Sunday, November 09, 2008

Ondaatje and the soul of the poet


http://www.buffalonews.com/185/story/478592.html

By Harold McNeil
NEWS STAFF REPORTER

Though he is best known as the author of the Booker Prize-winning novel “The English Patient,” Michael Ondaatje possesses the soul of a poet.

The Sri Lankan-born Canadian novelist and poet was the guest author Wednesday for the Just Buffalo Literary Center’s third annual Babel lecture series in Asbury Hall at Babeville, where he read excerpts from his works and shared aspects of his writing process.

“I find [that] if I have an idea for a book, that idea has withered by page four,” Ondaatje said.

That was in response to a question regarding how Ondaatje proceeded from an opening premise about a plane crash in the desert that eventually evolved into “The English Patient,” an intricate tale about a critically burned man, his Canadian nurse, a Canadian thief and an Indian sapper in the British army, all sharing an Italian villa at the end of World War II.

“There is a lot of debating going on while I’m writing about which way the story progresses, and usually for me, the first or second draft defines the story,” Ondaatje continued.

“The English Patient,” first published in 1992, was adapted into a film by the same title that won the Academy Award for Best Picture in 1997.

Ondaatje has written five novels. The most recent was “Divisadero,” published in 2007. He has written 13 books of poetry.

“I think the way that someone like [poet] William Carlos Williams writes about place and landscape is more believable to me than the way T.S. Elliot writes. Eliot imposes his mind-set on that landscape, and Williams goes into it and kind of discovers [it] . . . ” Ondaatje said.

A student from the Gow School in South Wales, who attended Thursday’s lecture, astutely observed that as a novelist, Ondaatje writes more like a poet. Ondaatje’s novels, the student noted, are “written in such a way that the fluency and phrasing is almost like poetry [and] more like human thought than conventional writing.”

“How are you able to convey a story writing this way so it not only makes sense to you, but to your readers as well?” the student asked through Michael Kelleher, director of Just Buffalo, who also served as moderator for the event.

“Well, I think that’s the only way I can write novels,” Ondaatje responded. He added that he does not think chronologically about the story.

“When something is revealed in a book about someone it has to be at the right time [and not necessarily] at the chronologically [right] time,” he added.

Ondaatje moved from Sri Lanka (formerly Ceylon) to England with his mother in 1954 and then at 18 moved permanently to Canada, where he received his undergraduate degree from the University of Toronto and his master’s degree from Queen’s University in Kingston, Ont.

A recurring theme of mixed alliance of identities pervades the author’s novels.

Friday, November 07, 2008

Quote of the Week



'I believe that banking institutions are more dangerous to our liberties than standing armies.

If the American people ever allow private banks to control the issue of their currency, first by inflation, then by deflation, the banks and corporations that will grow up around the banks will deprive the people of all property until their children wake-up homeless on the continent their fathers conquered.'

Thomas Jefferson 1802

Thursday, November 06, 2008

ABC interview tomorrow morning - on Kimberley radio

If you are in The Kimberley tomorrow morning, near a radio, tune into ABC radio where Miranda Tetlow will interview me around 11.45am. I'll read a poem or two and promote my writing workshops here in Broome which start this Saturday - and go until the end of November.

Wednesday, November 05, 2008

Defining Haiku - not an easy task!

From the Australian Haiku Society website http://www.haikuoz.org/2008/11/defining_haiku.html:

Defining haiku
In 2007 the Australian Haiku Society committee requested John Bird to advise the Society on haiku definition(s) and to try to formulate one that we could adopt, officially, as meaningful for our members and helpful to those new to the genre.

John reports that he has considered many descriptions and definitions of haiku by overseas writers and now wants to understand how Australian poets, at all levels of experience, think about haiku.

He hopes to include some examples of the latter in his published report and would like to share a subset of these on the Australian Haiku Society [HaikuOz] site, if this is agreed to by their authors. If you would like your views to remain anonymous, please say so at the time you submit them. This will be respected.

Haiku are elusive to define. But in attempting to describe them we may come to understand them better. Please don’t feel intimidated that your definition must be academic, or even wise. It’s simply what you think haiku are about that counts. Please send John your personal definition of haiku, whether long-standing or written for this exercise, at: definitivelyku@fastmail.fm

Please try to restrict your thoughts to 40 words, preferably no more than 25. If you have adopted a published definition written by somebody else, please include all details.

Below are two personal definitions of haiku. You are warmly invited to share yours.

Beverley George
President
Australian Haiku Society
http://www.haikuoz.org




Vanessa Proctor (Sydney)
‘Haiku is a concise poetic form which is often inspired by an epiphany or close observation of the natural world. “The haiku moment” expresses universal human experience which cuts through cultural boundaries.’


Rob Scott (Melbourne)
‘Haiku in the West, a concoction of the Japanese original, is a short poem with an experience of nature, the seasons and the mystery of humanity at its core that crystallizes (rather than intellectualizes) a keenly observed moment. ‘


[Vanessa’s definition, and an earlier version of Rob’s, first appeared in Max Verhart’s study, THE ESSENCE OF HAIKU AS PERCEIVED BY WESTERN HAIJIN, published in Modern Haiku, Volume 38.2, Summer 2007. See http://www.modernhaiku.org/essays/VerhartEssentialHaiku.html ]

Tuesday, November 04, 2008

Despatch from Broome ...

I'm now in Broome as Writer-in-Residence for writingWA, Broome Library, and Notre Dame University. My wife and I are accommodated in a quaint little cottage at the back of a Broome residence, aptly called Stress Less Cottage (I hope my students noticed the misplaced modifier there >g<) ...

Yesterday we flew here with Skywest, a part sponsor of this event, and collected our Broome Broome hire car (witty name >g<). The humidity and heat hit me yesterday like the proverbial heavy weight object on a long handle, but today I am already acclimatised. A cold shower, shorts, tee-shirt and thongs (flip flops to you USAmericans) has worked wonders. I am writing this in the air conditioned halls of Notre Dame University, Broome campus.

.... and today, other than being Melbourne Cup Day, is my first day on Eureka Street. Please go there and check out my poems - the first one has lost its breaks between verse, but the others seem okay. Strange title to grab as the over-all title for my selection, but there you have it. An editor's decision no doubt.
http://www.eurekastreet.com.au/article.aspx?aeid=9920

Sunday, November 02, 2008

Eureka Street Magazine has Poems of Mine coming out Tuesday






Just before I fly the coop for a month in Broome as writer-in-residence, an email arrived saying some poems have been accepted by Eureka Street magazine, to be published this Tuesday at http://www.eurekastreet.com.au/default.aspx

So, tune in and read. All comments welcome.

Who Killed Dylan Thomas?










Extremely interesting article at http://www.walesonline.co.uk/showbiz-and-lifestyle/news/2008/11/01/what-killed-dylan-thomas-91466-22163229/

Friday, October 31, 2008

ABC Radio National Books and Drama newsletter

31 October - 7 November 2008


POETICA
1/11/2008 15:00
6/11/2008 15:45
Beowulf Part 1
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/poetica/stories/2008/2376702.htm
A new translation of the famous Anglo-Saxon classic.
Villains, warriors and monsters are encountered in the epic story of the young hero, Beowulf. Loyalty, compassion and courage are the virtues he displays.
Felix Nobis, translator and narrator, brings an ancient classic to life with his words and performance, enhanced by the music of Bart Walus and a great cast.


LINGUA FRANCA
1/11/2008 15:45
6/11/2008 15:45
'Save the Last Word' project
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/linguafranca/stories/2008/2405612.htm
Collins, the dictionary publishers, have a project underway to see whether 24 obsolete words can be brought back into popular usage.


SHORT STORY
2/11/2008 08:30
The Tai-Chi Man by Jan Hutchinson, read by Andrea Moor, Produced by Anne Wynter
URL:http://www.abc.net.au/rn/shortstory/
Watching the daily ritual of a man's tai-chi routine brings home to an unhappy woman the realisation of what is missing from her life.
2/11/2008 15:35
Today on Dr. Phil by Tom Cho, read by Brett Cousins, produced by Anne McInerney
A story full of black humour where the do-it-yourself psychiatry of Dr. Phil leads to a sure-fire hit episode with lots of wham-bam impact.


AIRPLAY
2/11/2008 15:00
Beach - Part 1 by Timothy Daly, narrated by William Zappa,performed by the 2006 NIDA Graduates, produced by Anne Wynter
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/airplay/stories/2008/2390386.htm
Much of our history has taken place on the beach, from Captain Cook to Gallipoli, from legal arrivals to illegal drop-offs during the night; from shark attacks to the death of a prime minister and the stalking and murder of innocent children. This is not one beach, it is all of them. This five part series weaves back and forth over nearly 250 years of our national history and the multitudes of characters who populate the beach.


