Well, that was a lot of fun. Thank you to everyone who came along to the gig.

Ozlem, as expected, was amazing, particularly poised for someone who was performing at her debut headline gig.

I was happy with how my new work came out. I had decided to do one of the new ones in response to something I had heard in the open stage, and it felt a lot better than I thought. Needs a bit of work, perhaps, but certainly held it’s own.

This is mostly for my own recording, but my set list was:

1st Set
Thirteen Hours Into Summer; Sad Bleak Sky; That’s Chiroptera To You Mr. Lawrence; Supermarket Queue; In Memory Of Boris Pasternak (by Denise Levertov); Observing Denise Levertov Remember Boris Pasternak; Inauguration; In The Absence
2nd Set
Dr. Frankenstein; Dust Revisited; Ballard Days; Eulogy For The Polaroid; Extracts From The Kama Sutra Of Sleep; Go; 21 – The World

Reading: “District & Circle” – Seamus Heaney
Listening: “Save What You Can” – The Triffids

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

Winter rush hour train:
A box of black pencils
reading this poem.

Reading: “Cultural Amnesia” – Clive James
Listening: “Change” – Tears For Fears

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

Eulogy for the Polaroid Camera
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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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