Felix Nobis

Felix is one of our favourite ever performers, someone who fully embodies the Wordplay ideal of producing top-class writing that remains involving and accessible for everybody. Felix tells long rolling stories about ordinary lives and their occasional extraordinary moments, focusing particularly on very Australian subjects, and finding the magic in the life of an old St Kilda derelict, or a first adolescent session at the pub. His stories roll off the tongue, with an easy rhythm and a fluid, irregular scattering of rhymes, a midpoint between the old bardic method of song and modern hip-hop. He backs it up with immaculate performance skills honed by years as a highly respected stage and screen actor. He’s been invited to Wordplay five times in total, each one followed by popular demand for more, and it’s safe to say that nobody has left without having enjoyed the show.

As well as actor and poet, Felix is a playwright, currently under commission with the Melbourne Theatre Company. His monologues like ‘Once Upon a Barstool’ (which toured Ireland) and ‘Under an Open-Minded Sky’ (available below) straddle the line between theatre and poetry. He holds an MA in Old and Middle English and a PhD in Mediaeval Storytelling, and produced his own translation of the ancient epic Beowulf, which he turned into a one-man play that toured Europe, America, and Australia. It was published by Bradshaw Books, and adapted for radio by Radio National. The esteemed Irish poet Seamus Heaney, who has himself translated a version of Beowulf, saw the play in Dublin and wrote ““As a translator and narrator of the Beowulf story, Felix Nobis has found a style that is high but not inflated, true to the poetry of the original and enthralling to a contemporary audience.”

Under An Open Minded Sky

Fools and Heroes I

They were falling over backwards,
they were laughing at the sky.
They were smiling around bottles,
and singing; Bye bye, Miss American pie,
in so so American accents.
And if his dad was still around
he’d smack some sense into him quick smart.
And if his mum knew where he was
he’d never leave the house again.
But they had thirty bucks,
and a faked I.D.
Twelve big brothers
In a case of V.B.
With a packeta Twisties
and Holiday 50′s,
a hip flaska ouzo
and halfa J.D.
They had another eight hours
stretched out before ‘em
black as a highway,
right into mornin’.
He’s never done this before, ‘nd he’s
never done this before.

The night is like an ocean now,
so cold ‘nd calm,
‘nd still ‘nd wide
‘nd still so far to the other side.
And Sam is a sailor.
In the middle of the football oval,
with his bottle and his swagger
and his best friend Max
doing chin-ups on the score board.
And Sam drinks and winces
and dances on the grass.
And Max loses grip and lands ten feet on his arse
but a plane crash couldn’t break drunk
young
bones.
And he stands and he groans
and he hurdles the fence
and he falls into step
and Sam can’t stop laughin’ to light two cigarettes
and they fall over backwards
and laugh at the stars
and smile around bottles
and play air-guitars
and sing at the night
the headlight moon
and cry tears of cold
and alcohol fumes.
And god, but it’s good to grow up, they say
god, but it’s good to be men.
god, but it’s good to be old, they say
’cause they’ll never be that young again.
and they’ll never be that young again.
And, god, they’d make great heroes,
if there’d only be a war,
if good causes weren’t all taken,
there was still things ’round worth fighting for.

Jeez, they’d make top heroes,
as they stumble through the dark.
across the minefield football oval,
through the jungle’s St James Park.

they’d make brilliant bloody heroes,
if they just had a war to go to.

But all they get to makin’
is a nuisance of themselves.
And wakin’ the old women
with their yahoo, bloody yells.
And smashin’ stubby bottles
‘gainst the war memorial steps.

From park bench trenches,
by the glow of cigarettes.

.

Memorial

Pale.
Ashen.
Blotched with lichen.
Like an old man’s skin.

Receiving visitors.
Although nobody’s been
by for quite some time.

It gets difficult.
The old visit the old.
The old. Visit the old.

On a fine day
he’ll watch the floral print women
read large print books on
N fold-out chairs.
But on some days he broods.
Alone and he broods.
About the horrible burden he bears.

.

Valour. Duty. Peace.

Harassed in their sleep,
crumble when it rains.
And ‘Valour. Dut…’
is all that now remains.
…’Peace’ was never gonna last long.

“Dedicated to the memory
Of their fellow citizens  who fought.”
And their fellow citizens who thought
they would never fight again.

