Belated Tuesday poem: (tanka)
November 11, 2015
She thought Paris
was a city of couture
modelling thin —
the Place de la République
where McDonald’s fashions fries
P.S. Cottier
The photo has very little to do with the poem. Honestly.
Read the works of the other Tuesday Poets by pressing here.
Next week: Exegesis and tea.
Poetry reading Monday night (tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow…)
November 1, 2015
I have been asked to lead off a new series of poetry readings/discussions about poetry/general poetic hi jinx (the lesser known relative of the execrable Jaja Binks). Details for Canberrans/people with private jets who are not Donald Trump:
That Poetry Thing That Is On At Smith’s Every Other Monday @Smith’s Alternative, Alinga Street Civic
An Evening With P.S. Cottier
7pm, $5
That’s this woman, escaped from the psychedelically besmirched attic.
I am looking forward to being quizzed by JC Inman, fellow poet, about what inspires me and why I do it, and a myriad of other matters. There will be music! Hopefully composition on the spot! And then I will read for twenty minutes or so.
Do come along and keep the poet in fete money.
(I have an awful feeling that rugby may be mentioned, too…Josh Inman has some New Zealand blood, I believe.)
***
And, if you are seeking a Tuesday Poem, please press this link: http://cordite.org.au/poetry/toil/a-hard-poem-to-market/ That will take you to Cordite Poetry Review. This issue is on the idea or theme or prompt of toil, and is edited by Carol Jenkins.
Read the works of the other Tuesday Poets by pressing here.
By late Monday, I will be far too happy (I hope) to type.
My life in crime, or a Thunderbolt from the New (England)
October 12, 2015
I had some exciting news recently. My poem ‘Criminals who are no longer criminals’ was awarded first place in the Thunderbolt Prize for Crime Writing, run by the New England Writers Centre. The poetry judge, Les Murray, liked the clarity of the poem’s descriptions, which is particularly cool given that the poem deals with a group of ghosts. These are the ghosts of people convicted of crimes now repealed, including homosexuality and witchcraft, and I wrote of them meeting outside courts.
Chair of the New England Writers Centre, Sophie Masson, interviewed me and the interview can be read at her blog. I talk about the inspiration for the poem, which was the way we (meaning Australia) deal with asylum seekers. Also about what sort of poetry I like, and further details of my life of poetic crime. There is a link to the actual poem, at the Armidale Express.
As usual, Old Book Illustrations provided the perfect image, seemingly dealing with the process of composition.
I am now off to buy a budgie with the winnings. No Tuesday Poem from me. Unless you chase the link above, that is.
UPDATE:
The poem can now be read here.
Cartree
September 18, 2015
Door swings
invisible driver
burn out
This photo of one of Australia’s rarer floral symbols was taken at O’Connor Ridge. I also saw a cat trying to eat a rabbit. There were parrots, but the cartree sticks in my mind. Perhaps a whole new car will regenerate?
I have to link to a great poem by SK Kelen about O’Connor Ridge, which seems to attract poets like car parts and other ferals.
Belated Tuesday Poem: Missing Melbourne
September 2, 2015
Missing Melbourne
Alleys don’t exist here. Canberra has no use
for backways streets, for furtive lanes.
Lies are a different matter, but those
architectural commas, those cobbled
night-cart ways have no place amongst
paradise refined into
quintessence of tedium.
I love my new home’s cockatoos,
their hats of lairy scorn, their satire;
sound-beakers of heavy metal
poured into pure blue air.
But I dip my memory’s lid
to the Brunswick park
with forty tail-flagged dogs,
smaller than some Canberra backyards.
So much oomph, so much poo,
and bocce, like a kiss thrown
against the deeper green,
speaking of a bigger world
of coincidence and trust.
P.S. Cottier
Not Canberra
I have changed. I no longer miss Melbourne in the way I did when I wrote that poem, about 10 years ago. When I visit Melbourne now, it does not feel like a return home, but a trip to ‘somewhere else’. Even the maps in my mind of how to find things are fading.
When I first came to Canberra I searched for a centre in vain. Now I am enamoured of the space and sky here; a change just beginning in the poem, I think. If I had stayed in Melbourne, I don’t think I would be writing so much poetry, as I had more Things to Do; more distractions. Of course, I have now become more involved in Canberra’s cultural life, but I think the move from Melbourne drove me into my own head a little more than staying would have.
Please don’t misunderstand me. Poetry can be written in a truly urban environment as much as in Canberra’s semi-whateverness. I get truly sick of the fervent rural trend in much contemporary poetry, what I call the Misty Cow School. And last week I felt a retrospective sense of pride to see how many Melburnians ralled against the Border Force* stopping random people to ‘check their papers’. (If they were carrying The Australian, presumably they’d be acceptable…)
But Canberra is my home now, and I feel glad to get off the plane or bus or train here. Zireaux was kind enough to feature a series of my Canberra poems here, with his commentary.
And for further poetry, get on the Poetry Tram. Read the works of the other Tuesday Poets around the world by pressing here.
*Who designed the black uniforms? Or did they just visit a museum of WWII and copy the Nazi uniforms?
PS Cottier 