Tags: Brisbane, poetry, writing
walking to West End from Stafford
in a cycle of recrimination and
justification a church sign plastic
‘to avoid criticism
hours later a strange misplaced nostalgia
at the sound of a Scottish Marching Band
as it escaped the shadow of the Big Wheel
with a bass drum ponder call to attention
and the rattle of steel carefully orchestrated
On the Art Gallery wall –
‘It’s between representation and the other thing,
whatever that is,
and it’s difficult to keep one’s balance.’
Ian Fairweather, 1963
the year I was born
coincidentally like the young
man’s soft nervous trilling triplets
before the march began, loosening his wrists and
thinking about the architecture of sound.
Lastly the river
a breeze not even birdsong
just the sun dancing
from the water,
a memory of stars.
Tags: Joseph Tawadros, performance, performance art, podcast, poetry
I have podcast the piece below “the gentle art of soft landings’ below this linkage.
I did it in one take with no rehearsal because I wanted to practice live work which I feel kind of fits with the idea of improvisation.
Now I will have to ask Joseph Tawadros for his permission to use the music as a background for the performance. But only if I don’t write a better one for it in the meantime.
Tags: Albrecht Durer, Henri Rousseau, Leo Sayer
Happy Birthday Albrecht Durer. They tell me you were also prone to crankiness inherent in the precision obsession being such a perceptive mathematician of perspective. We are still enjoying your mass reproduction revolution collapsing the distinction between the low art and the high culture. I would clasp my hands and pray if I still felt that was an appropriate response to soldiers advancing through the mists of time and various other ridiculous apparitions. These days, I measure lines of sight only in decibels. Approximate the distance between the letters involved in, “It’s only typing,
Sillyness, willinilliness, numbers have meaning only in context, “why is it pouring rain”, slamming his glass down on the piano, get some perspective, son, Rousseau had tiggers too and the softness in their eyes as they watch us watch her rise. I’m only typing “the 736 bus will be 14 minutes late again” and I do, remember those blue berets must be on the manifest, oh hey presto, I remember Durer he said, fancy hatted fellow, now count me in,
I looked down at the keyboard and thought one two three four, you make me feel like
Tags: writing. poetry
The man on the bus is doing a cryptic crossword.
Every now and then he gets stuck and
stares blankly out the window as though
the answer might be there.
The woman next to him is listening to music
on her i-pod. Her eyes are closed and she is
motionless. I am trying to remember a poem
without metaphor and a reason for it.
Tags: australian poetry, poetry
It is with tremendous pride that I announce the appearance of two of my poems in one of Australia’s oldest and most well-respected on-line poetry journals, Foam:e.
The two poems, “A Small Boy Holding Flowers” and “The Yellow Dress” are two of my favorites and I am glad they found a home in such a beautifully presented collection and in such excellent company. The journal also contains work by Stu Hatton, Jill Jones, Angela Gardner and Derek Motion.
Anyone with an interest in Australian contemporary poetry should pop over and spend an hour or two checking out the work of some of our best poets. (And check out my two poems too, if you care to.)
I have been away from the computer for a while and I am miles behind in my reading and commenting. I apologise for my absence. But I’m back…
Tags: poetry, The Puzzle Box, writing
sunonhead is always happy
he thinks tummyful by the riverbank
how does he do that then is distracted
by a flash of silver just beneath the surface
somewhere in the world a monk is happy
and his song carries the river forward
follows the shadow of the sparrow
as her hair cascades down mountainsides
and rivers unfurl
into the sea
there she is thinks sunonhead
and slips beneath the silken surface
ripples radiating behind him
and flattening, smoothing into
the surface of the still lake,