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Open House
A striking new poetry collection from the author of The Conversation Open House reveals David Brooks' award - winning talent as a writer and imaginative scholar. Opening the house of his life and extending naturally the striking love poetry of his last volume, The Balcony, Brooks' arrestingly confessional poems range in scale from observations of the smallest creatures underfoot - stepped over, left in peace - to acknowledgments both of the smallness of human endeavour and the catastrophic effects of our custodianship. Vital in all senses, these are poems through which to view the world afresh. This much anticipated new volume is at once powerful, resonant and unreserved.
- GenresPoetry
188 pages, Paperback
First published January 28, 2015
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11 people want to read
About the author
David Brooks
55 books21 followersDavid Brooks has published several collections of poetry, short fiction and essays, and four novels, The House of Balthus (1995), The Fern Tattoo (2007), The Umbrella Club (2009) and The Conversation (2012). His work has been highly acclaimed, widely translated and anthologised, and shortlisted for the Miles Franklin, New South Wales Premier’s, Adelaide Festival and many other awards. In 2011 he published The Sons of Clovis: Ern Malley, Adoré Floupette, and a secret history of Australian poetry. He teaches Australian literature at the University of Sydney, is co-editor of the journal Southerly, lives in the Blue Mountains of New South Wales, and spends a small part of each year in a village on the sea coast of Slovenia.
Librarian Note: There is more than one author by this name.
Librarian Note: There is more than one author by this name.
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Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
March 17, 2015
As in any poetry collection, there will always be some poems that strike a chord more than others. Sometimes it is the sheer simplicity of a poem that grabs you. Into this category I would put ‘Autumn Twilight’ which was probably one of the poems that I liked best. ‘August’ is another. Only five succinct lines it is near to perfect. That’s not to say there aren’t plenty of other good poems in this collection, as they are.
David Brooks manages to capture small, seemingly insignificant moments well. I often found these and nature poems were the poems I enjoyed best. Another favourite was ‘Mist,’ which is a series of small moments recounted. The rhythm of the poems flow easily. In ‘Indian Mynahs’ I liked the link between birds building a nest and poetry. Others particularly liked included, ‘Driving Home’, ‘Mushroom Season’, ‘Mountain Night’, ‘Wild Ducks’, ‘White Cockatoos’, ‘Windmill’, ‘Apricots’, ‘Eight Miles’, ‘The Landing’, and ‘Swallows’. David Brooks even manages to write poems about cockroaches, stick insects and spiders. Not being a fan of creepy crawlies, I didn’t enjoy those as much, even though I could appreciate the skill in crafting the poems. Having read the one about ‘Spiders About the House’ before and finding it too creepy a subject, I skipped over that one. ‘Tinnitus’ is one that resonated with me and is cleverly done.
On the whole, I tended to prefer the nature poems rather than those with a more cynical or sardonic approach, but that’s just a personal preference. Whatever your preferred type of poetry, you should find something to please in this collection. I have no doubt I will come back and read some of these poems, if not all, again. I was very happy to receive this book of poetry from UQP to read and review.
As in any poetry collection, there will always be some poems that strike a chord more than others. Sometimes it is the sheer simplicity of a poem that grabs you. Into this category I would put ‘Autumn Twilight’ which was probably one of the poems that I liked best. ‘August’ is another. Only five succinct lines it is near to perfect. That’s not to say there aren’t plenty of other good poems in this collection, as they are.
David Brooks manages to capture small, seemingly insignificant moments well. I often found these and nature poems were the poems I enjoyed best. Another favourite was ‘Mist,’ which is a series of small moments recounted. The rhythm of the poems flow easily. In ‘Indian Mynahs’ I liked the link between birds building a nest and poetry. Others particularly liked included, ‘Driving Home’, ‘Mushroom Season’, ‘Mountain Night’, ‘Wild Ducks’, ‘White Cockatoos’, ‘Windmill’, ‘Apricots’, ‘Eight Miles’, ‘The Landing’, and ‘Swallows’. David Brooks even manages to write poems about cockroaches, stick insects and spiders. Not being a fan of creepy crawlies, I didn’t enjoy those as much, even though I could appreciate the skill in crafting the poems. Having read the one about ‘Spiders About the House’ before and finding it too creepy a subject, I skipped over that one. ‘Tinnitus’ is one that resonated with me and is cleverly done.
