Thursday, December 30, 2021
Sunday, September 26, 2021
Friday, September 24, 2021
A poem by MURRAY JENNINGS
SMELLS LIKE SEPTUAGENARIAN SPIRITS
When we turned off the wireless in the
lounge-room
my father once said you can’t beat a
nightcap.
Slumber should be deep, dreamless and
rewarding.
Lean times. His choice was cheap Johnny
Walker red.
He would run his tongue over his lips
and say goodnight
the last thing before sleep.
Times are okay now. I’ve walked in the
Cuillins
which he sang about but never got to. He
never smelt
‘…the
tangle of the Isles.’
I’ve travelled to untangle a string of
work worries
Had wild highland heather scrape the
campervan
and uncorked a Lagavulin in the long
twilight.
-
that unmistakeable
aroma of smokey peat –
wishing I could
share it with him
the last thing
before sleep.
I’m fourteen
years older than my father was when he died.
My youngest son
is catching up to both of us.
He who stuck a
giant poster of Kurt Cobain
on his bedroom
wall all those years ago
after he’d heard
the bad news and stared at it
his guitar
across his chest
the last thing
before sleep.
-
© 2019 Murray Jennings
Tuesday, September 21, 2021
Wednesday, September 15, 2021
SHORT STORY - Jan Napier
SHOW DAY - a memory by JAN NAPIER
It was time
to go. I tossed a towel over my shoulder, squeezed toothpaste onto the brush,
and locked the van. I could hear Mick next door, muttering in his sleep as I
stepped outside. Sliding sideways down the narrow passage way between two canvas
joints, I walked out on to the grass street which runs betwixt
This was a twenty foot, four berth van in which the rest of Jack’s workers lived. Although it was their home, in practice we all shared the use of the facilities such as the stove and fridge. It was the place where we all ate, partied, and socialized.
For now, I just wanted breakfast - a coffee. If I could manage to boil the kettle without waking anyone up, I would be able to escape without having to make cuppas for everyone. I was in luck. The boys were still snoring.
Hot drink in one hand and cigarette in the other, I went and sat carefully on the ball rack which fronted Jack’s basketball joint. I loved this time of the day. Everything was quiet and fresh. The sky was just turning blue, while the grounds were hushed and still. The big rides stood silent, freshly painted and gleaming in the weak morning sun. Music systems only needed to be plugged in. Ticket boxes furnished with a variety of tatty chairs awaited endless rolls of tickets, and change trays. The joints, contents hidden behind their smothers, were all filled to bursting with plush. The twenty cent machines familiarly known as choppers slept under their individual canvas hoods. Shortly, sleepy bodies would begin to emerge from caravans, wander off to the showers, or in search of a cooked breakfast from the CWA ladies. For the moment however, it was all mine.
It was the
first day of the Royal Show. We (the crew) had to be on deck sober, showered, and respectable, at
Others started to take down storm ropes and fold up the smothers. When they had finished doing that, one of them grabbed the sledge hammer and knocked out the storm pegs securing the joints. I worked a dart joint and preferred to remove my own smother. Subsequently, I checked the stock then went to get the darts from Bev, the bosses’ wife. When everything had been done, it was back around to Jack’s van where Bev handed out waist bags which contained a small float. She called your name, gave you a bag, and assigned you to a particular joint. Jack employed a lot of casuals for this show. He would take them to their work stations and explain the job. They were put into a joint with a member of his permanent crew. The experienced employee would keep an eye on the new recruit. I was permanent, so Bev gave me two bags then told one of the casuals to go with me.
There was a few minutes to get organized, (find somewhere to put your water, cigarettes, throat lollies, learn each other’s names, etc), before officials opened the showground gates and the initial trickle of humanity began to filter down to the alley. I smiled at a family of four as they passed in front of the stall.
“Have a game. Four darts for two dollars,” I called, offering a handful of darts. They looked, grinned, and shook their heads. Never mind. My apprentice was staring at me in undisguised horror. “It’s OK, you just watch me for a while, then you can have a go,” I reassured her.
“ I’m not doing that. It’s too embarrassing,” she refused.
