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: fiction, writing
Soraya’s new toy came in a lovely package. There really are no other words to describe it, nor are any necessary. I wanted to write something that I had never written before, new adventures as it were, but only those two sentences came to me before I was rudely interrupted by a brusque knocking at the door. It was the debt collectors. They had come for the previous resident but one of them recognized me from the club. They saw the open bottle of whiskey on the table and it turned into a bit of a session.
Half way through and quite pissed, I told them of my plan to write pornography but from a female perspective as a kind of challenge and see if I could get away with it. One of them wanted to back the project and the other said it was disgusting and left disgruntled. I doubt I will ever be able to look him in the face again. Still, that is the price you pay as a writer. There is always a certain risk involved or you are not doing your job properly.
The next morning I woke up on the beach, alone, and wearing my four hundred dollar Hong Kong suit, covered in sand, the occasional small crab exploring my hair. I remembered the plan and thought about Soraya, how much trouble she would get in to, and how little chance of surviving it she would have. Went back to the motel and wrote this instead.
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: performance poetry, poetry, writing
It’s a very different experience performing for an audience of people and standing around in front of a video camera waving your arms around. The former is exciting and enjoyable and unique and the latter makes me feel very silly.
I really must get back into exercising and eating fewer cakes.
Tags: podcast, poetry
I have been enjoying myself at Pool which is a project coordinated by the ABC, Australia’s national broadcaster. They have requested pieces about birds and rivers, so I thought I would podcast a couple of poems, sunonheads exit and The Scrub Turkey. You can hear them at Pool under the link above or here at my podcast site.
It was good practice for my featured performance at Speed Poets this Sunday where I will be doing twelve minutes from memory. Wish me luck!
Tags: australian poetry, performance poetry, poetry
Episode Two – Paul Squires poem “Three-legged Dog”
(it is raining gently
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,