THE BOOK SHOW
Monday to Friday 10:00am (repeated at midnight)


3/11/2008
Ouyang Yu's Kingsbury Tales
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/bookshow/stories/2008/2406894.htm
Ouyang Yu is best known for his poetry, but has also written fiction and criticism in both English and Chinese. His latest book is Kingsbury Tales.

4/11/2008
Ian McEwan at the Sydney Opera House (repeat)
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/bookshow/stories/2008/2406959.htm
Earlier this year novelist Ian McEwan was a guest at the Sydney Opera House in the International Speakers Series. In his humorous address he explores the boundary between fact and fiction, he talks about the engagement of readers with ideas and characters and he reads from some of the marvellously cranky letters he has received, correcting facts in his novels.

5/11/2008
Robert Silvers, editor of The New York Review of Books
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/bookshow/stories/2008/2406949.htm
In 1963 a new publication called The New York Review of Books was launched. One of its founders, who had been an editor at Harpers and The Paris Review, was asked to be the first editor. Forty-five years later Robert Silvers is still its editor. On the day Americans vote for their next president he talks to The Book Show about elections and anniversaries.

6/11/2008
A Most Wanted Man - John le Carré
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/bookshow/stories/2008/2406985.htm
A half-starved young Russian man is smuggled into Hamburg. He has an improbable amount of money hidden in a purse round his neck. He's a devout Muslim. Or is he? John le Carré's latest novel A Most Wanted Man has spies from three countries converging on Germany in pursuit of the War on Terror.


THE BOOK READING
Monday to Friday 2.00pm
3/11/2008 - 28/11/2008
The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Setterfield, read by Sheridan Harbridge, produced by Anne Wynter
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/bookreading/stories/2008/2260727.htm
Vida Winter, a bestselling yet reclusive novelist, has many outlandish life histories, all of them invention. Now old and ailing, at last she wants to tell the truth about her extraordinary life. Her letter to biographer Margaret Lea, a woman with secrets of her own, acts as summons. Vida's tale is one of gothic strangeness featuring the Angelfield family: the beautiful and wilful Isabelle and the feral twins Adeline and Emmeline. As Vida disinters the life she meant to bury for good, Margaret is mesmerised, but remains suspicious of the author's sincerity. She demands truth from Vida, and together they confront the ghosts that have haunted them both.


FIRST PERSON
Monday to Friday 10.45am
3/11/2008 - 14/11/2008
Hons and Rebels by Jessica Mitford, read by Alison Whyte, produced by Justine Sloane-Lees
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/firstperson/stories/2008/2358266.htm
Hons and Rebels is a tale of youthful folly and high adventure, as well as a study in social history, and a love story.

Sunday, October 26, 2008

Voicebox features Marcella Polain






















Thursday Nov 6th at 7.30 pm.
Featuring Marcella Polain, reading from her new book of poems, Therapy Like Fish. "La Tropicana Cafe", 177 High Street, Fremantle.

A selection of poems can be found at
http://johnleonardpress.gravitron.com.au/media/File/polain.pdf


Therapy like fish

He has eyes like a sky he wants me to fall into.
On his wall is an illusion, an invitation
a shutter that opens over miles of sea.
Squalls come and go all afternoon,
light pales yellow and mauve, an old bruise.
I doze and wake from dreams of a storm and a shuttered room,
my tongue thick as a page.
Somewhere, I know, there are lines of notes.
Oh, saviour, let me cut them up
re-arrange them for you, into poems:
they. Will read. like suffering.
Also. Sometimes I have. hated. you.
At the beginning.
All night. I think. of. edges. and
how close. Can she. I get.
(For once – just once – hold out your hand.
Let me touch you with one finger
the way – did I tell you? – I was alone and
someone touched me)
You are unreadable as the surface of the sea.
Still I have seen the shadow of a single sentence
swim a dark leviathan across your face.
You are witness to the words I haul, one by one,
into the glistening palms of my hands.
Such small offerings.
How they twitch there, naked and translucent
as fish.
How many times will I long to fall
through the sky, into the deep pool of your arms
to be weightless, still
an unasked question?

© Marcella Polain 2008 • Therapy Like Fish: New and Selected Poems

PoetryEtc anthology - Out Now!


















Out now: Masthead 11: Poetryetc Special Issue

Poetryetc: Poems and Poets
An anthology edited by Andrew Burke and Candice Ward

http://www.masthead.net.au/

"This anthology is the most recent of the Poetryetc projects. Edited by Candice Ward and Andrew Burke, with an e-book designed by Peter Ciccariello, it represents a selection of poems written by list members over the past few years. It includes many distinguished poets side by side with new or little known voices, and demonstrates the diversity and stylistic openness that was always a major strength of Poetryetc."

From Poetryetc: A Brief History by Alison Croggon

With poems from:

Rachel Loden | Martin Dolan | Kenneth Wolman | Renée Ashley | Patrick McManus | S.J. Litherland |Nathan Hondros | Sheila E. Murphy | Tina Bass | Trevor Joyce | Kasper Salonen | Larissa Shmailo | Halvard Johnson | Sally Evans | Glen Phillips | Mark Weiss | S.K. Kelen | Stephen Vincent | Tad Richards | Barry Alpert | Martin J. Walker | Jim Bennett |Gerald Schwartz | Peter Riley | Robin Hamilton | David Bircumshaw | Candice Ward | Peter Howard | Joanna Boulter | Jill Jones | John Kinsella | Randolph Healy | Bob Marcacci | Liz Kirby | Max Richards | Andrew Burke | Peter Larkin | Cindy Lee | Caleb Cluff | Douglas Barbour | Árni Ibsen | Janet Jackson | Lawrence Upton | Heather Taylor | Roger Collett | Peter Ciccariello |Harriet Zinnes | John Tranter | Sharon Brogan | Frederick Pollack | Pierre Joris |
Alison Croggon


http://www.masthead.net.au/

Saturday, October 25, 2008

Sachin Tendulkar wears a Turban





Tendulkar recently scored the most runs by any Test batsman ever. Here he is in national dress for a promotional ceremony.

Friday, October 24, 2008

ABC Radio National 24-31 October 2008

POETICA
25/10/2008 15:00
30/10/2008 15:45
Slammin’ and Jammin’
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/poetica/stories/2008/2358026.htm
Highlights from the Slams and Jams across the country over the last year. Recorded at live events, this program features excerpts from live performances of Australian and international poets including Shane Koyczan, Wire MC, Alana Hicks, Amanda Stewart, Seung Baek, Tug Dumbly, Ania Walwitz, Benito DiFonzo, Phil Norton, Jeltje and Unamunos Quorum, Luke Wright, Robin Archbold, Vivienne Glance and Miles Merrill.


LINGUA FRANCA
25/10/2008 15:45
30/10/2008 15:45
Italian Language in the World Week
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/linguafranca/stories/2008/2398262.htm
For the 8th annual Italian Language in the World Week, the journalist and author Beppe Severgnini explains this year's theme of Italian in the piazza, a particular kind of gathering place that has been described as 'the concrete representation of language'.


SHORT STORY
26/10/2008 08:30
Proof of Innocence by Tom Petsinis, read by Matthew O'Sullivan
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/shortstory/stories/2008/2400391.htm
An innocent man is imprisoned and eventually sentenced to death. During this time, he starts to lose his conviction that he did not commit the crime.
26/10/2008 15:35
Story 2 by Christopher Cyrill, read by David Tredinnick
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/shortstory/stories/2008/2400395.htm
On a man’s return from India, the insights he has gained stay with him.


AIRPLAY

26/10/2008 15:00
Six White Boomers by Paul Livingston
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/airplay/stories/2008/2388012.htm
Act One: Sydney suburbia 1969, The Barkers Nest Public School Reunion.
Timothy, Douglas, May, June and Marisa are attending the 10 year school reunion for the class of '59. It's a small gathering so nametags probably won't be necessary. It's the loved-up sixties - bellbottoms, patchouli oil, pot and war.
Act Two: Sydney suburbia 1999, The Barkers Nest Public School/Greenington College Reunion.
Timothy, Douglas, May, June and Marisa are attending the 40 year school reunion for the class of '59. And as usual it's very small turnout. It's the uninspiring nineties - hostile takeovers, holidays on the central coast, Kylie Minogue and war.


THE BOOK SHOW
Monday to Friday 10:00am (repeated at midnight)

27/10/2008
Peter Goldsworthy: Everything I Knew
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/bookshow/stories/2008/2400364.htm
Australian novelist, essayist, librettist and poet Peter Goldsworthy talks about his new novel Everything I Knew. It's set in Penola, South Australia, in 1964 when Miss Peach, a new teacher on a scooter who's the spitting image of Audrey Hepburn, comes to town and fourteen-year-old Robbie Burns sits up and takes notice.