It didn’t get really busy till about lunchtime. Jack came across to ask how my helper was getting on.
“Pretty useless actually,” I told him sotto voice. “She won’t spruik, just stands there doing nothing.”
“ Give me a minute, I’ll swap her into a quieter joint,” Jack promised.
The next girl was fine. Frantically we counted scores, gave out prizes, avoided flying missiles, ducked shattering light globes, assured tearful tots that the teddy which they had just impaled wasn’t really hurt, changed money, and gathered up spent darts. As we worked, one of the crew who was acting as stock boy, would periodically enter the stall to replenish and tidy our supply of toys. He also carried some change, which meant that we didn’t have to wait for Jack. At set intervals, either he or Bev would appear with a fresh set of waist bags. This was called doing a collect. We handed over our full bags, and took the new ones.
The meal breaks were half an hour. I went back to the crew van, made some lunch, then sat down. After being on my feet for hours, all I wanted was some time out and a chance to sit down somewhere quiet for a while. For the first few days, most of the casuals rushed around buying showbags or going on rides, then complained that they hadn’t had time to eat and their feet hurt. Tough bikkies. Eventually they learned. If they lasted that long.
Nights were busy times too. The mums with young kids had gone home, but the teenagers and retail workers were out with their mates. The alley looked spectacular after dark. The rides and joints were all adorned with coloured lights which sparkled, flashed, dazzled, and twinkled. It was like working in fairyland, albeit a noisy one. Generators thudded away behind rides and joints supplying power for motors or lights, spruikers called, and every ride had its own music blasting out.
At last, all the covers were back on the machines and the money had been removed to Jack’s van. I shot off to grab my shower gear. The public facilities were miles away in the Silver Jubilee pavilion, and I wanted hot water not cold. Nor did I feel like standing in line half the night. Luckily, there was only one woman before me, so I was in and out pretty fast.
The next thing on my agenda was a couple of beers with the boys, then something to eat. However, when I walked into our crew van, I discovered that a couple of Jennie’s boys were visiting. Naturally, they had brought a carton. It would have been the height of bad manners to let the beer get hot. By the time that we had all compared notes about our respective day, it was half past one. I opted out and retired to my van. I certainly wasn’t going to take any rocking tonight. Well, one day down, seven to go.
FINIS
Tuesday, September 07, 2021
Sunday, September 05, 2021
Saturday, August 28, 2021
Monday, August 02, 2021
launch of CONSTELLATIONS by Deanne Leber at Perth Poetry Club, Moon Café, Northbridge, WA
I will start with a pertinent quote
from Yeats: Out of the quarrel with
ourselves, we make rhetoric, but poetry is born of the quarrel with ourselves.
Welcome to this book launch of
CONSTELLATIONS by Deanne Leber – a very important book in the contemporary west
coast literary scene of Australia. This poetry community has a long history
that is described and illustrated by various anthologies still available today,
the latest being John Kinsella’s Fremantle
Press Anthology of Western Australian Poetry. But there’s no Deanne Lieber included
… and no L-A-N-G-U-A-G-E Poetry. I guarantee there will be in the next
anthology: There will be quotes from this book and its influences. It is a
breath of fresh air in the local poetry scene – it progresses both in its
composition and its writing.
I mention composition because this is
very physical writerature – an intellectual architecture, still tactile but
with deep theory behind it. The basic element is the words but grouped together
they associate, contradict, waylay connotations, expose and whistle their own
tunes. They are all from Deanne’s lexicon of all her life until now. The form
is realized by human techniques but the highlight of the form is the reading of
the constellations by the writer. The ‘Author’ may be dead, as Roland Barthes
wrote, but the Reader is ever more important in the CONSTELLATIONS.
As reader and writer, Deanne Leber is
influenced fundamentally by Gertrude Stein and Lyn Hejinian – but you can trace
her creative impulses back to the earliest known drawing by human hand, five
strokes of clay in a South African cave. The nearest link to Deanne’s prose
poems would be Ania Walwicz in Australian poetry. And maybe Michelle Leggett in
NZ.
