SHORT COMMENT: On feminism and feminism

Over the course of the last twelve months, due to developments in the small Australian, British and Indonesian lefts, the issue of the Marxist orientation to feminism has become higher up in the current discussion agenda. Over the last 30 years, I have been part of a tradition that has tried to explain the origins […]

Article: The circus in late capitalist Australian politics. – by Max lane

In 1975, the then Prime Minister of Australia, Malcolm Fraser, urged people to vote for an Australia that would be ‘relaxed and comfortable” and where “sport would be back on the front page” of the newspapers.  The long post-war economic boom and pretty much zero unemployment (noting that participation still did not really count women) […]

ON BALI: four pieces (2 poems, 2 essays).

BALI, INDONESIA Green, deep green Chlorophyll blinds the eyes keen Black earth, brown aches Sticky mud between toes cakes. Tears irrigate the picture painted under the labouring harvest’s stricture Paddy, palms, coconuts, frangipanis Creations of peasant hands canny. Rice sold and eaten Suffices to keep deep want beaten But for the future there are no […]

POEM: Jakarta, Work, Maybe

Narrow rough asphalt grey Fences and walls defend snatches of privacy The ting ting ting of meat ball sellers The cacophony enemy of ears from the three wheeler Dryness, then dark downpour Outside rapacious streets gobbling time, time, time Insatiable The whirr of a fan Humm of a laptop Work, maybe

Letter from Jakarta 2011/1: Amin’s Death

Letter from Jakarta 2011/1: Amin’s Death by Max Lane. (Max Lane is 2011 ASIALINK Writer-in-Residence with Majalah Historia and will be visiting Indonesia and Timor Leste several times during 2011.) Really, in hindsight, there was a great deal of beauty in the scene. There was a kaleidoscope of wonderful colours: dark blues and greens, the […]

(Poem?) The dried eel of Indonesia

(Remembering a story from the experiences of Joesoef Isak from 1966 or 1967.) The dried eel of Indonesia. The humidity was from sweat and not the air. The sad singing was the whimpers as they dabbed alcohol on the wounds. The music was the brushing of bodies and clothes against each other in the tiny […]