Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Pushed out with worn-out furniture
her sprung insides show
the joys and woes of an old mattress.
The kapok suddenly releases secrets
and in its lumpy burls
refrains and duets stick:
Come my love, don’t withdraw
yet. Feel me over to see
if I’m a stranger once again
asking you the way to today –
I want to disappear inside
a raw body flap
as in a cave beneath the sea.
So bird-swift, with quick jerks,
this duet sounded like a duel
when in the middle of a kissed-away silence
a voice, almost choked, sprang up:
“If you die first, then I will surely follow . . .”
Come my love, pull me in
like a snail does its feelers:
I do not want to see the light
that whistles in my ribs –
Quickly set my coil-locked
body on fire: just one more sigh
and the bloom is gone.
© 2001, Lucienne Stassaert
© Translation: 2008, John Irons
Thursday, November 6, 2008
I am presently in Broome as Writer in Residence at the Broome Library and Notre Dame University, organised by writingWA, our State lit office. Expect hot and humid Broome poems any day now!
Anyone reading this in The Kimberley can hear me on ABC radio tomorrow morning with Miranda Tetlow around 11.45am.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Enjoying memories of being "Jung @ Heart" along the way, find the Submission Guidelines hidden below
make it happen
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Heather, you must have re-set my email log-in, so thanks very much!
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
It's the five days of the year where you get to share your ideas, passions and saliva with like-minded crew from all over Australia. This year This Is Not Art is composed of four very special festivals, and a series of events combining talents from the across the board.
From its first moments as an Electrofringe and National Young Writers' Festival, the convergence has grown to provide an annual extravaganza with a variety of workshops, panels, performances, speakers and exhibitions challenging ideas about making art, making culture and making noise. We’ve have remained true to our core aims - innovating, developing and showcase emerging art and media forms.
And this year is no exception. Throw in some experimental indy theatre performances, artist networking and industry exposés, and some ripe social & political cheekiness, and you have a rough idea of what This Is Not Art Festival has become - the largest and most diverse annual media and arts festival in Australia.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
squeezed into my patter
as an embryo in the womb's
i curl muscles and pucker up lips:
my name is
beg your pardon
it is easier to read the winds around me
than pronounce these chits
i can flee all the rages of the seas
but the cloud of my mother tongue
that follows my boat, a greedy sea-gull
will it ever leave me alone?
the only one i have, a bad penny
the alphabet stiff as a birthmark
once shiny, dainty and rich
now a weary rug stuck to my skin
just a puff, groan, a shivering heave
i can't strip off my flesh
it does not make any sense a moan
i gasp to the wind, who will ever grasp
what is behind my silence once i reach this land?
oh mein gott! mio dio!
boze moj! my god!
will you hear me better
when i touch the furthest shore
and understand me
with no translator
when i sigh
© 2007 Tatjana Lukic
[Joanne Burns, on the poetry list 'poneme': August 11th 2008]
Tatjana Lukic was born in the former Yugoslavia (Croatia) where she spent her first 33 years. She received degrees in philosophy and sociology from Sarajevo University, and lived in Bosnia, Croatia, Serbia and the Czech Republic before leaving the region during the wars in Croatia and Bosnia. In 1992 she arrived, with her young family, as a refugee in Australia. She did not speak English, but learned the language, studied and worked.
Prior to her exile in Australia, Lukic had published poetry throughout former Yugoslavia, and won national poetry awards. In recent years she started to write again, now in English. Her English poems have appeared in international journals.
