Poet in Residence

Hi gang,
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 cowan05@bigpond.com for more details of the Writers In Residence program.

hero

hero

Pearls from the Sun
Diamonds from the Moon
Gold-dusted silks from
exotic worlds
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
and rain
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,
brambly forest.
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.

http://emergingvisions.blogspot.com

Haibun for Sheila Murphy

Reading your book and stirring the porridge is a plaiting: tactile, rhythmic. The dog barks to have such fun, or wants it. Rain primps on our tin roof, veranda dusted off, biddable as Berryman, narcissistic in its newly found pleasure. I eat the porridge, at the mere mention of which a child sings a song of praise. Nobody answers. Cynicism scoffs at such a half-pint hoofer. Limited by language building in rounds, ego is not a dirty word, fitting biorhythmic conflict within multi-veined bladders. And the verb ran away with the noun. Duncan spoke of the swarm of human speech, as, just now, galahs parlez loudly in the tall gums. Just now and still then. Wit and words and oats,

the spelling and grammar check is complete.