“In the Great War.”                                         World War II

…And the next war.                                        Borneo
And the couple more that we snuck in.
’round the back.                                              Korea
............................................................. ...... Malaya
Chiselled up.
Modest as latecomers at a funeral.
Peace was never gonna last long
Valour and Dut. Is all that now remains.
Dut (e)

Dut as it should be, some might say,
there should never have been a why in duty, anyway.
Ain’t no bloody room for why’s when it comes to duty, anyway.
Why?
Because it’s your duty
Yeah, but why?
Because it’s your duty.
Why
(and it’s hard to imagine
these things so long ago,
but every face in each school text book
looks like Someone that I know.)
And only valour remains.
And valour always will.
History contains
such an excess of valour,
tt overflows, spilling the blood of millions
down into the drains of time.
Such an excess of valour,
cheap as quaff wine,
expendable as wanton seamen;
keeps you up at night screamin’
“what am I supposed to do with all this?
I can’t possibly use it all constructively,
there’s just too much.
It’ll only get me into trouble!
It’ll end in tears.”
Yeah, valour appears
down the pages of history,
through the ages of man,
along the annals of misery,
of civil wars
and broken hearts
revolutions,
bleeding hands
and broken windows.
jungle arcade war Nintendoes
punctured arms
and shaved heads,
Jack Daniels,
Winfield Reds
black eyes
’round the kitchen table,
petrol bombs
in backyard sheds.
Such an excess of valour

that it plays on every football team,
still haunts the Roman Colosseum,
there on every race track
saying; this time she’ll come through!
Been having unsafe sex
and it’s hitch hiking round Europe
and it’s started bungy-jumping
’cause what else is there to do?

A boat leaving a harbour
valour’s standing there on deck.
It’s the life of every buck’s night,
the corpse in every car-wreck.
It’s pissed at every party and proposing to drive home,
and it’s coughed it’s guts up smokin’,
chokin’ back just one more cone.

Where ever there is ouzo
there’ll be lips to wrap around it.
You think that you’ve outgrown it
but then valour’s gone and found it,
and it wakes up in a gutter,
and it’s spluttering and pissed
and it’s smashing bloody windows
with its bare bloody fist.

Where ever there is danger,
there’ll be volunteer!
Wherever there are hormones,
wherever there is fear!
Wherever there is trouble
getting through a case of beer,
valour gets up from the corner
and says; bloody, give it here!
Christ, it left home early,
and it messed around with drugs,
it got a tattoo
and it lied about its age.
it cheated on the missus
and it beated up the kids
and it only tried it once
and it ended up with aids.

And it’d go out every Saturday
lookin’ for  a fight,
or throwin’ V.B. stubby bottles
at a peaceful Hawthorn night!

And it broke its mother’s heart
and lay chokin’ in the rain.
but no matter what you do to it,

Valour.
Valour.
Valour remains.

.

Fools and Heroes  II

For a night turns many corners,
(as all good sailors know).
And it’s just below the surface,
where the monsters are
and memories wait
and ghosts of long ago
dance behind closed eyes,
and sing lullabies in your head.

And Sam recognises faces,
and choruses singing,
and he’s trying to focus,
but his stomach’s giving way.
And his mind is a minefield,
and each thought he comes up with
takes one wrong step
and gets blasted away.

And the beer is getting warmer
and not getting any smaller
and the ouzo tastes like rations
and it teases his throat before making its way down.
And he swears, each time he shivers
it gets colder with each mouthful.
And when the war is over,
it’s always quite nice to go home.

And Sam is thinking about his mother, now.
Sleeping in her bed
and he wonders if she misses him,
and he wonders what’s on telli,
and most of the good things have been said, by now.
Most of the good things,
have long ago been said.

.

Valerie Maynes

Tick.  Tock.

Tick.  Tock…

The movie’s over.

I missed some in the middle
but I’ve seen it once before.

She just went up the street
to pick up some tea,
by the time she’d said grace
over her K.F.C.
She’d missed a little.
in the middle.
But she had seen it once before…

Another one’s started.

Maybe just ten minutes,
maybe I’ll feel tired then.
She’d like to ring her mother,
but it’s much too late again,
so maybe just ten minutes…
Valerie Maynes walks through her house like a stranger.
Straightening pictures of places
and people that she doesn’t know. Staring in mirrors at faces,
and feeling so low, she’s in danger
of losing herself in the shagpile,
and the corridor’s moving so slow.

Valerie Maynes, switches on the kettle
in the flickering
fluorescent lighted kitchen
where the Christmas beetles
crack against the glass…

and it was O.K. being lonely
when her husband was still home,
but it gets even harder
when you do it on your own
and everything happened so fast.

