The Green Bell
Page 23
‘poisoning by an overdose …’ Post-mortem report, Julianne Gilroy, 27 September 1968, quoted in Fraçoise Gilroy, née Droulers, Mon Histoire: Memoirs of a French Australian (Adelaide: Griffin Press, 2008), 189.
‘In the beginning …’ Bible, Genesis 1:1, King James Version.
‘Words made flesh’ Gospel according to John, 1.14, King James Version.
‘I love you so intensely …’ Dransfield to Paula Keogh, 24 October 1972, Dransfield MSS.
‘How would you feel …’ Ibid., 7 November 1972.
‘We’ll have a magic …’ Ibid., 1 November 1972.
‘you would get a good widow’s pension …’ Ibid., 7 November 1972.
‘soul is worn out’ Dransfield, ‘Looking for somewhere kind’, Collected Poems, 339.
‘love / let live …’ Dransfield, ‘The nature of passion’, Collected Poems, 342.
‘o dearest sweet Paul’ Dransfield to Paula Keogh, 31 October, Dransfield MSS.
‘Got the shits real bad …’ Ibid., 6 November 1972.
‘You will meet her …’ Ibid., 24 October 1972.
‘midnight … It’s late …’ Dransfield to Paula Keogh, 10 November 1972, Dransfield MSS.
‘cleanse the doors of perception’ This phrase is from William Blake’s poem, ‘The Marriage of Heaven and Hell’ (1790), Plate 14: ‘If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite.’ The metaphor is used by Aldous Huxley in his 1954 book, The Doors of Perception, in which he describes his experiences after taking the psychedelic drug, mescaline.
‘displaced Romantics’ Dransfield, ‘No forwarding address’, Collected Poems, 304.
‘Drugs? …’ Dransfield to Paula Keogh, 26 October 1972, Dransfield MSS.
‘I’ve not had any …’ Ibid., 1 November 1972.
‘David is a poet …’ The details of David Campbell’s life in this paragraph come from Australian Dictionary of Biography, s.v. ‘Campbell, David Watts (1915–1979)’, adb.anu.edu.au/biography/campbell-david-watt-9680 (accessed December 5, 2012).
‘Mirka describes herself as a “free spirit” …’ Mirka Mora, interview by George Negus, George Negus Tonight: Profiles, ABC, 15 July 2004.
‘Let us go hence …’ This version of the poem is as Michael copied it from memory and gave me. The poem is Algernon Charles Swinburne’s ‘A Leave-Taking’, from The Poems of Algernon Charles Swinburne: In Six Volumes (Cambridge: Chadwyck-Healey, 1992), ebook.
‘only the wind and a river …’ Dransfield, ‘The hermit of green light’, Collected Poems, 88.
‘We die with the dying …’ T.S. Eliot, ‘Little Gidding, Four Quartets’, Collected Poems 1909–1962 (London: Faber and Faber Limited, 1963), 222.
‘acute broncho-pneumonia and brain damage’ ‘The poet who kept on hating himself’, Sunday Mirror, 7 October 1973, 25, quoted in Patricia Dobrez, Michael Dransfield’s Lives: A sixties biography (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1999), 509.
‘we’re much too close for any one …’ Dransfield, ‘Still life’, Collected Poems, 355.
‘I’m Prufrock …’ T.S. Eliot, ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’, Collected Poems 1909–1962 (London: Faber & Faber, 1963), 13.
‘If only we would let ourselves …’ Rainer Maria Rilke, ‘The Man Watching’, Selected Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Robert Bly (New York: Harper & Row, 1981), 105.
‘survival is the password’ Dransfield, Untitled poem, Collected Poems, 356. (My emphasis).
‘To blown straw …’ Francis Webb, ‘Five Days Old’, Collected Poems of Francis Webb, edited by Toby Davidson (Crawley WA: UWAP, 2011), 225.
‘If I may but touch …’ Gospel according to Matthew 9:21, King James Version, 2000.
‘Martin Buber, I and Thou, edited by Walter Arnold Kaufmann (New York: Scribner, 1970).
‘Paul Tillich, The Courage to Be (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1952).
‘Viktor Emil Frankl, Man’s Search for Meaning: An Introduction to Logotherapy (Boston: Beacon Press, 1992).