On the whole, I tended to prefer the nature poems rather than those with a more cynical or sardonic approach, but that’s just a personal preference. Whatever your preferred type of poetry, you should find something to please in this collection. I have no doubt I will come back and read some of these poems, if not all, again. I was very happy to receive this book of poetry from UQP to read and review.
David Brooks manages to capture small, seemingly insignificant moments well. I often found these and nature poems were the poems I enjoyed best. Another favourite was ‘Mist,’ which is a series of small moments recounted. The rhythm of the poems flow easily. In ‘Indian Mynahs’ I liked the link between birds building a nest and poetry. Others particularly liked included, ‘Driving Home’, ‘Mushroom Season’, ‘Mountain Night’, ‘Wild Ducks’, ‘White Cockatoos’, ‘Windmill’, ‘Apricots’, ‘Eight Miles’, ‘The Landing’, and ‘Swallows’. David Brooks even manages to write poems about cockroaches, stick insects and spiders. Not being a fan of creepy crawlies, I didn’t enjoy those as much, even though I could appreciate the skill in crafting the poems. Having read the one about ‘Spiders About the House’ before and finding it too creepy a subject, I skipped over that one. ‘Tinnitus’ is one that resonated with me and is cleverly done.
On the whole, I tended to prefer the nature poems rather than those with a more cynical or sardonic approach, but that’s just a personal preference. Whatever your preferred type of poetry, you should find something to please in this collection. I have no doubt I will come back and read some of these poems, if not all, again. I was very happy to receive this book of poetry from UQP to read and review.
As in any poetry collection, there will always be some poems that strike a chord more than others. Sometimes it is the sheer simplicity of a poem that grabs you. Into this category I would put ‘Autumn Twilight’ which was probably one of the poems that I liked best. ‘August’ is another. Only five succinct lines it is near to perfect. That’s not to say there aren’t plenty of other good poems in this collection, as they are.
David Brooks manages to capture small, seemingly insignificant moments well. I often found these and nature poems were the poems I enjoyed best. Another favourite was ‘Mist,’ which is a series of small moments recounted. The rhythm of the poems flow easily. In ‘Indian Mynahs’ I liked the link between birds building a nest and poetry. Others particularly liked included, ‘Driving Home’, ‘Mushroom Season’, ‘Mountain Night’, ‘Wild Ducks’, ‘White Cockatoos’, ‘Windmill’, ‘Apricots’, ‘Eight Miles’, ‘The Landing’, and ‘Swallows’. David Brooks even manages to write poems about cockroaches, stick insects and spiders. Not being a fan of creepy crawlies, I didn’t enjoy those as much, even though I could appreciate the skill in crafting the poems. Having read the one about ‘Spiders About the House’ before and finding it too creepy a subject, I skipped over that one. ‘Tinnitus’ is one that resonated with me and is cleverly done.
On the whole, I tended to prefer the nature poems rather than those with a more cynical or sardonic approach, but that’s just a personal preference. Whatever your preferred type of poetry, you should find something to please in this collection. I have no doubt I will come back and read some of these poems, if not all, again. I was very happy to receive this book of poetry from UQP to read and review.
November 13, 2018
6 stars - my favourite Australian poetry, so readable, comforting, thought-provoking, smile-inducing - poetry to fill your private well.
Winter Longing Poem:
Though I leave all the doors
and windows open
my longing for you
will not leave this house.
The Barbarians:
I have known these familes
upwards of a year now, new
neighbours in a rented house, generations
after generation, children and parents,
grandparents
and beyond. Coming in
each night from under the skirtings
to graze on the dry dogfood, striking out
over the white tiles of the kitchen floor
looking always for something more,
they can seem a kind of sluggish centaur
or young, just-antlered elk
crossing fresh-fallen snow
leaving their silver trails
so thickly on the entrance mat
you'd think it a magic carpet or
homage to the Milky Way.