So, just a quick cup of coffee
and another sleeping pill,
I don’t do it very often
I’m not feeling very well.
(and a nail in the coffin
and a little drink as well,
while the children are away,
I mean, goodness, what the hell.)
Sammie’s staying a friend’s house.

The carpet by his door is worn down threads
with football boots
and dragging feet
and tantrum stomping time for beds.

She puts her face against it
and can almost feel his feet.
Pittering and pattering their way across her cheek.

And from way down here
she can almost see his tears,
welling in her eyes.
Almost hear his cries,
even better than her
own of all those bloody years
that his father would come home.

All those bloody nights that their kitchen was a war zone,
a flickering, fluorescent lighted
battle field of beer bottles,
chicken wings
and broken bone.

All the bloody tears that were wasted in this kitchen,
could never contend with a case of V.B.
and then Sunday mornings in surgeries stitchin’
what a brave boy was Sammy,
what a good little soldier,
what a brave little soldier was he.
And from way down here,
she can almost see…
can almost see his tears,
welling in her eyes,
can almost hear his sighs,
even better than her own,
can almost see him choking,
can almost hear him groan.
Can almost feel him tickling
that small stick of sick
in the back of his throat,
stuck in there sideways,
don’t want to come out,
and then empty his insides
on memorial steps.
Valerie Maynes gets up
and makes her way down the minefield corridor.
boys go off and fight themselves,
but it’s women who fight a war.
That’s what her mother told her.
we fight the same battles,
we just make less noise than men.
She’d like to ring her mother,
but it’s much too late again,
so, another cup of coffee
and a quick sleeping pill,
I don’t do this very often,
I’m not feeling very well.
(and a nail in the coffin
and a little drink as well,
while the children are away,
…I mean, goodness…
what the hell.

.

Fools and Heroes  III

And Sam?
Sam is a soldier now,
He’s pale.
He’s ashen,
he’s blotched with lichen,
saying I can get through this.
I can get through.
I’m just a bit pissed
and I’m havin’ a spew.
But the night closes its eyes above him.
And a bullet hole moon shoots
through his skull,
and he falls over backwards.
And there was a remarkable lull in the trenches that night.
And you could’ve heard a tear drop.

And the stars went and hid behind Turkish clouds.
And shepherds and kings stumbled about aimlessly.
Lost as drunkards in a schoolteacher’s house.
And nothing was stirring.
Not even a mouse.

And in a school room history class,
with fans clicking slowly
and girls in blue stockings,
it’s hard to imagine the rats.
and hunger,
and trench rotted toes.
And it probably sounds half crazy
and he’s never told nobody,
but every face in each school textbook
looks like someone that Sam knows.
And the faces flash before him and
sing strains inside his head.
And he feels himself still falling
and the full moon is a headlight.
And there’s corpses in the clouds
and there’s concrete in his bed
and as he falls he hears them singing
and he hears his head colliding
and he’s sure he hears them singing
like the way they sung that night.
The way they sung that silent smashing,
frozen fucking night.

And in seventeen years
he’d never seen a sound as sad as that,
nor heard a night as black,
nor smelt such distant, burning baking rain,
nor cried more like an orphan,
or ever would again.

In seventeen years
he’s never wanted more to hold a hand,
and he’s never been so far from her,
yet somehow feels so near.
And the things he wouldn’t do
for a Glenferrie Rd tram
to take him back to his sweetheart’s
and the hell out of here.

’cause he never saw the reason
in the first bloody place.
And he never even got to see
his eighteenth Christmas day.
As the first two bullet holes of rain
exploded against his face,
and the night closed in around him
and it took his head away.
Wake. Wet. Up. Dead.

And Sammy’s asleep
with his hands ’round a bottle
and face in a puddle
and his best friend Max
doing chin-ups down memorial steps.
Crawling toward him,
as pools of vomit
explode like land mines.
In crumpled carnage
of wet cigarettes.
Wake. Wet. Up. Dead.

Wake. Wet. Up. Dead.

