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The Peninsula
A Journal
Written over the course of a year, A Journal engages with worlds natural and domestic, allowing the differing voices of a human life the space to communicate. These interlinked voices – engaged, trivial, wondering, sensual – create a narrative of a year, encompassing change, illness, despair and moments of great happiness.
“I decided to limit my engagement to what might be manageable on a daily basis. The form the limitation took was to allow myself the same number of words as the date, e.g. for the first of the month, I’d have a one-word allowance for the day, for the second two words, and so on until the maximum daily engagement of thirty-one words.” – J.M. Walsh
“I decided to limit my engagement to what might be manageable on a daily basis. The form the limitation took was to allow myself the same number of words as the date, e.g. for the first of the month, I’d have a one-word allowance for the day, for the second two words, and so on until the maximum daily engagement of thirty-one words.” – J.M. Walsh
- GenresPoetry
104 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2020
13 people want to read
About the author
J.M. Walsh
65 books2 followersJames Morgan Walsh also wrote as H. Haverstock Hill, Stephen Maddock, George M. White and Jack Carew.
Walsh was born in Geelong and educated in Melbourne and is best known as an extremely prolific writer of crime mysteries, mostly set in England. His first novel, Tap-Tap Island (1921), was first serialised in the Melbourne Leader, his second, The Lost Valley(1921), was a prize-winner in the C.J. De Garis competition; his third was Overdue (1925). After experience in auctioneering and book-selling, Walsh visited England in 1925 to negotiate with publishers, returned to Victoria but left for permanent residence in England in 1929. Pseudonyms he used include 'John Carew', 'George M. White' and 'H. Haverstock Hill'; he also wrote in collaboration with E.J. Blythe and Audry Baldwin. His first three novels, which are adventure romances, are set in New Guinea and western Victoria and he also wrote two Australian detective stories, The Man behind the Curtain (1927) and The League of Missing Men (1927). The five adventure stories that he wrote under the pseudonym 'H. Haverstock Hill', Anne of Flying Gap(1926), Spoil of the Desert (1927), The Golden Isle (1928), Golden Harvest (1929) and The Secret of the Crater (1930), range between New Guinea, the Northern Territory, Gippsland, WA and the South Seas.
Walsh was born in Geelong and educated in Melbourne and is best known as an extremely prolific writer of crime mysteries, mostly set in England. His first novel, Tap-Tap Island (1921), was first serialised in the Melbourne Leader, his second, The Lost Valley(1921), was a prize-winner in the C.J. De Garis competition; his third was Overdue (1925). After experience in auctioneering and book-selling, Walsh visited England in 1925 to negotiate with publishers, returned to Victoria but left for permanent residence in England in 1929. Pseudonyms he used include 'John Carew', 'George M. White' and 'H. Haverstock Hill'; he also wrote in collaboration with E.J. Blythe and Audry Baldwin. His first three novels, which are adventure romances, are set in New Guinea and western Victoria and he also wrote two Australian detective stories, The Man behind the Curtain (1927) and The League of Missing Men (1927). The five adventure stories that he wrote under the pseudonym 'H. Haverstock Hill', Anne of Flying Gap(1926), Spoil of the Desert (1927), The Golden Isle (1928), Golden Harvest (1929) and The Secret of the Crater (1930), range between New Guinea, the Northern Territory, Gippsland, WA and the South Seas.
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
March 6, 2025
A Journal (2020) by J.M. Walsh is an experimental account of April 2017 through to the end of March the following year. Each entry, though undated, is identifiable by a very specific constriction: the number of words should match the day in the month. Thus the first day must be a single word, the second day two words, and so on up to the thirty-first day.
What can be conveyed by a single word? The first entry is ‘Bird’, and we’re left to ponder what could be meant by this. Is a real bird being referenced, or something else? An illustration, perhaps. Things remain unclear - each day is new, after all - but more references to birds abound as the month unfolds with mentions of a hawk and a woodpecker, and “Dawn birds full of rumours: / giddy, indiscreet.”
As the months roll on, we start to see glimpses of the author’s life - friends; cats; an interest perhaps in churches; a comfort in music. At one point doubt creeps into the project. (“Is this project faltering? As engagement, it meets its book, but what fails is its soil: what muted emptiness you try to muscle pleasure from—“). This teasing out of a character from behind the often unrelated entries is vaguely reminiscent of David Markson’s Notecard quartet
What we really learn about the writer is his appreciation of the natural world, of being among it and feel the disappointment of a few days’ rain and being stuck indoors (“I have lost my connection to the outer world of nature.”). How the world is processed and presented is enjoyable: Broad beans’ “green skin, slick as eyelids“ and “flung rain” are nicely evocative. That the month of October is spent almost exclusively meditating on a spider and her web (“giant’s fingerprint”) shows that it’s not all random musings; the impressionist mode is cumulative.
Though there’s a steady progression through the year, it’s hard to call it a narrative. But the pleasure is in taking each entry and giving it room for consideration. Not every entry landed with me, but I certainly appreciate those that gave me insights or made me consider the world from a new angle, such as the restlessness of a hand (“At rest— what is it you’re not holding?”) or, having attended an avant-garde gallery (“I spoke to no one yet felt home.”).
Those passages that stir something are mere flashes in the arc of the book’s year. Some are perhaps too personal or too oblique to see the journal unfold easily to an outsider. But it’s an interesting mix of observations and admissions - of nature’s cycle; of human aging, respectively - that looks to multiple modes of expression, be that the poetry where doors “slam gunshot shut”, an impromptu haiku, or , in lines like “music can parse rain”, a ponderable observation.
