Con-temporary Poetry

July 6, 2009 at 7:06 pm | In australian poetry, contemporary poetry, poetry, writing | 10 Comments
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All poems are experiments, experiments in experience

all are equally difficult to see in their entirety

equally easy to read for sounds and subtle thrills.

When a simple tale of the honesty of water spills/ over

slipways and invades the footpath canvas of street artists,

and Banksy’s anonymity runs graffiti over frames,

Western minds

which delight in dis/section into categories

sticky plaster labels, con-temporary

, a temporary con, and in the

absence of sensible syntax

while somewhere between giggling and tummyful

sits sunonhead under banyan trees

integrating in mysterious digestion

the wondrous simplicity of pastries.

F tattoo (in G, is for horses)

July 4, 2009 at 9:04 am | In australian poetry, contemporary poetry, genre isn't dead yet but it should be, poetry, writing | 15 Comments
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Fear. and freedom from it.
looking in mirrors and startling

fantastical modifications in form
with no apparent function

p is for pointless alliteration
without contrasting consonants

F is for free
to give it all away

and go sailing.

F tattoo (in G, is for horses)

July 4, 2009 at 8:58 am | In australian poetry, contemporary poetry, genre isn't dead yet but it should be, tshirt | 1 Comment
Tags: , , ,

Fear. and freedom from it.
looking in mirrors and startling

fantastical modifications in form
with no apparent function

p is for pointless alliteration
without contrasting consonants

F is for free
to give it all away

and go sailing.

Do not claim,

June 30, 2009 at 6:24 pm | In antihaiku, memoirs, sheer selfindulgence | 24 Comments
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Do not claim to be a musician
in other people’s eyes
nor insert rhyme nor reason
if you cannot improvise
the way the surf breaks now and then,
between ocean and sunrise.

when the meditation fails

June 29, 2009 at 6:42 pm | In australian poetry, contemporary poetry, poetry, sheer selfindulgence, writing | 17 Comments
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and the melancholic lady fully medicated
sleeps
and he forgets where the tiger what
it was
he shuffles half asleep into some
nightmare cupboard
of whispers and enemies lurking
by firelight at solstice
simply to imprint some unique mark
puts on his brown bowler hat
and says where’s Art?

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