And she switches on the kettle
in the flickering fluorescent lighted kitchen
as the Christmas beetles
kamikaze crash
against the windowpane,
like pelting rain.
Bounce and stumble,
crash again,
created by the lord before he’d even thought of glass,
they never stood a chance,
bottles of tears,
pounding against nothing,
just like she’s done all these years.
And coming back for more,
just like she’s done all these years.
Wake. Up. Dead. Wet.
Dead. Wake. Up. Wet.
And they’re falling over backwards,
and they’re laughing at the sky,
and they’re singing Christmas carols
which I’ve heard Christmas beetles
singing as they die.
They were smiling around bottles
they were drowning in the trenches
as the rain fell in buckets
and belted the ground.
And she remembers the blood
and she remembers the bruises,
but she misses the company
when he’s not around!
And sandstone melting
and backhand belting
and crumbling words:
Duty and Peace
dissolve into creeks
and Sam’s under water.
And Max just freaks,
and goes; please don’t die, Sammy!
Please don’t die!
And finger nail lightning
pierces his eye.
And car-crash thunder
explodes in his head,
he goes; please don’t be dead,
Sammy, please don ‘t be dead!
And the night is in serious need of attention.
It’s got a bit of explaining to do.
And cats and dogs aren’t rating a mention,
it’s raining a fucking entire zoo.

.

Mrs December

Through the park,
she thought
she caught a glimpse,
as she slowly hobbled home.

Amongst the Pollywaffle wrappers,
amongst the brown paper bags
being blown down Wood Street.

Oh, and these old feet, she says
and she stops
and she stamps them on the ground,
she says; we’ve been around,
haven’t we?….We three.
And they agree,
but tell her that she should be
long asleep by now.
But sometimes sleep hides from her,
and goes and plays with distant youth,
and to tell you the truth, she quite likes the night.
And at breakfast time
they’ll tell her
that she ought to take more care,
still, she feels sometimes so close to him,
she’s sure he must be out there.

And through the park
she thought
she caught a glimpse.
before the clouds switched off the moon,
and the war memorial loomed a brooding shadow
across the Hawthorn bowling club.
and she looked up
and she thought
she caught…
She thought she caught a glimpse of him,
maladroit and giggling.
with his lemonade smile
and his out-back jaw,
and his smart new uniform.
…discarded on the floor.
and she thought she saw…
she thought she saw…
and she thought she caught a glimpse of him,
standing by the bowling green
wearing a smart white uniform, now.
And Panama hat,
over bald, blotchy brow.
And shirt over belly,
unbuttoned and out,
And waging great battles,
‘gainst arthritis and gout….
Some things are too late to be thinking about.
Besides,
it’s a cold, old wind that’s a started up this street,
loud enough to wake the dead leaves around her feet.
Bounding down the Dandenongs like devils in a bush fire,
as purple and as bossy as a Salvation Army choir.
And it’s speaking with its mouth full,
and coughing in one’s eye
and rude enough to outrage
the most open minded sky,
And; my oh my, she says,
we’d best get ourselves home,
but the first two bullet holes of rain
explode on the sidewalk
and stain the sandstone gutter.

And the war memorial groans
and the bowling balls mutter to each other
that you should be long in bed by now
you should be fast asleep.
Oh, but these two feet
are just too tired
and it’s too dark for these eyes.
and everything has just gone quiet,
as if she’s happened upon…Some surprise party…For her?
out here?
and you?
She thought she caught a glimpse of him
fingers crossed and questioning.
still, it was good to grow up,        she says.
oh, but it’s good to grow old.
god, but it’s good to come to home, she says.

And she’s trembling like a schoolgirl,
but she takes hold of his hand,
and she feels his skin against hers,
and thinks; well, this is it.
He strokes her dried apricot cheek
and says; you haven’t changed one bit.

And she says;…Oh, get away with you.
And the night quakes and quivers
and the full moon switches on.

And Max says; Jesus, mate,
I really thought that you were gone.

And Sam splutters rivers
and is coughin’ like a one-lunged dero
in a boarding house bed.
shiverin’ and chokin’ and he’s nodding his head.

Not by a longshot though, he’s not in his head..

Max’s dancin’ ’round sayin’ somethin’ stupid like;
it’s a shame, really mate, I had my eye on yer bike.
As the first stick of daylight goes off on the horizon.
And the clouds are sent home.
Sam closes his eyes,
And this town’s grown a few stories older this morning.
But they won’t all be told around
kitchen tables, tonight.
Not all stories are meant for the telling.

Sometimes, some things just happen,
that’s just what you’re gonna find,
provided that your sky’s in the right frame of mind.
And provided that you’re open
to the kind of attention
that’s gonna be paid to you
from time to time.

…Sometimes, some things just happen.
There’s a pair of cigarette-sick ‘n’ soakin’ wet boys,
there’s a lady in the gutter and there’s nothin’ on t.v.
Someone’s sleepin’ in a kitchen to a flickering noise.
And everything just kind of the way it should be.

.