleeps inside the sleep
of one who, without waking,
from his tall cloud leans godlike
down and lovingly strokes her.
September 27, 2024
David Malouf is an unbelievably beautiful writer, I just wish I was able to understand some of the more cryptic elements of this collection! I think that’s a me problem though hahaha.
A cute poem I enjoyed:
Eternal moment at Poggio Madonna
Miss Mischa in her cool
reclusion curls on the mat.
has a feel for
creaturely comforts and has sniffed out
this spot, though nothing
in nature or that they eye
can see marks it as special.
The sort of animal
warmth that a cat
is drawn to in a cold house; as if
the sun, centuries back,
in a burst of candescence,
has danced there, and the glow of
it’s presence can still be felt,
or a young god happening by had stopped
a moment to shake
a pebble from his shoe, and found
his soul struck by a mortal
dweller if the place, and the bewilderment
of instant attraction, eternal
loss, still draws him back.
Miss M. Has found it out. Basks
in the suns warmth even
at midnight; dreams of a cat
that sleeps inside the sleep
of one who, without waking,
from his tall cloud leans godlike
down and loving strokes her.
A cute poem I enjoyed:
Eternal moment at Poggio Madonna
Miss Mischa in her cool
reclusion curls on the mat.
has a feel for
creaturely comforts and has sniffed out
this spot, though nothing
in nature or that they eye
can see marks it as special.
The sort of animal
warmth that a cat
is drawn to in a cold house; as if
the sun, centuries back,
in a burst of candescence,
has danced there, and the glow of
it’s presence can still be felt,
or a young god happening by had stopped
a moment to shake
a pebble from his shoe, and found
his soul struck by a mortal
dweller if the place, and the bewilderment
of instant attraction, eternal
loss, still draws him back.
Miss M. Has found it out. Basks
in the suns warmth even
at midnight; dreams of a cat
that sleeps inside the sleep
of one who, without waking,
from his tall cloud leans godlike
down and loving strokes her.
June 21, 2020
The novelist kind of vibe really came through from these poems. It was really easy to visualise what he was describing, which I really liked. Malouf is a fantastic writer and he's really great with imagery. Also there were a bunch of weird words. I don't love having to google a word while I'm trying to get into the poetry flow but they didn't occur frequently enough for me to get really frustrated. Maybe it's just because I've been reading her recently, but I thought there were a bunch of similarities between Malouf and Mary Oliver's work. There was a really big focus on setting and interaction with environments, obviously from a collection called Earth Hour you should really expect that. I liked how some poems where in the style of others. I also don't know what else to say. Poetry is not my forte. I'm off to a good start with Malouf and expect more great stuf!!
February 4, 2022
An absolutely beautiful collection of poetic works. Extremely special and intimate. Feels like a lonely voice in the crowd speaking directly to your soul.
Found this poetry collection so soothing, Malouf has such a command of language and how the different rhythms and timbres affect the reader/the body. Absolutely beautiful. Transports you to a quiet and tranquil place.
Both ambiguous and universal in prose, theme, and understanding.
Loved it.
Found this poetry collection so soothing, Malouf has such a command of language and how the different rhythms and timbres affect the reader/the body. Absolutely beautiful. Transports you to a quiet and tranquil place.
Both ambiguous and universal in prose, theme, and understanding.
Loved it.
July 23, 2024
I’ve recently been reading all the poetry I can get my hands on. I’m trying to get an education in poetry, because I’ve been writing it for a year and a half. This was prettily written and well structured and the book looks lovely. Unfortunately for me, I didn’t understand what the poems were about half the time. I prefer straight-talking poems that talk to the heart of things, it’s probably just a me thing.
June 11, 2018
Coming off reading simple YA/ children’s novels in verse, this was obviously a very different style of poetry! Malouf is a brilliant writer but these poems seem wanky, very introspective and self-absorbed (and then I read “Windows” and my suspicions were confirmed!).
June 25, 2019
i love these poems!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
February 14, 2024
If poetry is going to be thematically obscure, then I'd like it to at least be aesthetically beautiful - and most of Malouf's poems failed to deliver that (to my specific tastes).
June 24, 2024
I don’t really vibe with poetry but this kinda slayed
May 31, 2025
enjoyed this the most in the hsc probably because i like poetry. some of it is good and some of it i just don’t resonate with but overall pretty good.
August 11, 2024
Yeaaah mostly incomprehensible word salad.
Out of the 50 or more poems, the ones I liked were:
Ladybird
An aside to the sublime
Two odes of Horace
The brothers: Morphine and Death
Persimmon
Eternal moment at Poggio Madonna
Night poem
Shy gifts
At Lerici
Out of the 50 or more poems, the ones I liked were:
Ladybird
An aside to the sublime
Two odes of Horace
The brothers: Morphine and Death
Persimmon
Eternal moment at Poggio Madonna
Night poem
Shy gifts
At Lerici
March 13, 2017
"History is made up
Of nights such as this when little happens.
The blissful friction and pointillist
throb of night music
is older, runs deeper
than speech. An electric
flicker the planet's first
incidence of traffic.
Then heartbeat. Then thought.
We sit in the warm dark watching
container-ships ride
on blue-black moonlit glitters.
After long
journeying arrived at the high tide
of silence, after talk."
*
The perfect poem to end the night on.
Of nights such as this when little happens.
The blissful friction and pointillist
throb of night music
is older, runs deeper
than speech. An electric
flicker the planet's first
incidence of traffic.
Then heartbeat. Then thought.
We sit in the warm dark watching
container-ships ride
on blue-black moonlit glitters.
After long
journeying arrived at the high tide
of silence, after talk."
*
The perfect poem to end the night on.
January 2, 2016
The Neustadt International Prize for Literature is a biennial award sponsored by the University of Oklahoma and World Literature Today.
The Prize consists of $50,000, a replica of an eagle feather cast in silver, and a certificate. A generous endowment from the Neustadt family of Ardmore, Oklahoma, and Dallas, Texas, ensures the award in perpetuity.
The prize was established in 1969 as the Books Abroad International Prize for Literature, then renamed the Books Abroad / Neustadt Prize before assuming its present name in 1976, The Neustadt International Prize for Literature. It is the first international literary award of this scope to originate in the United States and is one of the very few international prizes for which poets, novelists, and playwrights are equally eligible.
Previous Laureates of the Neustadt International Prize for Literature include Gabriel García Márquez, Octavio Paz, Rohinton Mistry and in 2000 David Malouf became the sixteenth Neustadt Laureat. This year the winner was Dubravka Ugrešić, born in the former Yugoslavia and now residing in Amsterdam, I aim to get to a few of her works in 2016, once I read and digest the wonderful “Music & Literature No. 6” where there are 100 pages of literary criticism, “A Story about How Stories Come to Be Written” (translated by David Willliams), seven prints by Dubravka Ugrešić and a listing of her complete works. This “Music & Literature” edition also includes Alejandra Pizarnik and Victoria Polevá, an edition I’ll eventually get around to reading.
In becoming the sixteenth Neustadt Laureat David Malouf beat a field including V.S. Naipaul, Augusto Monterroso, and N. Scott Momaday. Previously shortlisted for the Booker Prize in 1993 for “Remembering Babylon” where nominating juror Ihab Hassan said “And right there I saw a glimmer of his gift: wakefulness and precision of feeling, blended in wonder, and a delicacy that can surprise the mystery of creation itself. It was this elusive quality, inward with his poetic sensibility, a quality akin to love, that first drew me to the work of David Malouf” (“Encomium: David Malouf,” World Literature Today Vol. 74, Autumn 2000). He has wont eh Commonwealth Writers’ Prize and the French Priz Femina Etranger for his 1990 work “The Great World” and would be also known for his novels “An Imaginary Life” (1978), “Fly Away Peter” (1982), and “Ransom” (2009). Lesser known, or less publicized works include his poetry collections, “Neighbors in a Thicket” (1974), “Wild Lemons” (1980), and “Typewriter Music” (2007).
It is his latest poetry collection that I look at today, shortlisted for the 2015 Prime Minister’s Literary Award for poetry, “Earth Hour”.
Our collection opens with ‘Aquarius’, the constellation not the astrology sign I assume, “There is more to darkness than nightfall”, setting the tone for a journey through the realms, through the soil, human memory and our environment.
For my full review go to http://messybooker.blogspot.com.au/20...
The Prize consists of $50,000, a replica of an eagle feather cast in silver, and a certificate. A generous endowment from the Neustadt family of Ardmore, Oklahoma, and Dallas, Texas, ensures the award in perpetuity.
The prize was established in 1969 as the Books Abroad International Prize for Literature, then renamed the Books Abroad / Neustadt Prize before assuming its present name in 1976, The Neustadt International Prize for Literature. It is the first international literary award of this scope to originate in the United States and is one of the very few international prizes for which poets, novelists, and playwrights are equally eligible.
Previous Laureates of the Neustadt International Prize for Literature include Gabriel García Márquez, Octavio Paz, Rohinton Mistry and in 2000 David Malouf became the sixteenth Neustadt Laureat. This year the winner was Dubravka Ugrešić, born in the former Yugoslavia and now residing in Amsterdam, I aim to get to a few of her works in 2016, once I read and digest the wonderful “Music & Literature No. 6” where there are 100 pages of literary criticism, “A Story about How Stories Come to Be Written” (translated by David Willliams), seven prints by Dubravka Ugrešić and a listing of her complete works. This “Music & Literature” edition also includes Alejandra Pizarnik and Victoria Polevá, an edition I’ll eventually get around to reading.
In becoming the sixteenth Neustadt Laureat David Malouf beat a field including V.S. Naipaul, Augusto Monterroso, and N. Scott Momaday. Previously shortlisted for the Booker Prize in 1993 for “Remembering Babylon” where nominating juror Ihab Hassan said “And right there I saw a glimmer of his gift: wakefulness and precision of feeling, blended in wonder, and a delicacy that can surprise the mystery of creation itself. It was this elusive quality, inward with his poetic sensibility, a quality akin to love, that first drew me to the work of David Malouf” (“Encomium: David Malouf,” World Literature Today Vol. 74, Autumn 2000). He has wont eh Commonwealth Writers’ Prize and the French Priz Femina Etranger for his 1990 work “The Great World” and would be also known for his novels “An Imaginary Life” (1978), “Fly Away Peter” (1982), and “Ransom” (2009). Lesser known, or less publicized works include his poetry collections, “Neighbors in a Thicket” (1974), “Wild Lemons” (1980), and “Typewriter Music” (2007).
It is his latest poetry collection that I look at today, shortlisted for the 2015 Prime Minister’s Literary Award for poetry, “Earth Hour”.
Our collection opens with ‘Aquarius’, the constellation not the astrology sign I assume, “There is more to darkness than nightfall”, setting the tone for a journey through the realms, through the soil, human memory and our environment.
For my full review go to http://messybooker.blogspot.com.au/20...
October 13, 2014
Read for the Aussie Readers Spring Challenge 2014
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