John Mateer was born in Johannesburg. He spent his childhood in South Africa and Canada, and shortly before being conscripted moved with his parents and sisters to Australia. He travels frequently, often to Asia and
Europe.
When asked whether he feels he is Australian or South African, he usually
falls silent.
The novelist JM Coetzee, writing on his South African poems, states:
“Written from the rim of the far-flung South African diaspora, these poemsby Mateer roll back the tide of forgetting, giving us one glimpse after
another of a beloved homeland.” While the Australian critic Martin Harrison
has suggested that Mateer “is a poet who speaks towards the centre of
Australian culture.” And the Portuguese poet Manuel de Freitas, in a
review of the booklet The Travels/Viagens, sees that in the poems there
“is an “I” rightfully translated into the language, itself nomadic, of Camões,
Pessanha or Gil de Carvalho…”
Mateer’s poems have appeared in books in Australia, the UK and Austria,
and in ephemeral booklets in some of the places about which he has
written: South Africa, Australia, Japan, Sumatra, Macau and Portugal.
His most recent publications are The West: Australian Poems 1989-2009
(Fremantle Press), The Azanians (T41), Ex-White/Einmal Weiss: South
African Poems (Sisyphus Verlag), and the forthcoming Namban/Southern
Barbarians, poems about the Portuguese world (T41 and Giramondo).
On the pillow John Mateer's sleepy head
is a goldfish bowl aswirl with Venetian water,
and on that galleon, that luminous toy,
he is at the helm, telescope to his eye,
...
Even in an explosion
if you have the right shutter-speed: the shards of rock
- projectiles - will become fluttering leaves decorating an icy wind.
Autumn is everywhere. Autumn is your skin flaking,
...
She has full, soft lips and is beautiful.
How he knows she is beautiful who can say?
She may be the image of the Malay bride on the travel-guide's cover.
But she is faceless, not frightening,
...
The volcanic rock on my desk performs solidly.
I identify its presence.
It returns me to this room, this desk, this body.
I observe the rock. It is an eye heavy with silence.
...
Being foreign is the democracy that allows the Nigerian,
in all the accoutrements of a gangsta, to address me as brother
and offer a special discount to a nice place where the girls are all foreign
- Russian, Brazilian, Australian - and all speak english.
...