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 email@example.com 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 firstname.lastname@example.org
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