How to read CONSTELLATIONS is a very
personal thing. Each reader experiences a different universe. There are
constellations illustrated, one at a time – followed by a prose poem of one
page with a different kaleidoscopic theme each time, then an emergent poem on
an entirely different theme with its own page … and finally the verbal bones of
the theme positioned on the page as dictated to by the apexes of that
individual Constellation. The obvious way to read them is one constellation at
a time, but I read some prose poems one day and marveled over the emergent
poems on another. The spiky visual poems I read as sculptures. You can do what
you like, read it in large gulps or small breaks but it will last you a long time
to exhaust its multi-dimensional layers.
As Lyn Hejinian says, The process is more composition than
writing. But let’s zero in on the writing, the words Deanne chose at one
stage or another. Here’s a couple of quotes from her prose poems: notice how
age-old images come to life by juxtaposition -
Deanne Leber quote: A
plastic rose and a feather duster caressed. A dirty knee’d angel with the words
of a poet stuck in throat. Hum of song stuck in note. Stars sucking tongue.
Undone. Crawling to begin again.
DL quote: Skin closes moments made new
by colour. Longing to be your slow sad ballerina. Dancing my heel got caught in
the gutter. Threaded to your skin to your heart. When writing replaces words
you can’t say.
DL: Waiting for a tongue to begin.
Love hearts and wings against skin. He etched feathers on walls as the train
linked each track to a new word. Breaking their
umbilical shells. Born into shapes caressed with pen.
I love ‘words breaking their umbilical shells.’
I haven’t finished CONSTELLATIONS yet
– I’ve only had the text a week - and I will never exhaust this book. It’ll be
like Finnegan’s Wake for me, an
endless delight. Buy it now before they run out.
-
Andrew Burke (MA, PhD)
Tuesday, June 22, 2021
from OLNEY Magazine ...
Submit your work!
We are looking for both Photography & Poetry submissions for Print Issue 2: Fall 2021 — Just like with Issue 1, the next issue will be a limited printing.
All contributors receive a free copy, while the proceeds from sales go to benefit our current charity partner.
Deadline for all submissions is through 7/1, 11:59pm EST
general guidelines.
Send the following in the body of an email to: Submit@olneymagazine.com
Type only the submission category (poetry/photography/etc.) as your subject line
Name & pro-nouns
Short bio (<100 words)
Author Photo
Website & Social Links
Cover letter optional
Saturday, June 19, 2021
Thursday, June 17, 2021
from the State Library of Western Australia
Congratulations to everyone on the shortlist for the 2020 Western Australian Premier’s Book Awards!
The Awards support, develop and recognise excellence in writing. At $60,000, the Western Australian Writer’s Fellowship is one of the most valuable awards in Australian arts and open to writers of any style, medium or genre. Other than the Daisy Utemorrah Award, all the awards are open to Western Australian authors.
The Daisy Utemorrah Award for Unpublished Indigenous Junior and Young Adult Fiction is open to Indigenous writers from across Australia. This award is administered by Broome-based Indigenous publisher Magabala Books with support from the Department of Local Government, Sport and Cultural Industries.
The shortlists:
The Premier’s Prize for an Emerging Writer ($15,000)
- Father of the Lost Boys by Yuot A. Alaak (Fremantle Press)
- Fathoms: The World in the Whale by Rebecca Giggs (Scribe Publications)
- A Question of Colour by Pattie Lees and Adam C. Lees (Magabala Books)
- We Can't Say We Didn't Know by Sophie McNeill (ABC Books: An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers)
- The Salt Madonna by Catherine Noske (Pan Macmillan Australia)
The Premier’s Prize for Writing for Children ($15,000)
- How to Make a Bird - Written by Meg McKinlay and Illustrated by Matt Ottley (Walker Books Australia)
- Littlelight by Kelly Canby (Fremantle Press)
- Shirley Purdie: My Story, Ngaginybe Jarragbe by Shirley Purdie (Magabala Books)
- Across The Risen Sea by Bren MacDibble (Allen & Unwin)
- Willy-willy Wagtail: Tales from the Bush Mob by Helen Milroy (Magabala Books)
The Daisy Utemorrah Award for Unpublished Indigenous Junior and YA ($15,000 and a publishing contract with Magabala Books)
- Home is Calling - Natasha Leslie
- Dirran - Carl Merrison and Hakea Hustler
The Western Australian Writer’s Fellowship ($60,000)
- Amanda Bridgeman
- Donna Mazza
- Jon Doust
- Madelaine Dickie
- Sisonke Msimang
Monday, June 14, 2021
Tuesday, June 08, 2021
Poems come first ...