(information from the ICORN international cities of refuge network http://www.icorn.org/articles.php?var=66 )
A tribute to Tatjana is on Ralph's blog - http://www.walleahpress.com.au/b25/?p=708
Links to some of Tatjana's published poems can be found on this blog as well as an exert from an interview with Tatjana for the Australian Poets at Work series in Thylazine no 12 (June 2007)
Her death is a sad loss to Australian poetry.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
I've been trying to contact Jayne Fenton Keane to find out what's happening with National Poetry Week this year, as the website hasn't been updated for a long time, but I can't seem to find her. Does anyone know if events are happening around Australia for National Poetry Week and how I might contact Jayne. We have a lot organised here in Perth. See the following web address for details of what's happening in Perth: http://www.maureensexton.com.au/Pages/waspringpoetryfestival2008.html
I would appreciate any information.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
6th Australian Poetry Festival
5, 6, 7 September 2008
Sydney Mechanics School of Arts, 280 Pitt Street, Sydney
Opening Night Party and Performance
Poets from around Australia and overseas
Panels on the State of Play in Contemporary Oz Poetry
The Judith Wright Lecture (to be delivered by Bruce Dawe)
The $3000 Poets Union Poetry Prize
The Scanlon Prize for Indigenous Verse
Launch of the Poets Union Anthology
Pre-Festival Events (Monster Open Reading; Reading Seminar)
All to be recorded in a special double edition of Five Bells which will be a significant contribution to thinking about the craft of contemporary Australian poetry.
I'd like to say hello to any poets attending this festival. I'll be reading at the Friend in Hand Hotel, Cowper St Glebe, as part of the Varuna LongLines Regional Poets Program
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
In the mid nineties the ADF assisted in keeping sand mining out of Shoalwater, now they may have to assist to stop a major coal loading port being situated there. During joint military training exercises every second year, the ADF and US use live firing in the area, (the beast you know hey). Many migratory bird breeding areas, turtle and dugong habitats, humpback whales and other flora and fauna life could be in a very precarious state, (if not already) should any further major industrial inroads be made.
I'm not a nature poet, but I do live in and around it, and appreciate that the environment is all around me (the landscape within and without) and I recognise it's important to respect what is there, before it becomes degraded and beyond self repair. There are so few pristine areas left in the world.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Softer than light
soldier crabs navigate an early world.
From their drilled trenches they hover;
transparent bodies, miniature helicopters
airing a blue line across mud flats,
portable radio antennas
attuned to the sea’s bandwidth.
A lone soldier divides from the troops,
gathers in her sand rosette,
Missiles of bird-song blast overhead;
sounds of the enemy,
This is a poem from my soon to be published collection "Country Girl" - but may not make it in.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
summer days are songless
brute sun in a silent sky
banksias stand like stringless cellos
warbler whistles his choked phrase
from a melaleuca’s dry neck
in the cracked silence
a string player buries his fingers
in the soil
feeling for song
This is a poem from over a year ago, but I only found it again when I went trawling through my blog for another poem my wife wanted me to find.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
I have posted this WA notice to advise you of the following position. I used to work there in the beginning & it's a lovely house, very quiet, library close by & kangaroos. Why not give it a try! Cheers, Helen
Poet in Residence @ PCWC - Call for EOIs
The Joondalup-based Peter Cowan Writers Centre is on the lookout for a new writer in residence.
The centre (which occupies Cowan House in the beautiful grounds of ECU Joondalup) has a vacancy for a writer in residence under it’s charter to bring writing resources and opportunities to the people of the northern suburbs of Perth.
Potential writers (who will spend three weeks at the centre involving themselves in variety of writing workshops and other community activities run by the centre) are invited to apply for the position.
Applicants need to be established, published authors to be considered.
This year, the centre is especially interested in poetry and so poets will be looked upon favourably for this residency. The centre traditionally have two Writers in Residence each year.
The three-week residency can be any time between now and the end of August, 2008. The cut-off date for applications is June 30, 2008.
For more information, contact Coby Pearson at the centre on 9301 2282 or email email@example.com for more details of the Writers In Residence program.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Pearls from the Sun
Diamonds from the Moon
Gold-dusted silks from
Valued in danger, adventure
from there to here.
Fine old wood
mellowed with wisdom
tasting of Earth essence
silently regales with tales
old and pure.
Young Percival took knighthood seriously. To protect and to serve King and country.
The old King sickening, perhaps dying, soul sickness they said.
Crops failed. Floods and droughts, inopportune times. The peasants too sickened,
died, lived in dreadful poverty and despair.
In a dream, the young knight was shown the Grail -- shiny jewels upon a golden cup
self-generating elixir of immortality.
On awakening, he took off in the direction of adventure. He left the dying kingdom
to its own devices, in search of a promised land of magical curative power. He was
not thinking of King or country, but of a delicious ecstatic pounding he knew to be
his own heart.
Where do you ride, fair Percival?
Off to find the dreamer's Grail?
Learn your song and tell your tale.
Become a son of Sky and Earth
to return with all you gain
some wondrous day.
Break the spell.
Release the kingdom's pain.
He learned the ways of seers, demons, subtle sorceries and charms. Growing ever
stronger with healthy exercise and happy purpose, he made his way. Trial by
treacherous trial, he ever more closely approaches his prize.
These trials are the key. They test mettle while bestowing grace, confidence,
skill acquisition, glimmerings of wisdom. The prize glitters, shines, glows
brilliantly in the distance to maintain focus, a clear point, fixed star to contemplate
through twisting, turning, misty mythic pathways.
Sometimes the brick is yellow. Some paths are more intuitive, steps in the dark,
Percival knows what a hero does. A hero perseveres. A hero scales the tower to free
the enchanted maiden, goes where others dare not because fear is a solid companion.
Daring, fighting, sometimes dazed, momentarily forgetting his cause, he perseveres.
He need but think to look to see his Grail shining, calling him forward.
Of course, he reaches the Grail, discovers the codes, incantations, disarms dragons,
ensorcels giants, generally blazes through to capture his dream.
Returning triumphant, he fixes the kingdom, drop-kicks the curse, cures the old King
of his soul malady, takes the throne to wisely guide into times of prosperity.
So the story goes.
the spelling and grammar check is complete.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Fordes Front Bench used to be the Station Hotel, Auckland. When I lived on Constitution Hill in the 70's & 80's it was my local live music pub. One band regularly played 'How is the air up there..' at 9pm every Saturday. My boys were babies and I didn't go to pubs in those days. (I didn't need to)
Thomas who runs Fordes is opening specially. Being a weekend, the parking shouldn't be too bad. Baz, my son is playing some music along with friends Fiona (McEwen) and Steve. I'll read a few poems. So come, eat, drink and be happy.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Boobs and balls for
me ma'ams and gents,
sweetly dipped in excrement
for your shocking awe;
packaged in plastic, curse
of dinosaur extinction.
Consumers of distinction
may choose leatherbound,
Aiming to please the crowds
who adore confusion
as long as it makes them
look real fine.
I set myself a task
to learn great secrets
unobscured by truth.
But what I learned was
shameful and so sad.
I understand why so few
No clever, teasing entertainments
enrich my humble wares.
Pay a pretty penny dipped in heartache;
I will sing to you your native tongue.
(c) May 4, 2008 Laurie Corzett/libramoon
Thursday, April 17, 2008
It's really a simple story Beings find planet. Beings treat planet badly. Planet goes about her business. Beings start to realize that they need planet, and had best learn to make friends rather than futilely keeping up enmity.
Gaea: A Ritual Performance
layers of imagery, music, tribal drums, futuristic dreams
Gaea was there, in the beginning. Gaea was all. Gaea was wise.
How could we not have seen, in the blindness of pride, of avarice,
of service pledged to false gods?
The journey was long.
The journey was cold.
The journey was lonely.
Asleep in a box with wilderness dreams. Or awake on the watch, wondering what was to come.
Thus it was those false gods bespake us: Out of the cold vastness of space and time,
out of the fear that was all the companion we knew,
out of a need to make it all Someone else's responsibility,
out of a need to believe all would be well for our kind.
Our planet was dying.
We did what we could to survive.
Survival we find
an appopriate end
to any means.
Survival will give us
the time we need
to find a better way
The strongest of us,
the proudest of us,
the meanest of us,
would not allow us to die.
We took off in our ship with the barest of plans
to find another land
where our kind could live ...
hybrid children evolved
fleeing a hostile star.
Skygods and Earth Mother of ancient lore.
It's time we relinquish fear and hatred, accept Gaea as partner and home
that we may all live and thrive.
The land, when we found her was so warm and inviting.
We felt safe, supported, encouraged to grow.
We ate of her fruit and her herds.
We built with her trees, stone and clay.
We drank from her cool crystal streams which we soiled with our waste.
Gaea was saviour and womb.
We repaid her with rape.
We didn't understand,
thought her merely land,
thought ourselves masters from afar.
Gaea sent storms to bring us to our senses, wild winds and seas.
Gaea tried to shake us off: Earthquakes, Floods, Famine, Plagues
sending us scattering into hiding. Intermingling with her primates, Gaea's children.
Without question or shame, we murdered what we could not steal.
Without honor or remorse, we laid waste to our host, to our adopted home,
then cursed her for not giving more.
By accident or design, chimera adapting to Gaea's marketplace creating
new ways to define our origins from outer space
We lied to our halfling children, denigrated their Gaean kin,
twisted their virtues into a false concept that we called "sin."
What Gaea did to us? Cruel, evil, in need of the whip.
we seal over her bounty
into mad parody of Mother Ship.
Unforgiving of the mess of living, the miracles of life.
In our ignorant pride we gave ourselves law to decide
propriety over fate
in our minds
into a mirror of hate.
Frozen in fear and rage, children swept out in the storm,
trapped in a self-made cage we had hoped to protect us from harm.
Gaea, we cry, why do you treat us so angrily?
What will it take for us to wake up and see it is we who are wrong?
To hear and be aware of Gaea's song singing in our blood?
To learn the cycles, the seasons, the reasons for fire, wind and flood?
To redefine our race, to find out that our place is here among our Gaean kin?
The telling of new tale must begin.
Gaea opens to sunshine to ease our agitation
Easy winds, easy gushing of summer rain
Feeding the greedy young grains,
growing along the plains, the flowers of the storm.
Feeding the beasts of the field,
continuing the cycle, as all is revealed.
Love is the web,
craftily spun by great mother spider,
weaving magestic grace
no longer concealed. It was never our place
to control, nor others' to steal.
Gaea creates in intricate arrangements,
feeding us all of us all, a transformative stew.
So much energy wasted; painful lies to find our way through
our beings to create such beautiful
children, reaching out to become and be free,
enjoying our destiny,
as Gaea's beloved.
Arising in the circle, giving voice to pain -- grateful to Gaea's grace, dancing in her cleansing rain,
we sing in voice united:
It would be so nice (paradise)
You and I
Floating in the sunlight
Ready to break free
Exactly who we are.
(c) April 9, 2006 Laurie Corzett
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Does any one have any information on a useful source for photo poems or image poems. I have been searching the net for information, but so far have only come up with sites that talk about poems written to an image or photo. I'm sure there are also photo poems that don't have any text at all. But then of course, that raises the question - is it then poetry? I'd love to know what others think.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Georgie Arnott's review of Westerly in ABR's April 2008 issue (there's even a date typo on the cover!) is less impressive than the poetry content she talks about. It's not hard to see that the four poets she praises are all from the Eastern States. Not one mention is given to a West Australian poet. Considering the recent struggles by Westerly to gain funding to continue/ or increase journal issues, and the tight squeeze for WA poets to get published in their state (although this writer sees the new literary journal 'indigo' as saviour!), this review, regretfully, shows a lack of sensitivity by focusing on the East! To all "WA reviewers" - we need to review our own magazines for ABR!
Friday, March 28, 2008
The workshops are very relaxing and the environment is outstanding: shared community huts facing the foreshore and ocean; numerous eco smart projects; full internet access and office facilities; great catering and many walking tracks (don't bring the hairdryer).
Last time I was on the Island, dolphins were visable daily, and even followed the boat from the Island well past the half way point towards the mainland on our trip home. The workshops cater to all levels of writing skills and mixed genre, poetry is always well catered for, even if you want to skip the bulk of workshop process and just write, worth thinking about?
Here is the blurb from the Uni, and when it's up on the website, I'll post a link and a picture...
Footprints in the Sand: Writing as a Journey
Idiom 23 Magazine’s workshop on
Creative Writing and a Sense of Place
North Keppel Island Environmental Education Centre
September 12-14, 2008
Writer in Residence Dr Lynda Hawryluk
with Kristin Hannaford, Louise Waller and Steve Butler
Cost: $160 includes boat trip, share cabin accommodation and meals.
Transport: Departs from Roslyn Bay Marina for North Keppel Island at 10am on Friday and returns approx. 3pm on Sunday. (Saturday morning departure can be negotiated for visitors travelling long distances).
Inquiries to: Dr Liz Huf
07 49232573 or 07 49383746
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
in the mornings
leave the dishes
they will get done - later
dream a little
listen to the trees talking
the air whispering
let your words slide
drop off the page
cluster into twos and threes
let them dance
forming their own rhythm
in the evenings
leave the dishes
they will wait till - later
taste the darkness
eucalyptus after rain
let your words discover
let them drift
pooling in shadows
bubbling into poems
© Heather Matthew 2008
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
over and over
ignore the naysayers
all the time
pull the knives out
one at a time
look in the mirror
face the image
and don't moan
if you don't like
what you see
ask yourself 'so what'
about everything you write
don't just want to be a poet
don't just try to be a poet
and if you are still writing poetry
don't expect to be published
don't expect anything
not everyone is a writer
not everything is worth reading
life is more important than dreaming
about life and writing about dreams that
are replacing living your life
and for goodness sake, don't
think that just because it seems
like a good story, that if you write
it down, somebody else will think
it is great, there is no great
just the slog and the life and the
poetry and the chance that
you might get it right
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Spectare’s thoughts absently
caressed his anger
like a suppressed familiar cat,
half-forgotten as myth. Its threadbare
fur prickled. Its claws bit,
for company, and he felt
imagined pain his owned, his very,
and went out into it, the story,
donning a voice like a coat,
to stand before the self-sure,
feeling as absurd as a man
with a cat on his head,
in the bared town-hall square
like a box orator shouting
at enmities of air:
There are still stars unnamed to us, and more.
(I've been nudging this around in the past week - David Bircumshaw)
Out of the Asylum Writers' Group with Christchurch Grammar Centre for Ethics invites you to the launch of Indigo Journal Volume 2.
Featuring Frank Sheehan in conversation with Les Murray
Friday 28 March @ 7.30pm
Christchurch Chapel Queenslea Drive Claremont. RSVP by Friday 21 March to firstname.lastname@example.org or 9335 3736
Thursday, March 13, 2008
you're strangling heaven?
Taught to irrelevant
Taught to be standardized,
Christian White Males
or wherever you're placed
Taught to believe the sublime
is but an affectation,
not to be relied upon
when creditors come to call
for providing you with life.
Selling your soul for nickels and dimes,
the working-class creed.
Giving in to everyday crimes,
habituated to need
that never succeed in
destroying the pain,
the long season of Hell
you strive to explain
"it's his fault" "it's their fault"
"it's my fault"
all victims of blame.
And you're strangling heaven.
You're making it impossible to survive,
denying your passion to thrive,
denying your worth,
the blessing of birth onto
this mortal stage.
You pace in your cage
as if castrated of will.
And heaven so wants you,
surrounds you, offers
your most deeply hoped for love,
boundless happiness, life eternal,
every pocket of your soul
Heaven offers you her open arms,
and you, in your hellish nightmare,
(c) March 12, 2008 Laurie Corzett/libramoon
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Will it stretch that far? Will it go round three
Continents or four, three hearts or more,
And still slide through a ring ?
Worn and unravelled night and day without
A break, past two time zones, retain
Its sleek, original shape?
How many machines can we put it through,
How many phones, planes, taped voices
And still find it wearable?
Is our love elastic, or some finer,
clinging, skinlike, inward-breathing weave
To make all this bearable ?
© 1993, Ruth Vanita
Ruth Vanita is a poet, editor, translator, academic and activist. Her book of poems, Play of Light (Penguin India) was published in 1994. She is Professor at the University of Montana, formerly Reader at Delhi University. She was founding co-editor of Manushi, an influential journal about women and society, from 1978 to 1990.
+ Open Mic readings from local poets
David Brooks is the editor of Southerly, and author of poetry collection Urban Elegies and novel The Fern Tattoo. This event will also feature open mic readings – sign up on the night for your three minute slot.
When: 6.30pm, Tuesday 18 March, 2008
Where: Music Farmers cafe, 5 Crown Lane, Wollongong (laneway opposite the western entrance of Crown Street Mall). Please note that the Music Farmers cafe will be open, BYO if you are dining at the cafe, coffee and softdrinks also available.
Bookings and information: SCWC 02 4228 0151 or email@example.com
Cost: Free event. Your donation gratefully accepted.
All the places of possibility
open to my scrying eyes
I am the universe of time and space
Your eyes draw me
they fill in the lines
with infinite perspective
I have breath and depth
heartbeat and color
You draw me outside the lines
I am your forever love,
your fatally flawed hero
In the ethers where we touch
magical manifestation shines
the singularity collapses
a new universe
comes to life
(c) March 5, 2008 Laurie Corzett/libramoon
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
I thought it could be
the tilt of my hat
or the way I held my glass
but the words kept interfering
trying to tell me something else
even when I gave up wearing black
words did not give up on me
& my fishnets have long
been hidden in a drawer
along with my feather boa
this flamboyance once needed
to be a part of the act
as if these props & the bottle of Chablis
were all that kept me writing
now I notice lines of determination
etched into my face, drawing down
my mouth into mean & ugly
or tilting my eyes to laughter
& the words keep coming
spilling over the pages
create their own life
ask their questions, like
where are you taking us now?
Monday, March 10, 2008
the wonder of it all
shaping language to hatch
& re-hatch the pallor of a sparrow,
bush turkey compressing leaves
to see the poem just right, to catch
the underbrush of a metaphor
before it is lost in uncut grass
the ancient burning patience
one needs to track a poet’s last winter,
or hold summer voices in your
hand. bundle them into your backpack
to be stung by words like a bull-ant,
staying in the woods to feel the shape of it
or perhaps dwell in the oval of a new phrase,
where your children used to play, their tiny spirits
whirling round, running out of a last stanza
they circle round and round
throw their wishes down. hear a gifting
sound – ah-tishoo, ah-tishoo?
then suddenly it all takes shape,
holds court, sparrows out, kingfisher rare.
it could be a forest call, or as loud as leaf fall;
a fine thing like cornucopia
sunning themselves as bees
This is the first of several editions planned by the press.
I'm so over the moon about it, and I (almost) can't wait to feel the book in my hands.
You can read more about light-trap here.
There's a plug in the editorial for poneme and our new blog.
Some great reviews and interview, heaps of local and international poets who sent outstanding work for this issue. I'm really happy to have been along for the ride...
Saturday, March 8, 2008
sweet cloying, it fills my nostrils
sticks gritty at the back of my throat
outside the mill’s siren thrum
presides over flatlands of cane
broad rivers, lakes of overflow
at night it becomes a lighted ship
twin funnels pluming smoke
I wake to warm rain and molasses
Friday, March 7, 2008
Thursday, March 6, 2008
you come to a sudden cliff
hot autumn winds make
nerves and skin erupt
take the easy way out
and lie down or
walk to the letterbox
in hope and sandals
today's snail dries out
in the letterbox oven as
the driveway burns your feet
no news or cheques
no matter tonight
is the third episode of
that gangland series
just the ticket to
take your mind off
(to remind myself)
Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill—more of each
than you have—inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.
Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.
Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.
by Wendell Berry
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
four black lines
before the blue
of a startling
then birds come -
twenty-eights to crows -
to perch and
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Feels like a red gem of a day.
has blown the birds away
and plants sweep
the garden back
He is inside his head
wind whistling in one ear
the other leeward
and nostalgic for
childhood holiday camps
by the Indian Ocean
dogs' ears pinned back
on the horizon.
and turns the hose off
hand over hand
he wends it around
the half wheel rim
screwed to the porch.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Monday means nothing
in China where
you work seven days a week.