In an earlier house, not long ago,
fearing for my precious lettuces
I'd have sprinkled salt on them
or caught them up in a paper towel
and left them outside for the birds,
but now, in what must be
a joke as much for them as me, I
coax them carefully into the long grass
at the bottom of our tiny yard, hoping
that the birds won't find them, well aware
they'll make their way back
the next night, or the night after that.
Tonight there are at least eleven of them
gathered about his bowl, chowing down
ravenously, as if they've come
from a long hike somewhere - a wedding,
say,
in the house next door, or funeral
on the far side of the patio.
Looking down, from my human height,
they seem a world away: 'we are not
compatible', I'm tempted to say: 'wherever
they go
is not where I would go';
'we are as different as moon and sun',
then shocked, stop myself, seeing
at last how the barbarians come.
Swallows:
4p.m., the hour
of the hundred swallows,
skimming the sky-coloured pool.
How hard
to write the simplest things,
these sabre-sharp wings,
severing words from their stems.
Each Other's Tongue:
Coming out before bed
to watch the moonlight from the deck
I hear a pump still working
and going down to turn it off
suddenly can see the moon properly
its rays reaching from horizon to horizon
playing on a receding edge of cloud
and on the winter grass
and on the backs of the sheep
who to my surprise are still up, watching
One comes over
and I scratch his neck
deep under the thickening wool,
bending over
to catch his hot breath on my cheek
and together we murmur about moonlight,
for one brief moment
understanding each other's tongue
Winter Longing Poem:
Though I leave all the doors
and windows open
my longing for you
will not leave this house.
The Barbarians:
I have known these familes
upwards of a year now, new
neighbours in a rented house, generations
after generation, children and parents,
grandparents
and beyond. Coming in
each night from under the skirtings
to graze on the dry dogfood, striking out
over the white tiles of the kitchen floor
looking always for something more,
they can seem a kind of sluggish centaur
or young, just-antlered elk
crossing fresh-fallen snow
leaving their silver trails
so thickly on the entrance mat
you'd think it a magic carpet or
homage to the Milky Way.
In an earlier house, not long ago,
fearing for my precious lettuces
I'd have sprinkled salt on them
or caught them up in a paper towel
and left them outside for the birds,
but now, in what must be
a joke as much for them as me, I
coax them carefully into the long grass
at the bottom of our tiny yard, hoping
that the birds won't find them, well aware
they'll make their way back
the next night, or the night after that.
Tonight there are at least eleven of them
gathered about his bowl, chowing down
ravenously, as if they've come
from a long hike somewhere - a wedding,
say,
in the house next door, or funeral
on the far side of the patio.
Looking down, from my human height,
they seem a world away: 'we are not
compatible', I'm tempted to say: 'wherever
they go
is not where I would go';
'we are as different as moon and sun',
then shocked, stop myself, seeing
at last how the barbarians come.
Swallows:
4p.m., the hour
of the hundred swallows,
skimming the sky-coloured pool.
How hard
to write the simplest things,
these sabre-sharp wings,
severing words from their stems.
Each Other's Tongue:
Coming out before bed
to watch the moonlight from the deck
I hear a pump still working
and going down to turn it off
suddenly can see the moon properly
its rays reaching from horizon to horizon
playing on a receding edge of cloud
and on the winter grass
and on the backs of the sheep
who to my surprise are still up, watching
One comes over
and I scratch his neck
deep under the thickening wool,
bending over
to catch his hot breath on my cheek
and together we murmur about moonlight,
for one brief moment
understanding each other's tongue
January 2, 2018
David Brooks' collection of poems takes me right to the core of domestic bliss and staggering personal reflection and memory. These poems allow me to feel the bite of the mountain air, voluptuous bush melody and the haunting memories of past debauchery. I wish that I too was safe within 'the clouds', walking my dog, and sleeping in the misty rain. I love any poetry which adds to the fantasy life that runs parallel to inner city living. . . One day. . .
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews