Hello Poetry at The Gods supporters
Please don't forget the next Gods reading on Tues May 12. It will feature Lisa Jacobson (Melb) and Andy Kissane (Syd). They're both lively readers and quality poets. Both were in The Best Australian Poems 2014 and I've appended their poems below. It'd be good to offer them a good crowd in the national capital.
Lisa Jacobson’s verse novel The Sunlit Zone (Five Islands Press, 2012) won the 2014 Adelaide Festival John Bray Poetry Prize and was shortlisted for four other national awards. Her latest collection, South in the World, came out from UWAP last year.
Andy Kissane is a Sydney poet and fiction writer who thinks Poetry at the Gods is “the best live poetry reading in Australia”. His recent books are the collection, Radiance, and a book of short stories, The Swarm. http://andykissane.com
Please note the start times i.e. dinner at 6 and readings at 7.30. If you'd like to join my tables up the front let me know or you may prefer to start your own table and book directly with The Gods on 6248 5538 or firstname.lastname@example.org.
All the best
Match Girls, 1888
She holds the frame and dips each pair of sticks
into the yellow paste that will catch and burn
in the darkest London night—a luminous ribbon,
Lucifer’s finger. When dry, her sister cuts
the matchsticks with a knife and stacks them
into boxes. The phosphorus is safe, the foreman
said, they need not fear. Yet she’s heard talk
of Bessie losing her jawbone, heard Ada say
that they ought not eat at the work tables.
Today she rises early, despite the beginnings
of a toothache and a raw, bleeding gum. One
must not complain. Instead, she pokes her sister
under the quilt and they laugh at their teeth, glowing
green and ghostly in the warm cave of the bed.
Eltham Station, 8.01 am
School girls whinny and toss their yellow manes
in half-wild herds on board the morning train.
I’ll never be like that again, what’s quick
in them now slows in me, though I recall
their visceral scent, new-glistening, which makes
grown men and school boys shift, ambivalent
in their vinyl seats. The girls gossip and stamp
their black-laced feet. Some part their legs a bit.
Something’s begun, some urgent heartstrong need
for root and seed that no old god can halt,
no worn-out creed. The train groans to a stop.
The girls get off in a flecked-skirt, skittish mob,
disperse. And yet, the taut wire of their want
persists; their sharp desire, its imperative.