‘fields of praise’ Dylan Thomas, ‘Fern Hill’, from Jahan Ramazain, Richard Ellmann and Robert O’Clair (eds), The Norton Anthology of Modern and Contemporary Poetry, Volume II (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2003), 108.
‘The most of love …’ Dransfield to Paula Keogh, 1972.
‘above concrete and minimal existences …’ Dransfield, ‘Geography III’, Collected Poems, 66.
‘When night or winter comes …’ Dransfield, ‘Portrait of the artist as an old man’, Collected Poems, 17.
‘What matters is to live everything’ Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet & The Letter from the Young Worker, edited and translated by Charlie Louth (London: Penguin, 2011), 23.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
This book has its own life, one that began in my kitchen with conversations over a cup of tea or glass of wine with my daughter, Rowan Mangan. She became my travelling companion on this voyage back into my past and into the unknown of writing and memory. From the beginning, and despite my reticence, she believed this was a story that should be told. Her unswerving confidence in my ability to tell it spurred me on. Drawing on her brilliant writing skills and her profound understanding of the issues I was facing, she supported me through each phase of this journey. Her insights encouraged me to go deeper and further – and to keep going.
At the heart of this book are my dearest friends, Julianne Gilroy and Michael Dransfield. As I was writing and remembering, they became increasingly present in my inner world, giving of themselves almost as open-heartedly as they had when they were alive. Without them, this story would not exist; they are its heart, its rhythm and pulse. That Michael’s voice can be heard in these pages is due to the kindness and generosity of his mother, Elspeth Dransfield. Her permission to quote from Michael’s poems and letters allowed a vital thread and texture to be included in this story. Elspeth’s gift and Michael’s poem ‘Geography III’ have become for me the soul of the book.
Julianne came from a large and loving family whose warm encouragement and sensitive readings gave me firm ground beneath my feet. To Julianne’s family, particularly her mother, Françoise Gilroy, and her sisters Andrée Ernest, Michelle O’Regan, and Yvette Gilroy, is owed this book’s spirit – especially its commitment to celebrating Julianne’s love of life and her passionate intellect.
There have been a number of heroes in the life of this book. Annie Keogh’s readings, her wisdom and advice, and her deep understanding of the ethical and personal issues involved, have been a touchstone in my attempt to reach through to the emotional truth of the story.
With Rodney Hall, Michael’s mentor, editor and friend, I exchanged memories and shared experiences of Michael’s unique way of being in the world. These conversations and Rodney’s generous reading of the manuscript made me realise that one of the things I wanted to do in these pages was capture Michael’s mercurial spirit – despite knowing that such an aim was ultimately impossible.
As I attempted to open up to the real of the past, the insights of Patricia and Livio Dobrez, their thoughtful responses to the manuscript and their perceptive intuitions throughout the writing of the book, encouraged me to believe in the value of my subjective experience.
Other heroes of this book’s life include Barbara Hiller, whose friendship, insights and sense of humour have been an inspiration and joy; Pat Walsh, Mayra Walsh, Joy Dahl, Sean Mangan, Annalea Beattie, Harry Zable and Penny Wagstaff for their invaluable readings and support; Diana Sima for kindly sharing her copies of photos; Christopher Ash for giving permission to use his photo for the cover and Garry Benson and Ros Osborne for their photos; and Kate McNamara for designating me ‘the narrator of our youth’, a blessing that was for me a moving and significant closing moment in this book’s evolution.
I didn’t start out with the intention of writing a memoir. Rather, I intended to write about Michael’s poetry. The idea for the book came from Susan Bradley Smith, inspiring superv
isor of my PhD thesis, and was supported by the staff in the English Department at La Trobe University.
My family, including my parents Ron and Pat Keogh, have been pivotal to this book’s trajectory. They have given freely of their love and support throughout my life. My siblings’ generous and personal responses to the manuscript reminded me that in every family there are hundreds of different stories. The enthusiastic support of mine, from Jane Irene Keogh, John Keogh, Jim Keogh, Anne Keogh, Phillip Keogh and Robert Keogh, propelled my memoir forward.
Finally, Martin Hughes and the great team at Affirm Press put their faith in this book, initially through their inaugural 2015 Mentorship Award and later through their work preparing it for publication. Kate Goldsworthy’s committed and skilful editing has been vital; she has been midwife to its birth, expertly and gracefully ensuring its safe and healthy delivery into the world. Ruby Ashby-Orr has also given her editing expertise and insightful feedback. Varuna, the National Writers House, ran the Affirm Press Mentorship Program and provided an invaluable week-long residency in the beautiful Blue Mountains.
