Kenny Garrett live | Jazzline | 2021

Ive been working on a manuscript so now it's time to enjoy!

Poetry Quote by Sigmund Freud

"Poets are masters of us ordinary men, in knowledge of the mind, because they drink at streams which we have not yet made accessible to science."

Dave Brubeck Quartet - "Blue Rondo à la Turk," live

RED POPPIES - a 2004 renga - Poets named tomorrow

red poppies lean into steam off the wet path in the fernery fingers press sweating glass fierce heat fades evening twilight glows a pink line a fly stumbles at a water glob folding clothes she drinks dark coffee moon observes the grasses seeding green fruit swells above midnight light on watered garden goat dung smells four pink peonies a gift sheets need washing remembering love - a red petal her tattoo forked over the compost steams a worm the uneaten meat a grey hair the peopled world spins cars stall in traffic moon bright as frost field of white goat skulls intruder light postcards from annapurna clouds of breath hover before dawn we dread the heat promised to us a darkening sky rain splatters fresh hay green light on the cherry blossom a morning squabble a fat bud cracks open rising rivers roar ‘present for you, Gran!’ red eucalypt from council tree butchers colour wrinkles through clean wood beneath the peeling bark compose lists to gather sparrows seeds on lawn so much to organise too much to say starfish legs synchronised swimming summer ladies' lunch salt water in the harbour obeys the distant moon fishermen stand off shore to sniff wet weather the station wagon starts slowly its old dry cough ancestral tyres bald from travel home, a bed fluttering wings of a blind white moth faint crescent between the hospital and heavy clouds in Carlton leaves blow a red and gold dawn hope? dust. accumulating soil green augmentation girl running fingers through hair a tongue over teeth, lipstick shaking with fatigue she searches for her glasses she can't see them empties out her bag feeling a fathomless sea rising a breeze spills into the valley jacaranda carpet equinoctial petals fall onto the bloomin' pages

Davy discusses the material conditions of writing a poem

A Wake for Samuel Beckett: Classic Performances