Monday means nothing
This Monday I bring
the washing in from
Sunday and wake my wife
Monday's mudlarks play
flying leapfrog over bins
out for collection
on brown summer verges
monday's wet notes
# in the furtherest place from height
discussion lower than everything else
so still now whatever wounded grunt
was ever free for all the talking
political tally doesn't catch the
message from the gun (a low day
then) talk lower than everything else
so still in the ground
# thought the poet had a pure heart
for all the rabid iniquity
thought a calm breath
filled need found hope was a willing
motivation towards relinquishing
thought the poet has her own perspective
thought that was clean thinking wiped assumptions
wiped the generalisms found a pure heart
only worked in first drafts
Sunday, March 2, 2008
My father strode briskly to church every Sunday
psalm book in hand, money for the collection plate
securely licked into a printed offering envelope.
My mother and I in matching straw hats
short white gloves and little handbags followed.
His was a family tradition of ministers and missionaries
where children and wives walked behind in duck formation.
I have photos of them all in hats sweeping along
the Presbyterian streets of Camberwell
not a smile between them.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Saturday horoscope with Crystal
(a good day for family activities)
now, as four, we travel
taking the 210 bus
over-full with race bound gamblers
we stop short of the race track
to indulge in the school gala
each of us tracking
our favoured activities
a kind of gambling
with different odds
with our winnings
two bottles of wine
a pie plate
not to mention
one shied coconut
there is room
on a less crowded bus
advice from an older woman
on how to make stuffing
recalling past experiences
of boiling rice in the outback
where no bread was available
we had bought bread
with lunches in mind
& cheese on toast
changes our plans
with fruit juice
& cheap wine
make their contribution
to family dinner party
while on TV, David Lange
our Prime Minister, gives
the best Oxford Debating Speech in years
& receives a standing ovation
Saturday pancakes with syrup
you fashion ears and limbs,
dough menagerie shapes.
Pancakes hot from the plate,
children swoop, as hawks wait
for prey to emerge from grass.
You spear one or two
for the plate, drizzle the maple
and look at me, our children.
Mention in passing that
the coffee tastes like cigarettes.
up to my elbows in suds
doing the Saturday wash
dreaming of Mrs Beaton
all her some days finally realized
with the mechanical washing machine
no handle necessary
but the general principles of washing
set forth in her chapter on laundry work
naturally apply to machine washing
first the linen is examined for grease spots
damp stains, fruit stains, ink stains, tea and wine stains
removed according to the chapter on household hints
then each article is entered in the washing book
before soaking in a tub of lukewarm water overnight
to which a little soda or borax is added
early on the following morning fires are lit
hot water procured and the washing can begin
experienced washerwomen rub one linen surface against the other
I plunge into buckets and scrub with soap
doomed to turn all my clothing yellow
no bluing, bleaching or starching will improve their colour
outside the air is fresh, a good drying wind blows
I string out a line of smalls and socks doubling the pegs
sniff the sheets and towels, watch the shadows dance
Friday, February 29, 2008
friday older, young
friday, soiled, clear-
friday, walked away
with, without getting
away, friday, it, not
friday, summer, not
stomache, I can't,
friday, not, it
friday, violent, peace
my daughter, dear,
my other one,
friday, summer, mild
empty and the literal
the literal truth:
no line on,
I am not
i.a tap leaks
drops onto the
a leaf and the
can't hear the
sound of a
greed into the bucket
the bucket over full
the whole now
circle and cross
divisions all four
shattering on the
ground in the
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Thursday evening on dry earth
by the wetlands
bright orange-striped wasp
and greyhaired spider
fight on the run
wasp dragging reverse
spiders legs leaping
jerkily over dry grass
like a toddler's crazy writing
on scrap paper
I stare and can't tell
who drags who pushes
the thought comes to me
I am standing like
my childhood self
staring at the ground
as the world went by
Thursday went by as a lisp might catch on the tongue
nagging at sleep, moments reassembled and replayed
as a disc keeps slipping up on an image -
a figure walking and reconfiguring movement
a thousand times, she felt the whirr of the dog catching
its tail, the irrepressible urge to flip darkness
into the breakfast day light, cross-legged on the bed
waiting, waiting for Friday.