To all the above, I am deeply grateful. Without you, I wouldn’t have completed this journey into the past or experienced the healing that telling my story made possible. Without your generosity and insights, this book would not be as it is or where it is. My heartfelt thanks.
My parents’ marriage was a joyous occasion and a welcome break from the war. Their marriage was a love match but based on strict gender roles. My aspirations for my own marriage were to disrupt such roles, and to build an equal partnership.
At St Mary’s Primary School, Braddon in 1959. My imagination was filled with stories of miracles and religious myths, and the dramatic lives and deaths of saints and martyrs. No wonder I was often in trouble for daydreaming, but it was hardly my fault!
In 1961, the Keogh family was living the ’50s dream of the good life. A time of billycarts, barbecues along the Murrumbidgee, the nightly rosary and Sunday Mass. We were exuberant — and very innocent.
Julianne, my best friend from high school, whose death in 1968 led to my first two breakdowns. She was the one person who really knew me. After she died, I felt on the outside of life.
I didn’t know that this photo was being taken, but I’m so pleased that it was: it perfectly captures the feelings I remember, being with Michael on the banks of the Murrumbidgee during a picnic with our dear friends. Christopher Ash took the photo.
Michael and me with our friend Simon Clough (second from the left), decked out in our hippy finery, chatting with another guest after our friend Chris Ash’s wedding. My dress was made from curtain material, and Michael’s waistcoat and beanie were from Nepal.
Love is in the air … Chris embraces Michael and me at his wedding.
On a lazy day, hanging out together somewhere along the Murrumbidgee. Chris had set up his camera on the timer for a group shot — but his dog Issa got in the way as he tried to make it into the line-up.
When my good friend Garry Benson decided to take some photos in the front yard at Mann Terrace, I was wearing my favourite op-shop hat. A week later, I just missed being killed in a car accident and life turned upside-down again — but this time in a delightful way.
My daughter Rowan was a ragamuffin kid, cheeky and smart. She loved to make pies in the kindergarten sandpit, telling herself endless stories while she worked on her projects. Daydreaming runs in the family.
Rowan’s joy is contagious, and Garry Benson captured her bright spirit in this photo of us.
On my overseas odyssey. I had just walked the Devil’s Staircase, one of the steepest sections of the West Highland Way in Scotland. Next time I’ll make sure my pack is lighter!
The sun was setting, the moon rising. At the magical winter solstice, Rowan and I were alone on the Hill of Tara, Ireland. The evening was enchanted, and we were ecstatic — and my nose red from the freezing cold.
My mother, Pat Keogh, with one of her favourite paintings. She treasured a poem about gum trees that Michael wrote for her. They weren’t just trees to her: they were her spirit emblem.
This was the last time the Keogh siblings gathered at the family home in Hackett: Jim, Robert, Phil and John (from left, back), and Paula, Irene and Annie (from left, front). We reminisced and drank toasts to our parents.
On the day of my PhD graduation, I was feeling quite philosophical. Still couldn’t quite believe I’d actually finished my thesis. I relished the chance to study issues related to mental health, and to try to make sense of a clamorous time in my life.
‘A courageous account of madness. Paula Keogh has brilliantly captured its creative exhilaration, illumination, grief and loss. She takes us on a deeply human search for integrity and meaning.’ Kate Richards, author of Madness: A Memoir
In Canberra, 1972, Paula Keogh and Michael Dransfield meet in the psychiatric ward of the Canberra Hospital and instantly fall in love. Michael is being treated for a drug addiction; Paula is delusional and grief-stricken.
Paula recovers a self that she thought was lost, while Michael, a radical poet, is inspired to write the poems that become The Second Month of Spring. Together, they plan for ‘a wedding, marriage, kids – the whole trip’. But outside the hospital, madness and grief challenge their luminous dream. Can their love survive?
The Green Bell is a lyrical and profoundly moving memoir about love and madness. Ultimately, it reveals itself to be a hymn to life. A requiem for lost friends. A coming of age story that takes a lifetime.
‘In 1972, Paula Keogh fell in love with Michael Dransfield, the most gifted poet of his generation. Her portrait of him – and the brief period they spent together – recaptures that time with remarkable freshness and insight.’
Rodney Hall