Each entry, their potential expanding with each day, opens themselves up to this sort of experimentation, keeping things fresh as the journal progresses. And when the end of March approaches, as the experiment comes also to its conclusion, there’s a satisfying few days of reflection that assess the project itself and the spending of time. “Did you enjoy yourself? Walsh asks himself. His reply; “Less than half the time.” Can the same be said by myself? A little more, maybe; just about.
What can be conveyed by a single word? The first entry is ‘Bird’, and we’re left to ponder what could be meant by this. Is a real bird being referenced, or something else? An illustration, perhaps. Things remain unclear - each day is new, after all - but more references to birds abound as the month unfolds with mentions of a hawk and a woodpecker, and “Dawn birds full of rumours: / giddy, indiscreet.”
As the months roll on, we start to see glimpses of the author’s life - friends; cats; an interest perhaps in churches; a comfort in music. At one point doubt creeps into the project. (“Is this project faltering? As engagement, it meets its book, but what fails is its soil: what muted emptiness you try to muscle pleasure from—“). This teasing out of a character from behind the often unrelated entries is vaguely reminiscent of David Markson’s Notecard quartet
What we really learn about the writer is his appreciation of the natural world, of being among it and feel the disappointment of a few days’ rain and being stuck indoors (“I have lost my connection to the outer world of nature.”). How the world is processed and presented is enjoyable: Broad beans’ “green skin, slick as eyelids“ and “flung rain” are nicely evocative. That the month of October is spent almost exclusively meditating on a spider and her web (“giant’s fingerprint”) shows that it’s not all random musings; the impressionist mode is cumulative.
Though there’s a steady progression through the year, it’s hard to call it a narrative. But the pleasure is in taking each entry and giving it room for consideration. Not every entry landed with me, but I certainly appreciate those that gave me insights or made me consider the world from a new angle, such as the restlessness of a hand (“At rest— what is it you’re not holding?”) or, having attended an avant-garde gallery (“I spoke to no one yet felt home.”).
Those passages that stir something are mere flashes in the arc of the book’s year. Some are perhaps too personal or too oblique to see the journal unfold easily to an outsider. But it’s an interesting mix of observations and admissions - of nature’s cycle; of human aging, respectively - that looks to multiple modes of expression, be that the poetry where doors “slam gunshot shut”, an impromptu haiku, or , in lines like “music can parse rain”, a ponderable observation.
Each entry, their potential expanding with each day, opens themselves up to this sort of experimentation, keeping things fresh as the journal progresses. And when the end of March approaches, as the experiment comes also to its conclusion, there’s a satisfying few days of reflection that assess the project itself and the spending of time. “Did you enjoy yourself? Walsh asks himself. His reply; “Less than half the time.” Can the same be said by myself? A little more, maybe; just about.
January 29, 2021
As anyone who reads my reviews knows, poetry is not my 'thing' so I approached this book a little nervously.
However, I discovered that once I got going I quite enjoyed it. Obviously when you have only a few words to play with you are somewhat limited, but I was surprised at how much suddenly begun to emerge when one reached say ten or so. There is also the use of layout, italics, spacings and the like which also allows for a greater range of emphasis and feeling
It seemed to 'read' better in chunks because as is written daily one sees the shift of time playing out, seasons emerging and disappearing, events of the day being integrated into the book- definitely something that gains in its entirety.
As poetry does not really work for me, but surprisingly I quite liked this volume so it is possibly worth more than the 'its ok' stars I'm giving it.
However, I discovered that once I got going I quite enjoyed it. Obviously when you have only a few words to play with you are somewhat limited, but I was surprised at how much suddenly begun to emerge when one reached say ten or so. There is also the use of layout, italics, spacings and the like which also allows for a greater range of emphasis and feeling
It seemed to 'read' better in chunks because as is written daily one sees the shift of time playing out, seasons emerging and disappearing, events of the day being integrated into the book- definitely something that gains in its entirety.
As poetry does not really work for me, but surprisingly I quite liked this volume so it is possibly worth more than the 'its ok' stars I'm giving it.
May 14, 2023
Walsh, J. M. - A Journal
A journal of word activity. Exercises. Forced structure of word restriction, per day, per month.
Day 1 = 1 word. Day 2 = 2 words. Day 6 = 6 words. Day 22 = 22 words, etc ……..
Some of the wordplay is inspired, at times the result resembles haiku. Other times it seems like top hats pulled from the rabbit’s ass.
Midway, Walsh finds a rhythm, recognizes the path, and there are a flow of jeweled phrases that might well find their way into a book one day.
This is a souvenir, a copy of a writing notebook, the equivalent of an artist’s sketchpad.
More rewarding than a vanity project, better than a curio, this is worthwhile in allowing readers to “look under the hood” of a writer’s creative process.
Do not overlook the brief notes following.
A journal of word activity. Exercises. Forced structure of word restriction, per day, per month.
Day 1 = 1 word. Day 2 = 2 words. Day 6 = 6 words. Day 22 = 22 words, etc ……..
Some of the wordplay is inspired, at times the result resembles haiku. Other times it seems like top hats pulled from the rabbit’s ass.
Midway, Walsh finds a rhythm, recognizes the path, and there are a flow of jeweled phrases that might well find their way into a book one day.
This is a souvenir, a copy of a writing notebook, the equivalent of an artist’s sketchpad.
More rewarding than a vanity project, better than a curio, this is worthwhile in allowing readers to “look under the hood” of a writer’s creative process.
Do not overlook the brief notes following.
April 16, 2025
I can’t say I really “get” poetry.
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews