This chapter considers how nineteenth-century poetry in Australia adapted European conceptualisations of the sublime and the gothic to articulate a literal inability to settle on the land. It argues that settler poetry has a difficulty with being grounded: its representations have a tendency to hover, sublimely, above the surface of the earth; or, if forced under, they refuse to simply die: but live on, as gothic, revenant, voices. It draws on popular and canonical examples like A. B. (Banjo) Paterson’s “The Man from Snowy River” and “Waltzing Matilda,” Adam Lindsay Gordon’s “The Sick Stockrider,” and Mary Gilmore’s “Old Botany Bay,” as well as examples that have been sourced from historical archives.

The chapter outlines the mid-twentieth century debate over an Athenian-Boeotian divide in Australian literature, which extended an earlier false dichotomy between city and the bush through distinguishing between the expatriate and the writer who stays at home. Despite a global dispersion of Australian writers, it argues that most scholarship has tended to focus on those in Britain. The chapter discerns that the racialisation underscoring who is generally considered ‘expatriate’ renders the term problematic and that many Australian diasporic poets define themselves through other means. It also finds that many experience feelings of shame, anger, and guilt over the colonial violence shaping Australia. The chapter considers the development of Lola Ridge’s poetics while in Australia before considering Oodgeroo Noonuccal’s poem “Yussef (Hi-Jack),” written during a hijacking of her plane by Palestinian militants, and the poetry Oodgeroo wrote in China. The chapter foregrounds the significance of First Nations mobility, engaging with the London writing of Aboriginal activist A. M. Fernando in the 1920s and writing of recent poets like Ellen Van Neerven.

This chapter outlines how Christopher Brennan ushered in an experimental strand of Australian poetry through his engagement with French Symbolism, which was followed by John Shaw Nielson’s celebration of intuition and the more-than-human. It considers Nietzschean vitalism in Kenneth Slessor’s representation of urban Sydney and analyses the beauty and nihilism of his “Five Bells.” The chapter also argues that Lesbia Harford’s poetry was modernist in its radical openness about female sexuality and the female body, its minimalist representation of the working life of modern women, and lack of Romantic assumptions in her treatment of the natural world. It further considers the rhetorical force and frankness of queer desire in the work of Anna Wickham, before addressing the hoax poet Ern Malley.

The chapter argues that Fogarty’s lyric “I” emerges out of questioning and inverting the institutional and political forces that define his work. It traces the development of his poetry as political dialogue through the context of his childhood at Cherbourg Aboriginal Reserve, his participation in community programs, the National Black Theatre, and the emergent Australian Black Panther Party. It includes his role in the Aboriginal land rights movement, the Black Resource Centre collective, and his engagement with Black Studies courses. The chapter also outlines the reception of Fogarty’s poetry and the challenges that his resistant poetics poses to the field of ‘Australian literature.’ The chapter investigates how Fogarty creates an ecology of connections between the human and non-human, distinguishes his writing from a prior generation of Aboriginal writers, fostered inter-Indigenous and cross-cultural connections internationally, and has many intimate addresses, including poems to his brother, whose death in custody triggered political marches and has tragic resonance today.

Tracing the verse novel back to C. J. Dennis’s The Songs of a Sentimental Bloke (1909–15), the chapter argues that the form has been particularly vibrant and popular in Australia, including among children and young adults. It then examines prose poetry, including microliterature, arguing for its significance in addressing the quotidian, questions of identity, and feminism. The chapter considers how prose poetry accommodates engagements with other forms and systems of knowledge, such as art, music, science, and mathematics, and its capacity for defamiliarisation and the uncanny. Lastly, the chapter considers poetic or verse biography, from the explorer narratives of the mid twentieth century to experimentation with life-writing more recently. It foregrounds intersections with documentary poetry and creative engagements with the archive, including scope to critique and resist colonial histories.

The image is at once easy to identify and difficult to define. If the image is, in a basic sense, the visual language of poems, the concept also extends to modes of meaning making which sometimes have little to do with visuality, as well as to related concepts such as metaphor and conceit. This chapter explores this complex conceptual field by considering examples by Amy Clampitt, Bernadette Meyer, Hope Mirrlees, Sylvia Plath, and others. It shows that the image serves often to unify a poem or structure its narrative, and it proposes that we approach the image as both procedural and constructed. A single poem's presentation of an image in process or the repetition of an image across multiple poems may, in this way, represent a psychological drama or a narrative of intellectual understanding. From this perspective, images are not merely found; they are made.

Introducing the concept of verse history and adapting Roman Jakobson's distinction between verse design and verse instance, this chapter considers a sequence of brief case studies drawn from the work of multiple writers: the Beowulf poet, William Langland, the Gawain poet, John Gower, Wallace Stevens, Elizabeth Willis, Victoria Chang, and André 3000. The chapter proposes that, even after free verse, reading poetry historically still must involve a consideration of the relationship of rhythm to meter. The potential for friction between verse instance and verse design, and more broadly between poems and poetry, implies a need for relations of supplementarity. Moments of rhythmical disturbance disclose how what one had located outside the lone poem – a metrical template, a political ideal, or a historical event – comes rushing into it and through it.

