Tuesday poem: Rapunzel’s lesson, and trans-Tasman co-operation
October 1, 2012
Rapunzel’s lesson
And after they have stopped swarming up
massing like armoured lice, itching, pulling…
What then?
Nothing in this world in free, she said, dear
mother, before she died, like all mothers
in this castellated world.
And she was right. After the long climb
they ask for my hand. Hair, rope-pulled,
then hand, for life.
I’ve learnt. I flick my golden ladder
and watch them free-fall, moat-wards,
screaming, motes of shiny dandruff.
And then I comb my hair.
P.S. Cottier
‘Rapunzel’s lesson’ was highly commended in The Bridge Foundation poetry competition, October 2009.
In an exciting development (well exciting for me, anyway) Tim Jones and I will soon begin editing a book of Australian speculative poetry. As you all know, that’s science fiction, fantasy, horror and magic realism. It will be published by Interactive Publications of Queensland. The book will contain new poems as well as previously published works, so watch out for the call for submissions and further details, dear fellow Australians of a poetic bent.
I am looking forward to working with Tim, who I have only met electronically. Amazing what a little Tuesday Poem can bring about. As he has previously edited Voyagers with Mark Pirie, he has the runs on the board, speculatively speaking.
So the little fantasy poem above is a tribute to Books Yet to Come.
Tim Jones
I spent most of the weekend at the Conflux science fiction convention in Canberra, where I met some poets who I will spank with Rapunzel’s hairbrush if they do not submit to the anthology.
They have been warned…
For further poetry, press this raven’s feather. Never say nevermore, chickies.
Tuesday poem: Sea
September 24, 2012
Sea
It pulls harder than any roping octopus,
Kali’s deep green army of sinuous terror,
bites deeper than haunting white shark,
bloody ghost that gutted brothers before birth.
It throws off surfers, tinnies, yachts and tankers
like a gnarly horse at rodeo, then clowns with us,
pulling down rescuers, spewing out the sodden child.
At stony beaches it applauds itself with each sigh,
the percussive pebbles played by ten thousand hands.
Sometimes, floating, I feel it stroke my back, teasing,
fingering, like a well-schooled lover. It whispers
not yet, I’m not ready, when I’m ready, you’ll go down.
P.S. Cottier
This poem appeared in my first book, The Glass Violin, which can still be ordered from Ginninderra Press. (Go to the ‘About’ page of this blog.)
I am gradually getting back into my routine of coffee and writing, after too many exciting things happening recently. I am on a panel and reading at the Conflux science fiction convention here in Canberra this weekend, speculative poetry being one of my loves. But as this is at the weekend, I don’t see it as breaking my routine.
At heart I am truly a bore. But sometimes a productive one.
More poetry? You want more? Click here and receive a free set of steak knives.*
*Imaginary steak knives in real kitchens.
Tuesday poem: Ammonite
September 10, 2012
Ammonite
Stony rose blooms from centre, soft thorns of feelers long since lost.
Aeons before any bee roamed from flower to flower, fields of round shells
pumped through seas, curled rams horns butting at white choppy waves.
Now round-eyed fossil stares at me from my desk, surprised to see
one so pink, so soft, so new. Soil frozen bubble reminds that our kind
is also a wink in time’s long receipt; a mere fingerprint of bone will
one day remain, hardened into artefact like ammonite, to be mined
and grasped (if the finders should have hands). Old cockle swirl,
ridge-back, cocks a snook at certitude; oceans of twisting time
sound through mud-filled shofar, airless conch, a mazy call of years.
P.S. Cottier
Having returned, very tired, from the Poets Train last night, I’ll recycle this old, though as yet unpublished, poem and give a more train-specific post when I’m back to my routine. Or timetable.
Suffice to say that many words have passed these lips over the weekend!
Click this feather and see if any more poems are dealing with ancient creatures:
There’s one terrific poem about robots on Tim Jones’s blog. Take my word for it…
Tuesday poem: In the pub
September 3, 2012
In the pub
Wedges of moon
float in my glass
sky lemon stings
Vodka ice glass
nine tenths hide below
titanic kick
Poker beeps
sour head nods in shame
beer swims laps
Salt chips taste
absent smoke plumes
long since flown
P.S. Cottier
internal combustion
After a day where my car broke down, necessitating a service call to the NRMA and a tow truck, I think a drink or two is called for. At least I was wearing flat shoes today, so I could walk home after sending my daughter in a taxi to school! I’ll have to get stuck in at the poem mines to pay for the repairs. About 200 years’ poetry should do it.
Now, click this boozy plume, dropped by a bird that can’t remember what, or who, it did last night. Read some more poems, a few of which were written by sober people. Perhaps.*
*If New Zealand poets are the same as Australian poets, I am just being polite here.
And here’s the official launch invitation for Triptych Poets Issue Three, of which I am one-third:
come along canberra
Captain’s blog!
August 27, 2012
Yes, this week it’s my turn to edit the Tuesday Poem site; that is, the main poem in the middle. I have chosen a wonderful poem by Canberra poet Sarah Rice.
So click this feather, and be beamed over to New Zealand, to read Sarah’s poem:
PS Cottier 