Hats, ripples, paper
May 8, 2015
That sounds like a new game that rather old-fashioned children might play in the schoolground if Instagram suddenly crashed. But no, it’s an excuse to publish a photograph.
I took this last night at the launch of Janette Pieloor’s poetry collection ripples under the skin (Walleah Press). Janette is one the right, standing with Sarah Rice, another poet. You can tell that winter is really just around the corner in Canberra, skulking and kicking. (I refuse to say Winter is coming. That now has the coolness — !— of saying ‘How about this heat? or ‘Cold enough for you? Starkly uncool.)
And the paper? Well the launch was held in Paperchain Books in Manuka. One of the few independent bookstores left in Canberra.
I have dipped into the collection and found some very disconcerting poems, which is always a good thing.
Stronger than coffee,
the memory of the mandarin
segments the air with tang.
Smell is better than taste
(no pips to spit and
punctuate the saucer…)
Orange air flips a finger
as I sip staid warm brown.
P.S. Cottier
Perhaps I should write a book of poems entirely set in a café, called First World Beverages or somesuch. I just wrote a prose piece, soon to be published, about how annoyed I get with poetry that seems to reject all the world except for the poet and his or her feelings, as if feelings have no connection to the society in which they are felt. Mmm, I must order another coffee and have a think about that…That is my world, I suppose, but there is the occasional idea as well, floating around like the smell of mandarins. (They are healthier than madeleines, too.)
I do quite like the pips as ellipses though, and the hint of concrete poetry as the brackets form a saucer. Poésie porcèlaine sounds so much nicer than concrète, don’t you agree?
I must contact the Trademarks Office.
And just in case you haven’t yet had a coffee:
Enjoy!
Read the works of the other Tuesday Poets around the world by pressing here.
***
Lastly, my pocket book Paths Into Inner Canberra (Ginninderra Press) is now being stocked by Book Lore in Wattle Street, Lyneham (that’s in Canberra). It is on the front counter, so go in and buy one for $4. Keep this deserving woman in coffee!
Book Lore is a fantastic second-hand bookstore, located between two cafés. In one of these establishments, a poem about mandarins and coffee was written, just today. The photo in the helmet was taken outside the second of these places, by a Mr G. Dunn, after wine was had, and is one of several in the wee pamphlet. The pocket book can also be ordered on the publisher’s site using Paypal. (I am number 3, she said, mysteriously.)
For one doesn’t live on coffee alone, and even mandarins may fade.
Tuesday Poem: This is a poem, not a listicle
April 26, 2015
This is a poem, not a listicle.
1. It tastes like leather. Hold the stick tight.
2. If you listen you will soon note that it speaks bad French.
3. It has never been to France, except in fairly standard dreams.
4. It bought cheap steroids in Bali, but is yet to bulge.
5. It would like to contain the word ‘roseate’, but can’t.
6. It read itself out loud just last week and was well received.
7. It just watched the film The Brain from Planet Arous.
8. It keeps reciting ‘After I’m gone, your earth will be free to live out its miserable span of existence, as one of my satellites, and that’s how it’s going to be…’
9. It can’t translate that into French, even French of the worst sort.
10. This is a poem, not a listicle.
P.S. Cottier
Yes, this poet (and not just that poem) just watched The Brain from Planet Arous, in which a nasty alien brain inhabits the cranium of a scientist, and a nicer alien brain inhabits the head of the scientist’s girlfriend’s dog.
No alien brain here
Only to be watched when drunk. There are seemingly endless scenes of people tiptoeing through caves, and the woman who owns the dog never stops serving the men food. The direct speech in the poem is made by the nasty brain, who does do a mad scientist chuckle quite frequently.
I am interested in how flat the language in a poem can be before it ceases to be a poem. Also, the word listicle caught my imagination. So like popsicle, but often so disappointingly flat AND chunky.
Other poets may be playing with form, if not risking brain damage by watching dreadful 50s science fiction films. Read the works of the other Tuesday Poets around the world by pressing here.
I am so very nice
April 21, 2015
Why that self praise? I am about to share the details of a wonderful poetry prize currently on offer with all readers:
http://www.canberra.edu.au/about-uc/competitions-and-awards/vcpoetryprize
First prize is $15,000 for one poem of up to 50 lines, and entry is $20. It is open to everyone in the world who writes English and has a credit card with at least $20 left on it. That may exclude quite a number of poets, admittedly, but a few may qualify. There’s a bit over a month before the prize closes. Obviously, there will be quite a few entries!
Pick up pen, tablet or crayon and write. Or enter a poem that you have been too lazy to send in to a journal. Do it or be beaten by this rabbit:
I am hoarding a poem for the competition like Gollum with the Ring. It just requires a bit more polishing.
Good luck!
A special afternoon
April 19, 2015
David Stavanger works on a line between music and poetry…No.
David Stavanger erases the line between music and poetry….That’s better. Though overly simplistic.
Here he is setting up before his gig in Canberra at Hotel Hotel in New Acton.
Richard Grantham played actual music, including electronic delay with a viola, and keyboards. David played his throat, and the audience, in a devilish performance.
Ellie Malbon also performed her poetry, and at one stage she was joined with Aaron Kirby in a piece with eucalyptus forests, and drowning, which made me think of Birnam Wood coming towards Macbeth in his castle (in the soon to be released play of the same name). Also there were surfing images, and a challenging of the division between elements, and a questioning of myths of improvement. There was a bath, too, in another poem. Here are Ellie’s feet, displayed on the interesting floor which could hardly be described as minimalist:
CJ Bowerbird emceed and performed, and I regret not having captured either his suit or his performance. Andrew Galan read works from his forthcoming second collection, which had a decidedly canine feel to it. This is the sort of maniac that he had in the audience:
Thanks to Annie Te Whiu for the photo.
All in all, this was a wonderful afternoon of poetry and music at Hotel Hotel, in which a lot of poems about water were transformed into magic. The wine was good too…
David’s collection, The Special, is one I should have read by now, but it’s always great to buy it from the poet direct.
PS Cottier 