AUTUMN LEAVES
There are fallen leaves
at the backdoor
but I won’t sweep them.
I have more important
poetry matters to attend to.
Saturday, May 15, 2021
Simic Poem
On This Very Street in Belgrade
Your mother carried you
Out of the smoking ruins of a building
And set you down on this sidewalk
Like a doll bundled in burnt rags,
Where you now stood years later
Talking to a homeless dog,
Half-hidden behind a parked car,
His eyes brimming with hope
As he inched forward, ready for the worst.
-- Charles Simic (born May 9, 1938).
Monday, May 03, 2021
Sunday, May 02, 2021
Recent Poem
SUBURBAN FROG
I
stopped to stand
on a
stone bridge
in the
wetlands
I
stopped to listen to
a
frog’s monologue donk donk
but as
I stopped he stopped –
all I heard
was a handyman
thumping
and sawing
to my
left and to my right
space
invaders in a backyard.
I
stood and waited to
catch
my breath and as I
waited
frog started again donk
closer
seemingly donk donk
under
the bridge – and his throaty song
lightened
my load donk donk
and I
smiled as I looked up
to the
top of the tallest gum donk
ANDREW BURKE
burkeandre@gmail.com
Saturday, May 01, 2021
I DON'T OFTEN QUOTE CHARLES BUKOVSKI BUT HERE I DO
"...poetry is survival, sir. it throws some of the stink bombs out of my room. if it comes as rhythm fine or physic, fine, any old way. I think of it more as a loaf of bread, a long fat hot loaf, sliced half down the middle, spread with pickles, onions, meats, garlic, chilies, old fingernails...add ice beer and a shot of scotch, ram it down under electric light, forget the mountains of faces and eyes and wrinkles and bombs and rent and graves, get it in, warm, smelling, filling, light a cigar, blow the whole room paint the whole room blue with smoke, play the radio, think of the bones of Chopin's left foot---that to me, is poetry, or zingplay, or the rays." Bukowski,
SCREAMS FROM THE BALCONY - [To Allen DeLoach] February, 1967
PAPER! PAPER! READ ALL ABOUT IT
Can I suggest you back Australian poetry by buying The SATURDAY PAPER and reading three poems by Chilian poet JUAN GARRIDO-SALGADO ? That's this week's issue - but the paper has a literary creative page each week which is worth reading - as they are scarce!
Friday, April 23, 2021
Monday, April 19, 2021
Thursday, April 15, 2021
DOMESTIC POEM
everyday
i’m going to write
a poem
about how my wife
does the washing
everyday
but i am too busy
hanging out the washing
as i peg
her knickers
to the frayed line
i think of robert frost
he said re free verse
to hang the washing out
without pegs you’d
have to tie shirt arms
to each other …
my brother colour codes
the pegs a line of red
and a line of green
and a line of blue
and a line of yellow
and a line of white
birds have pecked
this line for its
underlining for
their nests …
in autumn wispy curls
reflect my aged beard
my wife interrupts:
“what a lovely drying day!”
as she is wont to say
everyday
Monday, April 12, 2021
Tupelo's Own Elvis Presley DVD Promo Trailer
Friday, April 02, 2021
3 Poems in PERIODICITY Journal
Here are three recent poems by myself that have just appeared at https://periodicityjournal.blogspot.com/2021/04/andrew-burke-three-poems.html
Thank you, rob mcclennan, editor in chief.
Wednesday, March 24, 2021
PSST ...
One of my best books - and now a rarity - 'PUSHING AT SILENCE' going cheap athttps://rochfordstreetreview.com/about-rochford-street-review/rochford-street-press/rochford-street-press-bookshop/
If that doesn't work, go to Rochford Street Review and look for their bookshop.