The history of queer and trans Puerto Rican and Diasporican literature is complex. Its relationship to American literature is fraught with issues of colonialism and linguistic exclusion. Careful analysis of a wide-ranging corpus from the late 19th and early 20th centuries by Alejandro Tapia y Rivera (1882), José de Diego Padró (1924), and Pedro Caballero (1931), reveals a longstanding interest in queer and trans experience in works written in Spanish in Puerto Rico and New York. The massive social transformations of the 1960s and 1970s led to the explosion of critical voices such as those of Luis Rafael Sánchez, Manuel Ramos Otero, and Luz María Umpierre. Their pioneering texts, and the complex writing of Nuyorican authors in English, opened the way for late 1990s and early 2000s authors such as Ángel Lozada and Mayra Santos-Febres, for the eventual creation of collectives such as Homoerótica in 2009, and for the widespread acclaim of writers such as Luis Negrón, Yolanda Arroyo Pizarro, Justin Torres, and Raquel Salas Rivera. “Queerness,” as such, and its Spanish-language variant “cuir,” have been spaces of possibility for Boricua expression for more than one hundred forty years.

This chapter begins by arguing that debates about whether a poem can be translated reflect debates about the nature of the poem itself. Those who assert that poetry is untranslatable, for example, tend to believe that every poem is a unique event in a specific language. Conversely, those who assert the importance of translation tend to see poems as existing, and as having their meanings, only in relation to other poems or art forms. Considering examples from Roy Fisher, Friedrich Hölderlin, Vittorio Sereni, Jean-Joseph Rabéarivelo, César Vallejo, Donald Justice, Elizabeth Bishop, and Frank O’Hara, the chapter demonstrates that in practice, both these conceptual positions are essential. It explores how the practice of translation generates networks of mutually referential identities over time, and it suggests that, more broadly, the emergence of the abstraction known as “the poem” depends on its relation to such interconnections between poems, poets, and translations, ones that may be shaped by imitation, parody, homage, and adaptation.

This chapter argues that the New York School of Poets occupy a complex transitional moment in relation to both the history of sexuality and the history of poetry and modern art. Their work is governed by both the epistemology of the closet that shapes high modernism from earlier in the twentieth century and, looking forward to Stonewall and Gay Liberation, also presents utopian potentialities in its experimental forms of sociability.

Given the extent to which queer writers have played starring roles in most of what we think about when we think about the representative movements and innovations of modern American poetry, this chapter takes up the question of the association between poetry and queerness, asking how the aesthetic invention that characterizes modern American poetry might be related to the expressive capacities of sexuality. My limited and speculative response to this question focuses on how poets, and particular poems, have exploited the queer affordances of the lyric genre. The historical rhyme between the “queer” and the “poet” across the first half of the twentieth century evinces how the uneasy consolidation of aberrant sexual practices into modern homosexual identity coincides with the uneasy consolidation of poetry, in all its diversity, into a particular understanding of the lyric. If the twentieth century presents the gradual conflation of poetry and lyric, modern queer poets found in the lyric’s shared set of expectations a means of living within the social and its reductive demands for visibility, intelligibility, and transparency, while still holding space for the strange or unknowable.

This article traces the evolving modes of queer print culture in the 20th and 21st century.  From little magazines, avant-garde presses, and overseas publication in the 1920s, through the rise of pulp paperbacks and adult bookstores during the Cold War, through the emergence of feminist and queer presses in the 1990s, to ebooks, social media, and self-publishing in the 21st century, queer writing appears in diverse forms, across the full range of respectability and price points in the publishing ecosystem. Mainstream publishers’ interest in queer lives ebbs and flows, but queer print culture is opportunistic, piggy-backing on any number of niche publishing markets, taking advantage of loopholes and ephemeral publishing trends.  The rise of queer young adult fiction, from the queer fan fiction of the 1990s, suggests the ongoing inventiveness, resilience, and creativity of queer literature as it finds readers and creates new forms of writing and reading.

Attending to the tropological imagination of Progressive Era U.S. immigration, this chapter maps what Michel Foucault calls “the organization of ‘erotic zones’ in the social body” to narrate a queer history of the social body itself. In so doing, the chapter animates a variety of period figurations of mass immigration—including racial indigestion and race suicide—to trace a new genealogy of the literary erotics of Asian, Italian, and Jewish immigrants, the ethnic groups that most threatened the whiteness of the social body. Reading across representations of immigration in the works of Henry James, Israel Zangwill, Charles Warren Stoddard, Yone Noguchi, Sui Sin Far, Jennie June, Emanuel Carnevali, and Emma Lazarus, this chapter shifts the history of sexuality from one located in individual bodies to theorize a sexuality of the population.