Sarah Holland Batt

When I think of Peter Rose’s legacy and his immense contributions to Australian letters as Editor of Australian Book Review, there are manifold achievements I might highlight. Peter has wholly transformed the magazine’s ambitions and horizons over his tenure, elevating ABR into an indispensable, world-class publication offering outstanding commentary, criticism, creative work, and coverage of the performing arts. He has shaped the national conversation in infinite ways, offering our best minds scope to debate the pressing issues of our times in complex, nuanced exchanges that are vanishingly rare elsewhere. He has served as a distinguished and tireless public advocate for the value of criticism, the arts, and the humanities, and has done so much to advocate for writers and writing, building prizes, fellowships, and other initiatives that continue to create vital opportunities and recognition for writers today. More quietly but no less diligently, he has also worked tirelessly to protect and preserve ABR as a jewel of Australian literature for generations to come.

I first encountered Sarah Holland-Batt’s poem ‘The Gift’ in The New Yorker. It begins, ‘In the garden my father sits in his wheelchair / garlanded by summer hibiscus / like a saint in a seventeenth-century cartouche’ – an unremarkable opening, I thought, to a poem of personal anecdote, a genre too ubiquitous among our contemporaries. Rereading the poem in the context of her third collection, The Jaguar, I became acclimated to her style and manner, and admired the alertness of its verbal performance. If the new book remains a personal memoir, narrating the devastating illness and death of her father, it is also charged throughout with a strong writer’s intelligence and vulnerability. ‘I will carry the gift of his death endlessly,’ she writes, ‘every day I will know it opening in me.’

Beside the fountain’s troupe of sun-bleached rubber ducks, / in the gardens, under a shade sail, / my father is crying about Winston Churchill. / Midway through a lunch of cremated schnitzel ...

Sarah Holland-Batt’s Fishing for Lightning is a book about Australian poetry. As such, it is a rare, and welcome, bird in the literary ecology of our country. It is welcome because poetry, like any other art form, requires a supportive culture that educates and promulgates. Not that Holland-Batt, herself one of our leading poets, is ‘merely’ didactic, or a shill for the muses. Holland-Batt, who is also an academic, writes with great authority and insight, and she is a fine stylist, penning essays that are packed with humour and playfulness. These essays cater for all kinds of audiences, from newcomers to poetry experts, which is no small feat.

In the garden, my father sits in his wheelchair / garlanded by summer hibiscus / like a saint in a seventeenth-century cartouche. / A flowering wreath buzzes around his head – ...

To hell with what you think of me.
I’ve started drinking martinis at three.
I wake, I walk, I write, I sleep.
I snooze the alarm. I doze. I read.

As my plane drops down in turbulence

I think of you and of Salt Lake City,

I think of ice stealing over the Great Lakes

and of Omaha and of adamant plains.