28/10/2008
Public figures, private lives
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/bookshow/stories/2008/2400386.htm
Is the private life of a public figure a proper subject for biography? And how does a biographer decide what to reveal and what to screen from public gaze? Historian David Day has written biographies of three public figures: Ben Chifley, John Curtin and Andrew Fisher. He discusses balancing the need to explore the private landscape of subjects with a duty to be discrete about other people's lives.

29/10/2008
Writing the Future: the first Asia-Pacific festival of writing
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/bookshow/stories/2008/2400469.htm
Professor Rukmini Bhaya Nair, poet and editor of the Indian Literary journal Biblio, is one of the organisers of the first Asia-Pacific Festival of Writing, being held this month in New Delhi and the Indian hill-station town of Shimla.

30/10/2008
Philip Gourevitch, editor of The Paris Review
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/bookshow/stories/2008/2400414.htm

31/10/2008
Marilynne Robinson's Home
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/bookshow/stories/2008/2400421.htm
Marilynne Robinson, author of the Pulitzer Prize-winning Gilead, has written a new novel Home. It takes place in the same period and the same Iowa town of Gilead. It's the story of Jack, prodigal son of the Boughton family and godson of John Ames.


THE BOOK READING
Monday to Friday 2.00pm
23/10/2008 - 30/10/2008
Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson, read by Joss Ackland, production by Jane Marshall
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/bookreading/stories/2008/2198535.htm
For copyright reasons this reading is not available as audio on demand.
The haunting and sinister Victorian mystery about a good man and his terrifying alter ego. When an angry fiend assaults a small girl an inquisitive lawyer begins to question the erratic behaviour of his friend, the well-respected Dr Jekyll. The lawyer's investigations reveal a story so frightening, so horrific that he can scarcely believe it.


FIRST PERSON
Monday to Friday 10.45am
27/10/2008 - 31/10/2008
My First Seven Years (plus a Few More) by Dario Fo, production by BBC Radio
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/firstperson/stories/2008/2375036.htm
This memoir is a delightful and irreverent account of Dario FO's childhood in the late 1920s and early 1930s, growing up on the shores of Lake Maggiore in northern Italy. Fo was born in 1926, and spent his early years moving from town to town as his father, a stationmaster, was given new postings. He moved to Milan in 1940 to study at an art academy. After the war, as Italian theatre underwent some radical shifts, his attention turned to stage design and then to writing for the stage. In the 1950s, along with his wife Franca Rame, he formed a theatre company to present his satirical works, which earned him public acclaim and also, in many cases, the ire of the authorities. In the years since he has built an impressive body of work as a playwright, director, actor and composer. Dario Fo received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1997

Quote of the Day

Soren Kierkegaard - "Life must be understood backwards; but... it must be lived forward."

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

William Stafford on Rejections ...

"Well, most of the poems I write I don’t send out at all. And of those I send out, maybe a tenth of them finally get published. So that means an awful lot of them get rejected, even ones I think are all right. I look at it this way: you can run across a log pond—you know, where they’re floating the logs at a sawmill—by stepping on one log at a time. And if you don’t stay on a given log very long, you can go hopping clear across the pond on these logs. But if you stop in one, it’ll sink. Sometimes I feel a writer should be like this—that you need your bad poems. You shouldn’t inhibit yourself. You need to have your dreams, you need to have your poems. If you begin to keep from dreaming or from trying to write your poems, you could be in trouble. You have to learn how to say “Welcome . . . welcome.” Welcome, dreams. Welcome Poems. And then if somebody says “I don’t like that dream,” you can say “Well, it’s my life. I had to dream it.” And if somebody else says “I don’t like that poem,” you can say, “Well, it’s my life. That poem was in the way, so I wrote it.”

From William Stafford’s Writing the Australian Crawl (Univ Mich, 1979):

Zimmy walking out with Baxter





Notice: no lampshade. She is well pleased.

Sunday, October 19, 2008

'Airplay' on Radio National today at 3pm

Illawarra Water Project - Part 2, produced by Jane and Phillip Ulman

URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/airplay/stories/2008/2387997.htm

Over two weeks Radio National will be broadcasting a series of short works from last year’s students in the creative writing course at the University of Wollongong. Each recorded an interview with a family member, a friend or someone who had attracted their interest. The recordings became the inspiration for fictional works written by the students. Stories of travel and migration and mythological characters feature as well as dark tales about violence, rejection, fear and death.

AIRPLAY
19/10/2008 15:00

Saturday, October 18, 2008

THE LEE MARVIN READINGS - October 2008

Tuesdays
at
Gallery de la Catessen



16th Reading OCTOBER 21st
o LEE MARVIN IN
YO-YOs WITH MONEY

Aidan Coleman
Ken Bolton
Jill Jones
Kyriaki Maragozidis
Simon Robb



9 Anster Street, Adelaide
(off Waymouth at the King William end, near FAD nightclub)

7.30 for a prompt 8 PM start

Price $5

Friday, October 17, 2008

Let the Saw do the Work

Dad. They say it with loving frustration. My children, individually and collectively, shake their head. Dad, you say that every time. Perhaps I say it for the response. Anyway, they have all left home and gone to roam, so when will we have the chance to frustrate each other again? Dad, you’re always saying that. Nostalgia grows thicker in old age. Now it is nice to hear grandchildren call me G’andpa, nice to hear them drop the ‘r’, nice to hear them individualise the salutation so I feel I am the only G’andpa in the world. It is like that when they shake their head around the word Dad. I feel it is about me, not just any male who has had offspring. Me, frustrating Dad. My father was absent a lot while I was growing up, but when I say my frustrating sayings to my sons and daughter over and over again, it is because it is an echo of him, an echo of my early homelife, seedbed to all I am now.

My favourite old saying has to be, ‘Let the saw do the work.’ I can’t hear his voice in those words, I can’t remember the circumstance in which he said them, but the wisdom is there. The shining, hungry teeth of a saw are specially placed and angled to bite their way through wood; forcing it to do the job quickly or at some torturous angle will only impede the efficiency of their work. This is as I see it now and how it was told to me sometime in the Fifties, not in so many words, but by the axiom, ‘Let the saw do the work.’ It isn’t a cop out for procrastinating carpenters, or an excuse proffered by powerless workers. It is pre-computer wisdom from the back shed where all the best thinking was once born in Australia.

Yet I wonder where my father heard it. He was a man of the Club and the office, hardly a man of the back shed. I wonder if he ever went into our wonderful, musty, archaic, stonewalled and shingle-roofed shed. Father stood tall (well, every adult was tall to me then) and always, without fail, wore a bow tie. This was his idea of being a gentleman: a bow tie, personally tied and impeccably balanced. To test if a stranger was a gentleman or not, Father would lean forward and pull at the outer edge of the stranger’s bowtie. If the tie came away into a limp piece of fabric, the man was declared a gentleman. If it snapped back, complete and unruffled by my father’s tug, the man was an imposter, an ungentleman, and so was ignored or worse. A gentleman always ties his own tie, was the full verse and chapter of it. Perhaps, at the base of this shibboleth act, lay another axiom: Let the hand do the work.

I can’t tie a bow tie. I have never learnt how and it would be perverse in this day and age to learn now. Like using ‘whom’ in day-to-day conversation. But inside my throat, when I clear it of its obstructions before speaking to scholars assembled or an audience at a poetry reading, I pull at the fabric of my memory and untie myself to be a gentleman in your presence, and then let the words do their work.

Thursday, October 16, 2008

See you at Poets Corner, Pages Cafe this Saturday from 2pm

















GUEST HOST

Andrew Lansdown:


Andrew Lansdown won the 1994 Adelaide Festival’s John Bray National Poetry Award for this book Between Glances. His most recent books are: a collection of poetry titled Fontanelle (Five Islands Press); a collection of short stories titled The Dispossessed (Interactive Press); and three fantasy novels titled With My Knife, Dragonfox and The Red Dragon (Omnibus Books/ Scholastic Australia). Picaro Press has just republished his poetry collection, Waking and Always, first released by Angus & Robertson Publishers in 1987. (Photo: Les Murray and Andrew Lansdown)

with his invited guests:

Elizabeth Lewis:

Elizabeth Lewis was born in Perth in 1984 and spent her early childhood years running around the bush in country WA. Since then she has grown up and completed a Bachelor of Arts in Writing & English with Honours in Poetry at Edith Cowan University . She has had poems published in Quadrant and Indigo this year. In her spare time she still enjoys running around in the bush facilitating holiday hiking camps for young people.

Hal Colebatch:

Hal Colebatch has had seven volumes of poetry published, the latest being The Light River ( Connor Court ). He has had 14 science-fiction novels and stories published or accepted for publication by Baen Books, New York , and has published a number of other books including biographies and social commentary. He has been described by Peter Alexander, Professor of English at the University of New South Wales , as among Australia 's best writers. In 2003 he received an Australian Centenary Medal for writing, law poetry and political commentary, the only award for this combination of activities.

Andrew Burke:

Andrew Burke is a popular guest host for Poets Corner @ Pages Café who writes for stage, page, screen and ear. Armed with a Ph.D in Writing from ECU, he’s taught in China, the Kimberleys, currently at FAWWA doing workshops but is about to go off to Broome for a month as a Writer in Residence. Ask Andrew about his books, his workshops, his music, Spring Festivals… Hi Spirits blog: http://hispirits.blogspot.com/

OPEN MIC
Please register with your Host Andrew Lansdown
as soon as you arrive.


Contact Frances to read 3rd Sat each month Poet's Corner & Pages Cafe, WA State Library, Perth Cultural Centre across the bridge from the Perth Train Station.

http://www.poetscornerwa.com or http://www.francesmacaulayforde.com

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

While all this is going on by Jill Jones

Rain comes at last over the quarry sides on a day grey as sandstone. I reach across the skin of the house but can’t find myself within. The gate still sticks although the maple tree has healed itself. Drugs pass across the road hand to hand. Somehow we all began to sound like the shadow. Rage pelts trees all along the valley. The sky isn’t finished with us, not till the curfew. We realise there are words inside words.

Windows blink, murmuring diamonds, and cast-off sounds twist dreams.

You say: ‘There are languages I regret not knowing’. Everyone is working to the measure. How large it’s become. We knew it was all over after the cops had gone. Each second has a guard. Unseen presences kick leaves and lever windows. We painted our bars dark green where letters were torn. It isn’t the time to hate. We accept night and its measure where corners bend and rooms rise up holy and self-contained. We don’t always understand the noise, but take comfort in storm light. Air is transparent beyond the hill, towards the bay. We are washed in salt and amusements, immersed then drawn more slowly as our selves. Drops of mosquito poetry climb my arms but my blood is elsewhere, serum with the droning and diving world. All I want is a breeze at an open window, to watch a raven lift, black, shadowed, astonished.

[Originally published by the New Zealand Electronic Poetry Centre:
http://www.nzepc.auckland.ac.nz/features/fugacity/jones.asp.]


Jill Jones says: The origins of the poem lie in a poem I wrote quite some years ago, around 2001, which was essentially a disjunctive succession of lines, observations, overheard phrases and happenings in my street, in my house, ending up with ‘the poet’ working. They were all pretty factual in their own odd ways. Some of the lines included, ‘Drugs pass across the road from hand to hand’ and, ‘no-one on the radio, the door of the nation closed/ and poets make words of little boats’. This was a reference to refugees being excluded from this country, the shameful Pacific solution.

The poem's original title is lost to me but one working title was ‘But Who Is My Enemy?’. It began around a time I was re-reading Shelley, the political Shelley, and there's a reference to a portion of ‘Ode To the West Wind’ in it, ‘from whose unseen presence the leaves dead/ Are driven’.

I played around with the poem for some time, maybe a couple of years, on and off. I may have even submitted it somewhere, not sure. It was never right: a bit too much detail not doing a lot, and it looked lumpy on the page. But there were things in it I liked. A couple of years later I wrote a series of lines in a large notebook. It was around the time of 2004 Australian Federal election. There are lines such as ‘Somehow we're all starting to sound like the shadow’, which is the first line in the notebook, and ‘It's elbows and interest rates and the beautiful soft furnishing of night programs’, or ‘Windows blink, murmuring diamonds, cast-off sounds twist into my dreams’. Looking at this now, I think I may have been watching TV as I wrote some of them. I see from the notes at the bottom of the page that I planned to write something titled many things but including ‘101 footnotes to a lost text on war’. Somehow, in a move I don’t quite recall, I decided these lines and the other poem, and a few other orphan bits and pieces, might work into something. I wrote ‘101 lines on a spring campaign’, I think I called it, mixing up the lines, getting together 101 of them. I was trying to get the poem to move between the very particulars of a place to the over-arching political state of a country. But it was always a bit uncooked, over-reaching or under-reaching, I don’t know.

I did send it off somewhere but it got the inevitable arse. It became ‘62 Footnotes For a Lost Text on the Spring Campaign’ for a short time. I left it for a bit. Then, one day, playing with it on screen, I ran it all together as a paragraph. It seemed to work with much, much pruning. The currawong in the last line became a raven (an Australian raven) because I suspect that's what it had been all along, a big black raven. I sent it off to nzepc for an online anthology and it came out in three paragraphs. I don't know if that was something to do with a coding error or whether someone there re-edited it like that. But I kind of liked it, and accepted it. The discarded lines have mostly found their ways into other works, or await their turn (maybe).

Thanks, Jill. Someone asked me today, When do you know when a poem is finished? And I replied with the 'abandonment' quote. But this poem's journey is a real living example of the twists and turns in the birth canal.

More to read at http://www.jilljones.com.au

Zimmy wearing her 'lamp shade'























It is now day six, and Zimmy must wear this annoying contraption for ten days until she has her stitches out. It is hard for her to understand and she beats it against chair legs and door frames as she tries to run around.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Monday, October 13, 2008

A reply to a poetry doubter ...

Poetry is alive and well. It is written, relished and read in a thousand tongues around the globe, in a myriad of shapes and sizes. The influence of yesterday's poetry is, thankfully, wilting on the vine, but that is not the end of poetry. It thrives in deserts and beneath the oceans, it bellows in outback stations and leaps in exotic whorehouses, it soars in cathedrals and whispers in alleyways by neonlight, it is read by torchlight under covers, it is written in refuge centres with a pencil and in pindan with a stick ... It is celebrated, it is ignored, it is here now and hardy, regenerating cell by cell (parthenogenesis) on all continents of the world.

Sunday, October 12, 2008

William J Higginson - RIP

Haiku poets around the world are probably aware that William J Higginson (Bill to his many friends and acquaintances) has been battling cancer.

News of his death has been broken to the haiku world by Bill's wife, Penny Harter, and you can read a letter from Penny on Curtis Dunlap's web-site Three Questions.

It would be difficult to envisage that any poet writing haiku in English would not be aware of Bill's major contribution to widespread understanding and adoption of this genre. Most people, serious about haiku, would own one at least, if not several, of his books.

On behalf of the haiku community of Australia I will extend our condolences to Penny Harter and to their daughters, Beth and Nancy, and to all other members of their family. Bill Higginson was a very special person who made a tangible, positive contribution to the world and he will be missed.

Beverley George
President
Australian Haiku Society

A letter from Penny Harter can be read at http://tobaccoroadpoet.blogspot.com/

Saturday, October 11, 2008

Patti Smith at Readings, Melbourne















from 'autobiography' by Patti Smith [from CREEM, September 1971]

I was born in Illinois...mainline of America...
beat to shit...Chicago tenement
big red eyed rats in the night...dead rats to tease at night
Morning...I waited for the organ grinder
with my nickel for the monkeys tin cup
gingerbread man...cotton candy man
bad girl setting fire to the oil cans
run like hell escape on the icemans truck
I was a limping ugly duck
but I had good luck

The 'godmother of punk' was a guest at this year's Melbourne Festival, where she attracted 220 people to the Readings bookshop. That's a packed house! Alison Croggon did an on-the-spot interview, so Patti Smith then sang a song and dedicated it to her.

More available at Alison's Theatre blog http://theatrenotes.blogspot.com/2008/10/patti-smith-at-readings.html
"No one seems to realize that the destruction of poetry as a tradition would not destroy poetry itself."

--Laura Riding, CONTEMPORARIES AND SNOBS

Robert Creeley's Library









Granary Books is pleased to offer for sale a selection of more than1,300 books, pamphlets, manuscripts, correspondence, and related materials from the library of preeminent American poet Robert Creeley(1926-2005). This selection is offered as a group, rather than as individual items, because of the preponderance of archival material accumulated within the books. Robert Creeley made a practice of inserting relevant letters, manuscripts, clippings, photographs, and ephemera into his books, many of which also bear significant inscriptions, thus making his library an important documentary archive occupying a rich site for research parallel to the primary repository of his papers at Stanford University.

Highlights among the author collections particularly rich with inscriptions and often including important correspondence and other association and archival material are: Ted Berrigan, Paul Blackburn (14 items), Joe Brainard (12 items), Stan Brakhage, Richard Brautigan (13 items), Basil Bunting (14 items), Tom Clark, Fielding Dawson (33 items), Diane Di Prima, Edward Dorn (31 items), Robert Duncan and Jess (over 50 items including "Caesar¹s Gate," Divers Press, 1955, Creeley¹s copy [1 of 3 ­ letter ³C²] with an original Jess collage and holograph poem by Duncan), Larry Eigner, Allen Ginsberg (35 items many with excellent inscriptions), John Hawkes, Anselm Hollo, Ronald Johnson, Joanne Kyger, Irving Layton (12 items), Denise Levertov (28 items), Alison Lurie, Michael McClure (42 items), Charles Olson (59 items including several inscribed), Joel Oppenheimer (including "The Dancer" (1951) with Robert Rauschenberg, Jargon 2), Ann Quin, Tom Raworth, Aram Saroyan (11 items), Gary Snyder (including an inscribed copy of "Riprap," Origin Press,
1959), Philip Whalen, John Wieners, Jonathan Williams (26 items authored by JW including "Garbage Litters the Iron Face of the Sun¹s Child" (1951), Jargon 1, along with more than 35 other titles published by the Jargon Society), and Louis Zukofsky (29 items including "80 Flowers").

The library includes Creeley¹s personal copies of most of his regular separate publications (217 items) and contained within many are inscriptions, annotations, corrections, cards, letters, photographs, clippings, notes, etc. from Marisol, Edward Dahlberg, Stan Brakhage, Louis Zukofsky, Sherman Paul, Octavio Paz, Jim Dine, Georg Baselitz, Walter Hamady, Fielding Dawson, Denise Levertov, among others. Several of Creeley¹s collaborations with artists are present including "A Day Book" with R.B. Kitaj (Graphis, 1972), "Signs" with Georg Baselitz(Graphicstudio, 2000), and "7 & 6" with Robert Therrien and Michel Butor(Hoshour Gallery, 1988).

Price and detailed catalog (via pdf) are available on request to interested institutional clients.


Steve Clay
Granary Books
168 Mercer St. #2
New York, NY 10012

212 337-9979
212 337-9774 (fax)
http://www.granarybooks.com


Some more of interest at http://www.encyclopedia.com/doc/1E1-Creeley.html

Thursday, October 09, 2008

A Red, Red Rose by Robert Burns (1794)

O my Luve’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June:
O my Luve’s like the melodie,
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve!
And fare-thee-weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ ’twere ten thousand mile!


I print this here because Bob Dylan has very recently stated this poem was one of the driving forces behind his first songwriting - and you can hear the influence in his folk material. It's always worth going back to a poem so near to song, just to refresh our ears for the contemporary scene which plays with the border between poetry & prose a lot.

Wednesday, October 08, 2008

The Projectionist by Max Richards

The primary school shares the same sky
as the railway workshops;
has concrete air raid shelters,
useless now, since we beat Japan;

a green football field, clay
where boys play marbles, in season,
girls skip; six bare classrooms,
lavatories;nasty – better to hold on;

kids who are roughs or waifs,
all of us in cheap clothing,
some with runny noses and bare feet,
and my father as head-teacher.

It’s 1946, this is
Randwick near Wellington; out
of bounds, beyond the stop-bank,
the river’s forcing its way past fast.

Here nothing happens, slowly, till
Father does some fundraising –
a projector comes, rare and fragile.
He learns how to make it work.

No one else is allowed near.
None of us young ones have ever
seen anything on any screen;
we’re agog for Charlie Chaplin.

Children and parents come one night
to father’s classroom. From home
Mum’s lent him a white sheet; he fixes
it up straight, I switch off the light,

whirring begins, the sheet brightens.
Flickering black and white humans
stalk the sheet. Something is happening.
A man climbs on a diving board,

trots out, dives, splashes, vanishes.
Father flicks a switch, time freezes; flicks
again, feet first the diver rises,
curves back up onto the board.

All of us squeal with pleasure.
The evening’s films, all short,
are never better than when Father,
powerful and popular,

flicks that switch, the image freezes,
time halts, reverses, pauses,
moves forward again, taking us
all with it along, along.

Going home in Dad’s Austin Seven,
dreaming new powers, camera
projector and screen, a rapt crowd,
the river pulsing under the night sky.

A log like a floating man sweeps past fast,
vanishes. My camera eye strains and fails.





8 October 2008
Max Richards
Doncaster, Victoria

Maybe impractical from here, but worth knowing about, don't you think?














The Atlanta Poets Group is seeking proposals for work for the third issue of its magazine Spaltung. This issue will be packaged in the form of a box. We are looking for poem-objects. Pieces that address/ embody the concept or experience of multiplicity/heterogeneity are encouraged. *Please do not send work at this time.* Instead please send a *proposal* for the piece you propose to include to spaltung@comcast.net.

Some parameters you should consider in preparing your proposal:
-- 100 units of the magazine issue will be produced-- We have not yet decided upon the size of the box. in cubic inches it will likely be larger than a breadbox and significantly smaller than a moving crate.-- If your piece(s) reqire anything beyond mindless, cheap reproduction/assembly, we will likely look to you to provide us with 100 units, fully-assembled.-- We are mostly looking for work that is beyond what can be accomplished on 8.5x11 paper and beyond what can be included on a CDROM.-- Proposals should include exact dimensions of the object(s) to be submittedYou can familiarize yourself with past issues of Spaltung via the blog at www.spaltungmag.blogspot.com.

Saturday, October 04, 2008

Cutwater journal - Open for submissions ...



from http://cutwaterjournal.blogspot.com/

The floodgates are now open. You can now send in your submissions to Cutwater.

THEME: Ratbags
DEADLINE: November 30 2008
WORD LIMIT: 5000 words.
SEND YOUR SUBMISSIONS TO:

Sam Twyford-Moore
Editor, Cutwater Literary Journal
PO BOX 52
Toukley NSW
2263


SUBMISSION GUIDELINES: Please print your submissions with page numbers. Work should be formatted 12pt Times New Roman and should be 1.5 spaced.

If you want your work returned please include a self addressed stamped envelope. Editors will not have time to comment on every piece of writing, but those who are highly commended may receive some form of feedback.

Please include a cover page with your name, date of birth, address, contact details, including phone and email, and a very short biography (keep it under 50 words). Please define which genre your work fits into (eg. poetry, fiction, literary journalism etc.)

Do not include your name on your submission, only on the cover page. Please ensure that the title of your work is included in the header of each page of your submission.

Please send us your zines. Cutwater is very interested in publishing a wide selection of zines. We feel that zines are underrepresented in literary journals in Australia and worldwide and we want to help this. Please only send your best and most recent zines. You can send up to three zines.

We will accept up to three pieces from each writer.

We will not be accepting writing that has been published elsewhere. Your writing must not be under consideration for publication anywhere else. Self-publishing, in the form of zines, e-zines or blogs, is acceptable.

If you are sending comics or zines please address them to:

Comics Editor, Cutwater Literary Jounral
PO BOX 52
Toukley NSW
2263

Or

Zines Editor, Cutwater Literary Jounral
PO BOX 52
Toukley NSW
2263

Let out the inner ratbag! Good luck.

Thursday, October 02, 2008

Same As It Ever Was by Andrew Burke

The shopping centre’s footpath is
thin and interrupted by
parking signs. I tell you this because
along comes an up-market gopher
with tall zipped-up plastic walls
like an oblong of shower curtains
driven through the drizzle of
a spring day. It parks outside the chemist
and an old hand unzips a side panel
carefully. Tall and stooped, rickety on
frail legs, Merv leans on his walking stick
and steps out, then just as carefully
zips the panel up. He travels slowly
on worn slippers, his stick as third leg.
Down the path come two lads,
twenty or so, cocky, sure of
their balance and future.
Mrs Jones, grandson's hand
in hers, moves closer to the wall.
The boys don't notice. On legs
swift and sure, a teenage schoolgirl
walks past, hips alive, and as she passes
she bends and waves at the boy.
The big boys wave back,
mockingly. They know her sister,
the one with a rose tattoo. This one’s
younger, solitary, waiting
at the lights, balancing first on
one leg, then the other. Just now
a gleeful burst of young children
runs down the street, gold and green
streamers flying. Merv pauses
in the doorway to let them pass.
No respect, he thinks, no respect anymore.
His gopher has left a thin stream
on the footpath and one whooping boy
takes a tumble, no worse than
a fall at footy but today
it's a fright and he rubs
his coccyx. The chemist's girl
comes to help. Merv waves
his stick to Shoo! them away,
then slowly zips up a panel,
walking stick on his arm
Hoagy Carmichael style. I
watch from the prompter's pit
how they play their roles so truly. I'm
at The Globe when my wife returns,
shopping bags in each arm. I start
the car. She says, 'This lot'd cost
a pretty penny without a pension card.'
I steer out and over a speed hump,
windows up tight against the wind.


I say: This poem began a couple of weeks ago. It began as a thought. I was sitting in the car outside our neighbourhood chemist where my wife had gone to pick-up a prescription and other nameless objects. I had Talking Heads on the CD system and cranked it up a bit to fill my head. As I watched the passing parade - only scattered pedestrians as it was a weekday and before school closing time - I noticed the extremely different ways people walk. Some loaf along, barely raising their feet. Others walk with a determination and purpose, driven by busy brains. An old man appeared in a flash looking gopher, and the trademark caught my attention: Shoprider. Ha! Just like a surfrider or a waverider but for an oldie. I had to smile at that - I had to write that down. The passing parade had fat people, young thin people, school kids in a bunch, and two young sporting looking men who conversed in a lively manner as they almost danced down the street. They were in their own world as I was in mine.

Over the next two days I carried this thought of a poem around in my head, and by now it had become a thesis on the various skeletal frames of these pedestrians and how age and misfortune affect our walking styles. But when I sat down to write the first draft, it came out differently. Here's the start of the first draft:

Working beats the poems out of you.
At the start of two weeks mid-semester break
I drive my wife to the chemist
And wait outside, listening to
Talking Heads live on some concert CD
My daughter burnt for me. The footpath
Is a thin one, with signposts interrupting
Its width every now and then. I tell you this
Because along comes a Shoprider –
A gopher with tall zipped-up curtains
All around like an oblong shower recess on wheels
Only this one has driven through the drizzle
Of a spring day to park outside the chemist.
An old man – tall and stooped, rickety on
His frail legs – unzips a panel carefully,
Balances on his walking stick and just as
Carefully zips it back up. You can’t be
Too careful, I can almost hear him say.
He travels slowly on those flatfeet,
His stick supporting him as a third leg.


The draft went 548 words, and had a lot of extraneous detail in it. I worked on it on and off for days until the Poetry and Pasta night last Thursday. There I showed it to my fellow poets - and I must thank Sarah French and Dennis Haskell for cutting through the conversations and social ambiance of the evening to suggest cuts and corrections. I started again, and have now done twelve drafts all up, a lot more than my usual amount (although, not unheard of). I chopped the lyrics of the Talking Heads song out early when I chopped the intro out; I named characters just two drafts ago. I cut and I cut and I listened to my mates on a poetry list, PoetryEtc, and to my wife Jeanette. So, it hasn't turned into a camel but it has been written with the input of a lot of minds. Hopefully it is clear and evocative now; hopefully this is the last draft. But it may not be ... Time will tell.

If you are too young to remember Hoagland Howard "Hoagy" Carmichael (November 22, 1899 – December 27, 1981), he was an American composer, pianist, singer, actor, and bandleader. He is best known for writing "Stardust" (1927), "Georgia on My Mind" (1930?) and "Heart and Soul", three of the most-recorded American songs of all time. He also read contemporary poetry very well, and - from memory - appeared on a poetry & jazz album called Jazz Canto. He is not a man to be forgotten.

As some wise person once said, Poems are never finished; they are merely abandoned. I abandon this poem.

Hear ye! Hear ye!

ABC Radio National
Books and Drama newsletter
2-10 October 2008



POETICA
4/10/2008 15:00
9/10/2008 15:45
Robert Lowell
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/poetica/stories/2008/2358003.htm
Robert Lowell was one of America’s most famous poets of the 20th century. This program features a range of poems taken from his collection, Selected Poems, published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux.

LINGUA FRANCA

4/10/2008 15:45
9/10/2008 15:45
The naming of roses
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/linguafranca/stories/2008/2379477.htm
The rose is an ancient bloom of which there are now thousands of varieties, with hundreds more new types introduced each year. Gardening writer, Roger Mann, tells of the history of their naming.


SHORT STORY

5/10/2008 08:30
The Bathe - A Grotesque by Henry Handel Richardson, read by Sarah Aubrey.
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/shortstory/stories/2008/2374416.htm
When two women decide to ignore convention at a lonely beach, a small girl has her first sight of naked adults and is not impressed.

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Sonnet: Sometimes a penis . . . by Halvard Johnson

Penises have numerous identities. For example, a corona
is a straight penis measuring some 5 1/2" with a rounded end
that goes in the mouth. Coronas then descend in order of size
as follows: petit corona, tres petit corona and half a corona,
coming in at about 3 1/2" in length. Similar in shape to the corona
but slightly longer is the Lonsdale. The Ideales is a thin, torpedo
penis measuring some 6 1/2". Bouquet and Londres penises are
similarly thin but shorter. One of the most popular and accessible

of the penis family is the panatella, which is slim, about 5" long
and is sometimes distinguished by being pinched at the mouth
end. Once it had a finished top that had to be severed before
pissing or fucking but this is not the case nowadays. A cheroot
is usually beefier than a panatella, and shorter. In Britain
a small penis open at both ends is called a whiff.

==

Hal writes:
It was Freud who once said that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, a statement that for many years confused me. Bill Clinton, however, taught me that cigars can be more than cigars, and led me to forever confuse them with other implements, as you can see.

Mostly I can't really explain how poetry works/gets written. It just does.

Halvard Johnson

Sunday, September 28, 2008

Out now: Masthead 11: Poetryetc: Poems and Poets

An anthology edited by Andrew Burke and Candice Ward

http://www.masthead.net.au/

"What made the Poetryetc listserv distinct from the beginning was John Kinsella¹s internationalism, and his vision of its being a space for collaborative projects as well as dialogue and exchange...From 1997, Poetryetc projects collectively represent hundreds of poems by dozens of poets, by any measure an extraordinary explosion of collective creativity....

"This anthology is the most recent of the Poetryetc projects. Edited by Candice Ward and Andrew Burke, with an e-book designed by Peter Ciccariello, it represents a selection of poems written by list members over the past few years. It includes many distinguished poets side by side with new or little known voices, and demonstrates the diversity and stylistic openness that was always a major strength of Poetryetc."

From Poetryetc: A Brief History by Alison Croggon

With poems from:

Rachel Loden | Martin Dolan | Kenneth Wolman | Renée Ashley | Patrick McManus | S.J. Litherland |Nathan Hondros | Sheila E. Murphy | Tina Bass | Trevor Joyce | Kasper Salonen | Larissa Shmailo | Halvard Johnson | Sally Evans | Glen Phillips | Mark Weiss | S.K. Kelen | Stephen Vincent | Tad Richards | Barry Alpert | Martin J. Walker | Jim Bennett |Gerald Schwartz | Peter Riley | Robin Hamilton | David Bircumshaw | Candice Ward | Peter Howard | Joanna Boulter | Jill Jones | John Kinsella | Randolph Healy | Bob Marcacci | Liz Kirby | Max Richards | Andrew Burke | Peter Larkin | Cindy Lee | Caleb Cluff | Douglas Barbour | Árni Ibsen | Janet Jackson | Lawrence Upton | Heather Taylor | Roger Collett | Peter Ciccariello |Harriet Zinnes | John Tranter | Sharon Brogan | Frederick Pollack | Pierre Joris | Alison Croggon

http://www.masthead.net.au/

Friday, September 26, 2008

KITE FLYING, CAR DRIVING by Andrew Taylor

Only Franklin or the empty-headed
fly their kites while lightening
bothers distance yet here
the feather-headed ply their brains
along thin string and a twist
or two of hands. But nothing alights
like a falcon, the whimpering string
strains and relaxes, the kite
flutters its tethered emptiness and swoops
to catch only itself.

At 150 most cars take a life
on of their own
and decide the driver
is either ok or dead. At 160
the driver decides again. It’s a great
gap, 150 to 160,
like surf, you throw yourself
forward, ahead of yourself
and none of those little ties
to family or love exist.

Lightening crackles close, they fly
their pig-headed kites some more, then quit.
But at 160 you put your foot right down
eager for the rest of it


This poem is included in my forthcoming book, The Unhaunting, which Salt Publishing will bring out before the end of this year. It follows a poem about surfing, which I will explain later.

Ever since I was a teenager I’ve loved driving. Not driving madly, but watching the country in front whip past and new territory open up ahead. This poem grows out of that, even if at my age today I’ve become wary of driving for too long, since two of my friends were killed when the driver fell asleep on a long trip. Driving is dangerous, and that’s another reason why I find it enlivening.

Danger enters the poem in another way too, which is not explicit. In 1971 I was walking on the beach at Cape Hatteras where the Wright brothers made the world’s first flight in a powered aircraft. It’s long, and very flat, which I suppose is why they chose it. A thunderstorm blew up, and I watched lightening getting closer and closer. Soon I could see it striking the sand maybe half a mile (this was in the USA, of course) in front of me. I still kept walking towards it, half mesmerised but also consciously daring myself, as the lightening got closer. I was a lightening conductor, the only vertical thing on that deserted expanse of sand, and by now I was covered in water. Suddenly I turned and ran.

Benjamin Franklin discovered that lightening consisted of electricity by flying a kite in a lightening storm. He was crazy to do it, but was also one of his century’s great minds. Other people fly kites, float ideas or pretensions, but to no purpose. They’re empty-headed or feather brained (unlike the bird kites or falcons, who wear their feathers on the outside and are all muscle and determination inside).
I’m used to driving fast. In Germany, where I spend a fair slice of each year, it’s normal to do 140 to 150 on the Autobahn. But there’s a thrill pushing just that 10 k or more, and more, faster, as there is in surfing, and finding out how you can deal with and control the incredible force you’re riding. The poem’s about pushing yourself beyond what you thought your limits were, and finding more landscape opens up to you.

An anecdote. In the early 1970s I was driving one of the first Datsun 240Zs in Australia through the Adelaide Hills, before the freeway was completed. A huge red Ford challenged me and we upped the speed and upped it again and again, startled cars vanishing like mosquitoes in the rear vision mirror as we manoeuvred to pass or overtake, until I reckoned we – the car and I – had reached its limits. I pulled into a gas station, but the big red souped-up Ford pulled in beside me and a huge guy leaped out and rushed across. I scrambled to wind up the window but too late. He grabbed my hand and shook it and said ‘Jees, that was fucking great. I was pushing 180 and you was still pulling ahead of me!’ We could have been friends for life.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

SMALL FAMILY of SALTIMBANQUES by Lucy Dougan

The small family of saltimbanques
occupies one corner of the dance hall every Saturday.
The oldest girl moves with the same self-sufficiency
that all her family possesses. She walks an edge
of holding something back and then giving it fully.
The younger ones sit in a circle with their mother.
Her body made each one no more or less beautiful than the next,
as if she had chided patiently before their births:
now do not outshine the one before you.
It could be a family credo, this democracy of looks.
In their little circle they eat and play, practicing a patience
that certain beggars own. Nothing is too showy, everything eked out.
Their mother watches them with a poised neutrality.
She is with them the same way her oldest child dances.
At any moment she is tuned to another order, to almost
imperceptible openings. The colour of skin
beneath her eyes, a feather-blue in forest light.


LUCY says, 'This poem came from all the times that I've sat in and watched at my daughter's dance and acrobatic classes. On one occasion a friend said to me that you can tell a lot about a child from the way she/he dances. This statement came to rest in my mind with the image of a family that also attended these classes and the atmosphere that they created around themselves in one corner of the room. Of course, it's an imagining, a waking dream, of this family and it unites them loosely with Picasso's images of performers.

I love the unselfconscious intimacy that young dancers and acrobats have with each other. As they wait in line they lean on each other and do one another's hair. To me, there's something very honest and beautiful about the body learning these skills. When I watch my daughter execute a cartwheel I feel a pride in her strength and grace - the speed and sense of rhythm required and the risks are all compelling. I've come to think of poems that come as gifts (as this one did) as something like the feeling of a thumping good cartwheel.

Sideways to this poem sits an essay by John Berger simply called "Degas". Here's my favourite part of it:

"Do we not all dream of being known, known by our backs, legs, buttocks, shoulders, elbows, hair? Not psychologically recognised, not socially acclaimed, not praised, just nakedly known. Known as a child is by its mother." '



"Small Family of Saltimbanques" was first published in The Best Australian Poems 2004 (Black Inc., ed Les Murray) and then in Lucy's book White Clay. (Giramando Press, 2008)

SAX POEM:1 by Mike Williams

it's a saxophone evening
& there's a blues singer
singing for whisky
& cigarettes
rain dances on cold tombs
& back in the woods
owls sit like judges
lovers in a doorway
hands frantic beneath coats
& the man playing sax
has a hat on the ground
with coins
he's feeling lucky
it's just another night in so many


This poem has spawned two published novels, Old jazz & The Music of Dunes (Fremantle Press) and has become one of the poems I have put under the pen of my protagonist, Frank Harmon. A very simple poem, really, but I have a strong attachment to it. I like to put it across at readings, along with some companion poems. I like the sound of it, the atmosphere, the rain, the owls, the jazz of it. I wrote it after walking home one night and seeing a busker in Northbridge. Three more poems followed and, after numerous drafts, the novel Old Jazz ...


Mike Williams
Mike Williams books can be found at http://www.fremantlepress.com.au/

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

BLOWHOLE by Meg McKinlay

On the ocean road, we are tourists
of calamity; our father parks us close
to crumbling edges
and alarm. The sea puckers slick
rock-cheeks of disapproval, exhales
one body, consumes
the rest.


Meg says, "This poem actually began as a kind of exercise in 'writing short'. My natural tendency has always been to write fairly long poems, giving myself license to range freely across an idea until I feel I've exhausted its associative or narrative possibilities. I was astonished when this rather glaring feature of my work was pointed out to me, somehow having failed to notice it myself. At the time, I was putting together my first collection, Cleanskin, so I decided to try a few poems in which I consciously wrote against that impulse, staying tightly focused on a single image or idea.

'Blowhole' has its origins in childhood travels with my family up and down the Great Ocean Road in Victoria. We always seemed to be stopping to stare at a place where something awful had happened - a shipwreck site or the place where some once-great monument had crashed into the ocean. And of course, there were all those signs warning us not to get too close to the edges, that the cliffs could disintegrate beneath us at any moment, and so on. I was remembering all this, and thinking too, about the blowholes we had seen on those trips. I was fascinated by them, finding the violent but predictable movement of the water really hypnotic and investing it, I think, with the danger and threat associated with those other sites. So those connections started forming and I began playing around with the images, thinking there might be something there I could work with. For me, there's usually a moment when things start to coalesce, when I start to feel I'm on my way to a poem, rather than just pottering about with words; for this poem, it was when the phrase 'tourists of calamity' came to me. The rest followed fairly quickly after that and I managed to retain a reasonably tight focus and rein in my impulse to go exploring up and down the coastline and all the way through my childhood. There are a couple of other poems in Cleanskin which mine this sort of territory and these are actually bits and pieces which splintered off this poem to become new poems in their own right. It was really interesting for me to negotiate that process, to push those ideas out of 'Blowhole' and let them develop elsewhere into something different.

So this is a simple little poem, which is what I was after, but there's a neatness about it, a self-containment combined with a kind of larger, suggestive undercurrent, that I find pleasing. And I guess that's a little like blowholes themselves, so I like the way that works, too."

From Meg's website:

Cleanskin was published by The Westerly Centre as part of ArtsWA's "A Few New Words" initiative for emerging West Australian poets. It has gone out to Westerly subscribers with that year's issue, and can be purchased separately from The Westerly Centre, University of Western Australia, Crawley, WA. It consists of 24 pages of poems, mostly new work, and a CD of me [Meg] reading and discussing some of the poems, which was a lot of fun to do.

Meg McKinlay
Children's Writer & Poet
http://www.megmckinlay.com

Monday, September 22, 2008

FINISHING UP by Andrew Lansdown

Nightfall … and I am still here
in the school at the prison farm.

My children will be at the table, filling
their mouths with food and chatter.

And the littlest one will be asking
her mother, “Where is Daddy?”

I am where my resignation
has led me. My roguish students

are in the compound, locked up
for the night. Except for the sentries

the guards are gone. I am alone,
finishing up. Did I miss someone

when I said goodbye? Does it matter?
We have been good to one another,

these bad men and I. I try not
to think I will never see them again.

I am alone. I look out the window.
The forest is in silhouette.

On the lawn, almost dissolved
in the dusk, a young kangaroo

hunches on its haunches to graze.
It was not there a moment ago and

in a moment when I open the door
it will not be there again.

Although “Finishing Up” was published for the first time in Quadrant magazine in March this year, it is a poem that I began writing in 1987. At the time, I didn’t feel the poem was good enough to publish and I couldn’t work out how to make it good enough. However, I did feel it had “something” and so I kept it in file with other “almost” poems. I came back to it last year and substantially revised it into its present form. And I am pleased with it now.

The gist of the poem is clear from the text of the poem. But a few specific details may be of interest. I was at the time the education officer-in-charge of the education centre at Barton’s Mill Prison Farm. The farm held minimum security male prisoners and was located near Pickering Brook in Western Australia. I had been granted leave without pay for a year in order to write a book on the Swan waterways with the painter Donald Green. The poem picks up on my mood as I stayed late to pack up my things on the last day at the prison.

Andrew Lansdown’s most recent books are: a collection of poetry titled Fontanelle (Five Islands Press); a collection of short stories titled The Dispossessed (Interactive Press); and three fantasy novels titled With My Knife, Dragonfox and The Red Dragon (Omnibus Books/ Scholastic Australia). Picaro Press has just republished his poetry collection, Waking and Always, first released by Angus & Robertson Publishers in 1987. More details about Andrew and his work can be found at http://andrewlansdown.com

Sunday, September 21, 2008

LAKE MOON by Murray Jennings

I have no idea what bird that is
which scuds, a silhouette
along the silver-pink surface.
You need to hear a call,
but it’s early night,
and they don’t..

It’s not a lake.
There’s been more rain than usual,
but the grasses and reeds, the marshes
have held it back in the creek
from the valley where perfect people
spend their weekends
while someone else scrapes
the barnacles from their boats
and vacuums their suburban driveways.

There will be complaints
but for me, nothing
taints this,
a lake moon,

a winter silence,
a shack roof needing nails,
rent to pay soon.

© Murray Jennings


"This poem crawled out of a novel I’m writing. It’s only slightly different from the protagonist’s soliloquy. A recently retired widower, he’s exiled himself to a remote, rundown old horse property, south of the city of Perth, Western Australia. The block borders on a swamp, part of a wetlands network which attracts a variety of migratory birds." Murray Jennings

Murray is the author of 'FLASH COMPANY - Poems and fictions', available from the following stockists:
Lane Books, Old Theatre Lane Claremont W.A.
Millpoint Caffe Bookshop, Mill Point Rd, South Perth W.A.
Planet Books, Beaufort St, Mt Lawley W.A.
Galileo Books, York, W.A.
IMPRINTS, Hindley St, Adelaide, S.A.
(RRP $19.00)
Or by mail from P.O. Box 460, COMO, W.A. 6152
($21.00)

Friday, September 19, 2008

SPRING BURNING by Glen Phillips

I stood thigh deep
in wild oats on
a roadside verge
of mine. This spring
greening had plumped them.
The full heads nodded
heavy on emerald fibre optic shafts
and swayed in the breath
that shook
the loose-leafed eucalypts.

And yes, summer
Would come like a
brazen border-invader
soaring up the stalks
with a brief
rinse of gold
before husks become pale flags
fluttering
at the edge of farms.

Then we must think
a falling spark
of conflagration
in this dry grass
could sweep for miles.

Better to act now!
A spring burning
would see us safe
all summer long.

But still I stood;
whichever way
I looked, the road
stretched on and on.

After all, this
was just another
growing oat crop.

It’s hard to clear
the feral off
your property.

Then I felt spring
still burning
in me.

Glen Phillips
© 2005


EXEGESIS: SPRING BURNING


In the early nineties, I was engaged in a major research program which concluded with the making of the television series ‘Landscape and You’. Incidentally, still screening on Perth television. For the television episodes we went back to my childhood birthplace of Southern Cross and other areas of the Wheatbelt where I spent many years of my life. I worked also with a very talented photographer, Susan Storm, and one of her enduring images was of me in spring time, standing waist-deep in a blaze of road verge wildflowers. I was looking at this image one day and was reminded of how so many rare native plants and animals have been destroyed by the widening of country roads. When I was a child, the roads were narrow gravel tracks with trees arching overhead. Now, not only are there much reduced verges, but many are regularly burned, trimmed back by horribly destructive slashing machines and invaded by wild oats and other alien plant species. I know this is in the name of road safety, fire prevention and the ‘control’ of what farmers call vermin. Nevertheless, all this is increasing the vulnerability and even extinction of many species and, of course, dramatically reducing the spring showings of wildflowers upon which much of our tourist trade depends. To me, it is all a reminder of the settler-invader culture of my forebears (and those of many other Australians), whose assumptions about land ownership have been brought into serious question by the conservationist conscience of today’s generations. In most Wheatbelt regions, fortunately, there are changes afoot. I hope it is not too late. Actually, my poem, ‘Spring Burning’ is only superficially about these problems. The poem is, of course really about the using up of one’s life by the carelessness of our youthful years. In middle life, as Dante well knew, you take a more conservationist attitude to the years you have left. You begin to think that you must avoid the ‘outside’ threats to your health, your material assets, even the amount of pleasure you can allow yourself. You begin to think your days of being a life ‘producer’ are to be substituted for by being miserly with what you have already got. We all know there is a great risk of becoming more conservative politically as you grow older. Witness the fear of all kinds of ‘ferals’ among certain community sectors. We grow fearful of ‘boat people’ and so called illegal immigrants. Throw ‘em overboard! But what keeps us human, hopefully, is that inside each of us there is still the most powerful force of all, the cyclical energy of desire, the pleasure of yet another (undeniable) spring.

Glen Phillips

Poetica on ABC Radio National Saturday & Thursday

POETICA
20/9/2008 15:00
25/9/2008 15:45
High Country
URL: http://www.abc.net.au/rn/poetica/stories/2008/2338829.htm
The High Country by Jane and Phillip Ulman is a vintage program from 1985. Featuring the poetry of David Campbell and Douglas Stewart, it’s a portrait of a region which is geographically, historically and emotionally important to Australia. Poets have walked there and written about the wild region of the Snowy Mountains. Tom and Mollie Taylor spent a lifetime there. Recorded when they were both in their eighties, they evoke the spirit of the place in their recollections and anecdotes. The poems, the myths, the sounds of the mountains are the stuff of our folk history and memory.

Produced and presented by Mike Ladd

Thursday, September 18, 2008

By the lake at Peter Cowan Writers Centre









Andrew Taylor, Patron, and Andrew Burke, writer-in-residence, on the verandah at Peter Cowan Writers Centre for a reading Sunday 7 September 2008. Other two poets reading that day were Andrew Lansdown and Hal Colebatch.

Photo taken and supplied by Coby Pearson, execetive officer of the Centre. Thanks, Coby.
Anthony Burgess - "Laugh and the world laughs with you, snore and you sleep alone."

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Poetry & Pasta @ Hedgehogs Cafe 25 September














You are invited to
POETRY & PASTA
at
HEDGEHOGS CAFE


7pm Thursdeay 25 September 2008

with
DENNIS HASKELL
LUCY DOUGAN
ANDREW BURKE
MEG McKINLAY
SARAH FRENCH


Book Now to avoid disappointment!
9378 1976

Hedgehogs Cafe is at 83 Old Perth Road, Bassendean WA 6054

Dear Friends of Cordite

This is just a quick note to celebrate the fact that our newsletter now goes out to over 1,000 subscribers!

Oh, and also to remind you all that submissions for our 29th issue, Pastoral, close in just over two weeks, on September 30. We're looking forward to reading your work and making this issue even bigger and more diverse than the last - visit the site for submission details and other absorbing data!

Elsewhere on the Cordite site, you'll find a new book review posted every fortnight. Recent posts include Heather Taylor Johnson reviewing Mike Ladd, Adam Ford reviewing Alan Wearne and Pam Brown reviewing Miriel Lenore. Upcoming posts will include reviews of books by Michael Farrell, David Malouf and Judith Bishop.

Watch out for news of our two upcoming poetry featurettes, 28.1: Mulloway (online October 2008) and 29.1: Haikunaut (online early 2009).


Until then, we hope you've got your pastoral hats on, and look forward to your submissions.


Warm regards,
The Editors,
Cordite Poetry Review
http://www.cordite.org.au

Sunday, September 14, 2008

Reversal draft

Dew released ink
from the words of an open book
at dawn, so words ran
frenetically up the arteries
of gasping presses until
they circled letter by letter,
stop by stop, comma by
comma, back onto
a spinning disk which slowed
to a sudden halt, left to
retire into a plastic carrier and travelled out
to a car as hand luggage. Through
the streets words lay by
their driver through green lights
turning red to be once again in
their tower spinning like thread
until they pushed up keys
to be released into their weaver’s fingers,
pushing past the pressures
of the wrist, clotting
briefly at the elbow to
appear, fresh-faced, wide-eyed,
in a sparking cerebellum cortex to
fade slowly
into vapours of thought …

Tuesday, September 09, 2008

George Eliot quote

“...If we had a keen vision of all that is ordinary in human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow or the squirrel’s heart beat, and we should die of that roar which is the other side of silence.” George Eliot

I am asking for the original source of this quote.

Today it came from an email from Stephen Vincent, USA poet and blogger, whose secondary source was "Prof. Charles Liu in his honors class at CUNY as reported in a story in today's NY Times".

Stephen was suggesting John Cage - and like minds - would have loved this quote. I do, I do. Do you?

Monday, September 08, 2008

Beverley George at HaibunToday


I have been quiet here recently due to too much work in other realms. I'm not exactly quiet now, but it is more manageable. So, I apologise if you have visited to find only the same old same old sitting there.

Today I would like to send you to another blog where sits haibun by Beverley George, Australian poet from the eastern coast. Haibun is a tricky medium to write in and I think she brings it off well: http://haibuntoday.blogspot.com/