“Sod the wine, I want to suck on the writing. This man White is an instinctive writer, bloody rare to find one who actually pulls it off, as in still gets a meaning across with concision. Sharp arbitrage of speed and risk, closest thing I can think of to Cicero’s ‘motus continuum animi.’

Probably takes a drink or two to connect like that: he literally paints his senses on the page.”

DBC Pierre (Vernon God Little, Ludmila’s Broken English, Lights Out In Wonderland ... Winner: Booker prize; Whitbread prize; Bollinger Wodehouse Everyman prize; James Joyce Award from the Literary & Historical Society of University College Dublin)





28 April 2015


Leo Davis, Bob and Wilma McLean bouncin off the walls and Mick Wordley hard at work ... these are all photographs Ian Chance took at my fiftieth at Gomersal Winery in the Barossa about five minutes ago

The Donkeys ... Mick Wordley, Jeff Algra and Les Karski ... this proved to be their last gig in about ten years ... shit they were good ... photo Ian Chance

GiGi Tak Sum Chan and Chris Sykes ... who fell in love that night and are true to this day ... Tony Brady out in the dark ... photo Ian Chance

Anne Marie Chin, above, Milton Wordley and Kauri below ... photos Ian Chance

Peg Dubberly and Chris Cust, above, Jimmy Barker, me, Lance Campbell and Jack Hibberd, below ... photos Ian Chance

Leo Davis, me, Wilma, Katie Portus, Caroline and Mark White and Big Bob above, that's him again with Stephen Tracey, below, and then Wilma ... photos Ian Chance


some of the earliest of the last thoughts 
which will go on forever 
for bob and wilma mclean sarah and family and adam 

remittance men
those who collect funerals
ravens dribbling roadkill
butcherbird hanging mouseguts in a tree
matriarchs maven lovelies
shelf-shaking panhandlers
blazers and suits and fizzhags
bright girls in long silk 
sunday school teachers rope petticoats
the slavic dancer's bitten toenails
the blokes with the zip-up chests
shadow-boxers warty benchmen
whores with mouthsful of lipstick
lord twining giggling toothless on a flagon
backsliders backbiters syndicators
the horse I used to kiss
tough-fingered neighbours in tears
bringers of soup and firewood and stew
peacocks on the woodbox
the giant pitch hounds

man we pranced for you
in the spiral waft of your spirit
man we danced
the open-throated laughter of rejoice

balancing on talons
the wedge-tailed eagle skrawked a warning
shotgun discharges on the fence

as I spun
your big hand at the small of my back
sweet brandy whisper of grandmother's breath
reassurance of ironed linen to come

bits went up in the air

we cast dirt skyward
lumps of gravel and clay
hats and butts and worn out notions
the bones of old ideas
heaven was our chimney

I hurled bottles

shiraz made mud for our boots

this is the works

this is our roots 

philip white

photo Philip White


No comments: