Went to Passionate Tongues last night and had a marvellous old time catching up with people and enjoying the work of the features Ian McBryde and Amelia Walker. The open stage was also a good opportunity to hear the work of poets I know from around the scene, but had yet to hear properly. Ben “I.Q.” Saunders and Jo Mundy spring to mind here.

This was written last week and is currently in the mid-polish state.

Thirteen Hours Into Summer
 
Melbourne. We are
thirteen hours into summer
and I have not seen the sun.
Have you lost it? Did you look?
 
The clouds rolling overhead are
too busy, too majestic to help find
what you are looking for.
Did you ask them? Did they respond?
 
We are running out of time.
We have only ninety days, eleven hours
but you seem unconcerned.
Aren’t you worried? Do you care?
 
Unemployed shadows are
jammed into cracks and corners.
Wait nervously for their cue
how long their wait? when can they breathe out?
 
Put your name on the sun, Melbourne,
when you find it. This time put it down
in the first place you would look,
not the last.
 

Reading: “Penguin Modern Poets 17: Gascoyne, Graham, Raine”
Listening: “Don’t Send Me Onions” - Miles Hunt

Last night, I dreamt
the sea shaped by hurricanes;
each wave a shark’s tooth.

Actually, dear readers, while I’m enjoying putting this up in the name of new content I’d appreciate not only feedback but grammatical correction if it’s required. I’m not 100% certain that I have it right.

Reading: “Cultural Amnesia” - Clive James
Listening: “The Point Of It All” - Amanda Palmer

This sprung out of reading an article about JG Ballard and watching people on Brunswick St.,

Ballard Days

We live in the Ballard days.
We bare our bullet torn flesh,
our steering wheel cracked ribs
but deny the pierced heart of
our internal bleeding.
 
We bare the radiation burns
as marks of piety
but think nothing of the cancer
and how it quietly spreads within us.
 
We inure ourselves to the constant
degradation of our bodies
and wake up every morning
a little further behind the 8-ball.
 
We wake every morning
change the bandages
and recycles the letters
from the doctor saying
“Your results are back. Call me.”
 

Reading: “We Will Disappear” - David Prater
Listening: “Money Changes Everything” - The Smiths

A friend of mine has started a really rather interesting blog that I think needs to be seen by many. Go visit Loki at The Centre Cannot Hold.

I mention this, not only because I’m more than happy to laud the work of my friends, but also because I made reference to one of my poems on his site and thought I should log it here for sake of reference.

Another World was written as a meditation on the point that person A can only really transmit a concept of what they are saying to person B. The simple act of saying “blue” generates two different shades of the same colour in the minds of the two people discussing the colour because at a basic level, our experiences are different.

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This year seems to have started well. Oh, and happy new thing to all of you!

I went to the Dan O’Connell gig on Saturday, my reading went OK (Culture & Politics, Dr. Frankenstein, Eulogy For The Cassette), Anne & Norman’s set was amazing as per usual and I seem to be having more luck writing than I had last year. One poem, two close to poems and another that I’ve been working on for nearly a year is getting closer to the finish line.

For the last few years I’ve been making a new year’s resolution to write at least one poem a month. Admittedly, not the most grandiose of resolutions, but I figure it’s something I can build upon. So this month I’ve already got two poems, and hopefully a third on the way!

Anyhow, my second work this year is something of a dramatic monologue, all the questions you want to ask in different circumstances but are never quite sure if you should or not. I found it interesting how, while separate thoughts, they tell a story as a whole. Have a look under the cut.
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Between Pillows

I slipped my hand between your pillows to see
if the experience was the same as when I did with mine.

The space between your pillows

was smooth and cool. Between mine, the cotton had become
rumpled and hot. The experience, having manifest,

wandered off into memory
looking for a job
as a metaphor.

Cam Black, the inimitable host of the Dan O’Connell Poetry event, asked me for a copy of this poem just recently. Not having had a look at it for a while I thought I might put it up here. Enjoy!

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I wrote this series of poems a little while back, ask me about it if you’re interested. I suspect far too many people have heard me say that at open stage gigs. Anyway, a discussion came up elseweb of pantoums and I thought I would post this one as I’m fond of it.

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I saw a news article last night where the inventor of the CD has admitted that it is now obsolete in the face of USB drives, iPods and DVDs. It got me thinking about this, which I only wrote a month or so ago.

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I attribute the following quote to Christine Hamm, English lecturer at Rutgers University and author of The Transparent Dinner.

“The reverse poem exercise consists of taking a poem, breaking it down line by line and trying to write the opposite of each image and word. After you’re done you can play with it anyway you want.”

Suffice to say I’ve had far too much fun doing this. Beneath the cut is one example I’ve been working on.
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