The Year Of Doing (even more) Things.

December 28, 2009 at 8:15 am | Posted in performance, writing | 27 Comments
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(it is raining gently

literally whispering

we create ourselves)

Lurking behind many of my verbal ramblings is the idea that the only resource of much value to humans is experience, both individual and collective. And in that spirit I dub this the year of getting up off your arse, Squires and jumping up and down.

That is to say, I must start performing the poetry live. As most of you know, this is something I dread and it would be so much easier if Maxine Clarke, Australia’s finest performance poet was standing beside me with a sharp object threatening to transform it from a thought into a shiny metal object poking me in the ribs saying, “Squires, if you don’t get out there right now…

It would be easier if I could sidle up to Graham Nunn and say, “Graham, I’m gonna make very few live appearances in my life-time, lets charge them a fiver for half an hour. Then we could reinvest the surplus in the Buckmonster Filler Program we stole, I mean the old shuffleroo, Sir Marcus Westbury, what a gent.”

But, as usual, I am getting way ahead of myself. I must choose the first piece for the performance, then I was thinking of group sourcing the rest, that is to say, taking requests,

jazz – a frictionless universe

December 21, 2009 at 4:00 pm | Posted in australian poetry, contemporary poetry, poetry, senti-mentality, writing | 28 Comments
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I couldn’t disentangle the fight. I kept losing track of whether I was fighting for me or for people like me. But it turns out those two things are always the same. There were times when it was pure survival of my individual ego, but the context, the reason I was there and doing it, was very simple.

It was for creatures like me. We longed for a world in which this was not necessary but could not create one. The pressure from outside, the rapidly reducing resources as the forest fell and was churned into hamburger insistently required response.

Waking at dawn to the sound of leaf-blowers destroying the micro-ecosystem for no reason at all. Suburban tanks driven six blocks with one person in them. Every year less rain.

the eye will add images each further from the thought
there is only one soul and we are manifestations of it
passes through us radiant

over and again in the poems, the old man with his arm around his son looking up at the stars, different every time though, so each is unique. The weight of opinion is irrelevant and every one is equal. It’s like a series of Ned Kelly paintings, the eyes looking out from the desert a thought projected through the characters, through the observatory, fractures like light through language, save draft in which floats life

sense of place and uniqueness of time then someone says soul

raft the truth is indri
hear that existence it
self is a miracle we
rejoice in it

On becoming gloriously irrelevant again.

December 13, 2009 at 12:07 pm | Posted in writing | 15 Comments
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There is some discussion about acceptance and trust going on around the bar but he really doesn’t care. Happily ensconced in some corner watching the endless parade dressed in fashionable isolation and exile to match their partners who grow fruit in village plots to offset their footprint. Unscrupulous is a word that makes him grin, holding the empty glass and wondering where she has gone.

There is laughter near the pool and a man in an immaculate goatee bustles past carrying drinks for three. He is thinking about the poem he started in the morning. He was terrible at writing to prompts or for commission, it had been the bane of his career. Another word that always made him snort in a kind of muffled chuckle, career. It’s not like he hadn’t a few of those, minor irritations, generally speaking.

You’re all mad, and wonders if he is supposed to go the bar himself or if someone at some stage might stop and offer to do it for him. Walking all that way across the room, through the glitter and gossip, he was afraid his mere presence would alert them to their ridiculous vanity. He catches a glimpse of her through the open balcony doors, charming. “Long since forgot the distinction between verbs and nouns,” he hears her say and laugh in that way that leads their gaze downward.

Sunday, I should be at home typing, he thinks. “It’s time,” says some young whippersnapper in a suit chosen for him by his stylist and takes his arm, leads him to the side of the stage. The introductions are being made and he momentarily regrets finding neither time nor inclination to make some notes or think about what to say.

A scattering of applause, jangle of jewellery, he almost stumbles up the step seeing several colleagues he has deeply offended on numerous occasions. The only reason they could be there is some sense of obligation which makes him smile. The same was true for him.

“Thankyou, I have absolutely no idea why you would present with me with this esteemed award. I am deeply grateful, it has long been a fantasy of mine to receive this kind of attention and acclamation, the respect of my peers and so forth. It is a great relief to me, in a way and reaffirms my faith in the power of taoist acceptance…

The bed is comfortable and she is taking off her jewellery. Sorry, he says, couldn’t help myself. That’s okay, they’ve come to expect it and turns. Tom said you look very nice in your new suit, very performative and sits on the side of the bed.  Did you finish your poem?

I got as far as ‘I hate New York’ he says and slides his arm around her.

blues antihaiku

December 12, 2009 at 7:14 am | Posted in poetry, writing | 21 Comments
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collaborative
seeking the corroborative narrative
“it darkles all this our funnominal world” James Joyce

The news from the north is that every snowflake is a unique perfection. One day, I am going to roll around in a huge field of them and get very cold and wet and run for the wooden box full of steam. I hope to see you there, bewildered, amazed, glowing.

The great enemy of art is complacency. And the great enemy of language, poetry.

(Best leave that comma there, Squires. The Editor is unhappy. She thinks that poetry is made of language. She does not realise that every snowflake is a unique perfection as is every mote of dust which irritates the eye.)

“It’s only a matter of time before humans claim to have taught the birds to fly
and that they no longer grieve having disinvented breathing.”

on the souls of my Derrida shoes
not quite yet worn through

gone soft a jewish marching
song an antihaiku blues

James Joyce meets Banjo

December 10, 2009 at 7:20 pm | Posted in poetry | 9 Comments
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oh no not a noth er James Joyce contortion
tiggers got a new car poem
unrearviewable
by which i mean unread a bubble
quick,  just the badge and
gone,  V8 Valiant
ex -SA Police Pursuit vehicle
es caped

this particular
Ascot Ladies Poetry Society.

Australian sentences #who’s counting

December 7, 2009 at 6:46 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 20 Comments
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If I want to I shall write a life-times worth of poems about dogs and love, frogs and fish and how amazingly beautiful my wife is. In Australian pubs we used to turn the empty glass upside down and slam it on the bar. In the bad old days, that was, now of course we politely request a quick phone call to our lawyer.

It’s a hard life being famous and poor, I tell ya. You don’t want that, son. Anonymity is of course a prerequisite for the artist since only the most vain would assume that they know me from these words, no matter how many they have read. You alone have escaped the hearsay, gossip and Chinese whispers.

Endless permutations of joy, who else would write such a thing but a mad man in love. I don’t care if it is a cliche. Nor about the little frenchified mark which allows one to run out the vowel whilst stroking one’s outrageous moustachios my darling. Where are you?


(this piece has been podcast here, with all the linked poems)

stray dogs fear storms

December 5, 2009 at 5:07 pm | Posted in australian poetry, poetry, writing | 9 Comments
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again cirrus seen tumbling from
below through cracks in which
the day explodes and scares
the dog crawls
down between my feet while
typing bad boy tattoos for Amber
in the rhythm
of the rain on the summer roof
arguing with Alessander
now no longer free to dance
in a Borges anti-tale

get out ya coward kicks
a belly rumbling bass
Mr Ponderous
sulks doorward
til an early dawn asleep at last around
some foundling made of stranger
stuff and dreams
of being Banjo’s star
in the film of A Dog’s Mistake

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