Tuesday poem: (haiku)
July 16, 2014
sick at the beach
lungs sandblasted
holidays towelled
Continuing the slightly whingey tone that my usually vibrant and witty blog has exhibited lately, I had a week at the beach and I was too sick to swim! I am still sick and on actual medicine! I have not been able to go to the gym for ages! You can’t keep good Aussie germs down, it seems. They are positively marsupial in their popping up when least expected.
I dragged my benighted carcass into town on Sunday, and ran into photographer and person about town Geoffrey Dunn, who asked me to open an exhibition he is having at The Front Gallery here in Canberra. Intriguingly entitled ‘Two Tens and a Tomato’, it includes work by Geoffrey and visual artist and poet Marina Talevski. They have mixed poetry, photography, sculpture and installation into works exploring the written word and visualisations of poetic elements.
I am popping down to the Gallery tonight to check it out, so that I can hopefully say something coherent tomorrow at 7pm.
Hanging out in town with a sign saying ‘Will launch for drink’ has finally paid off…
Here is a photograph of me taken by Mr Dunn. Unfortunately my magic parasol did not keep the germs at bay. Must ask for a refund. From the makers of parasols, not from the photographer.
For comparatively germ free reading, click this feather:
Belated Tuesday Poem: A game of two halves
June 25, 2014
A game of two halves
The leaf seemed to be symmetrical,
a neat seam running between halves,
opening into two jagged edged wings.
But look closely. DNA scissors slipped,
so one side is wider than the other.
If it flew, it would flap lop-sided, lurching
like film hunchbacks in mad scientists’ labs.
Nature’s dropped stitches, strict patterns misread
knit perfection. White Staffies’ black eye patches,
piratical, the thrown ink blot puddles sloshing
on magpies, the pale amber stripe that glints,
floats in calm sea blue eyes of my daughter.
She looks unwinking at misshapen leaves,
falling elliptically, ways gone widdershins.
That child is watching, with her opal eyes,
envying my air-stroke. Poor thing, to be always
so rooted to ground, a fleshy turnip, although soon
I too will form one bump, just one, in thick brown
rotting carpet. But I will have tasted wavy air,
felt its shoulders spin me into curved flight.
Bowler has sent me down as googly, circuitously
aimed towards tree stumps. Flocking downwards,
kinked arrows of flight, our debut is denouement,
yet we knot a rug of mulch to warm tall parent.
We never die, you see, for we conjure up spring,
sleeping under us. Or so we will, if that girl,
wound into kicking action, would leave us in stolid peace.
Instead, we leap, and fly again; in jerky errant judders.
P.S. Cottier
A rather confusing title; who didn’t think of The World Cup when they read the soccerific headline? Certainly, I have been losing as much sleep to the round ball as I usually do to Stephen King when he has a new novel out. The sporting metaphors used are mostly cricket-related though. Hence the cicada you may just pick out amongst the leaves in the photo.
That is an unpublished and old poem, from my ‘running on a bit’ period, but I quite like it.
There are many wonderful poems published this week at Tuesday Poem. Hop over and check them out:
Tuesday poems: Linky linky
June 3, 2014
No poem as such today. I am going down to Melbourne soon for the launch of The Stars Like Sand and am finding it hard to write at the mo.
However I recently had a hat trick of poems up at Eureka Street.
And, to continue the sporting metaphors, I scored a goal with a poem being included in the special World Cup edition of the New Zealand publication broadsheet. The poem, ‘Passing beauty’ was originally published at Eureka Street, and then in my second-prize-winning book The Cancellation of Clouds, which can be purchased from Ginninderra Press. Australia’s draw in the World Cup is (cough) perhaps (cough) somewhat difficult (hysterical laughter). We face Spain, The Netherlands and Chile. (Giggle.)
And, having linked more times than a golfer, she puts away clubs, balls big and balls small, and retires to the gym for a bit of metal.
Here are the launch posters, for the last time.
Now, some Tuesday poets will have original poems, and some will have old ones. Check them out. Put down those barbells, meat-head, and click this feather:
Tuesday poem: The poet addresses her first book
May 26, 2014
The poet addresses her first book
Oh my little treasure, with your spine just like a real spine
and your two short footnotes; smooth, appropriate and small.
I would swaddle you in gossamer, rock you in a golden crib.
All too soon you’ll be waddling out amongst dangerous critics
(if one so angelic and slim could ever so perambulate.)
Strange readers may not see your brilliance, and overlook you
for the thicker, slicker, tarmac roads of easy fattening prose.
Those lard-backs, perched like obese babushka dolls
above the Muse’s cuter, lighter, cuddle-worthy spawn.
Hush, dear bookie. Drink deep.
No-one will ever love you as I do.
P.S. Cottier
This little occasional poem was written for the launch of my first book, way back in 2008. I have been thinking about that as we head towards the launches of The Stars Like Sand, jointly edited by Tim Jones and myself.
It’s always a strange experience to hold something that was previously only an idea, or a manuscript. A manuscript is a bit like an ultrasound of a baby, showing a rough outline, but not the detail. The pregnancy, in the case of the latest volume, lasted about 18 months, which is positively elephantine.
Can’t wait to get back to concentrating entirely on my own poetry. I almost have another manuscript prepared. And I have an inkling for something else, too.
Launches intervene, though!
These have been unusually feminine metaphors for me. Or perhaps female would be a more accurate word. Next time I promise to return to football or cricket imagery.
Owzat?
Click this feather for further poetic goodness, with no added artificial ingredients:
Tuesday poem: Old men’s ears
May 12, 2014
Old men’s ears
half lettuce and half slug
sprouting sound
P.S. Cottier
Hair growing from noses and ears is a peculiar phenomenon, and one that seems to have spawned a whole lot of gadgets, mostly invented in the United States. Advertisements for this desirable kit now grace television screens in Australia. Americans groom themselves with a missionary fervour, spouting platitudes from the same faces which recently sprouted hairs.
I think I prefer the hairs.
I am currently going mad awaiting the arrival of the anthology for which there are two launches in June, as detailed in my last post. Nightmare scenarios grow in my brain like cerebral hairs.
And no-one has invented a worry remover that will work on those unwanted growths.
Click this feather and see if there are any other poems about body parts posted by the Tuesday Poets. I suppose a feather is a body part. Or perhaps just a bird’s hair.
PS Cottier 