bouquet #3

May 12, 2010 at 3:15 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 11 Comments
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Those who say that flowers have no sound have never heard the generousity of tulips in your smile nor watched the synchronicitous flight of gulls like white orchids at the whisper of your touch. They have not been released into the world of sunflower splendour or tiny blue delphinium delight nor set the direction of their dreams by the scent of apple blossom on a chilly night. They doubt the giggle of gardenias when I demonstrate my geranium brain again and are blind to that outrage of yellow hyacinth in the corner of your eye that warns of lightning strikes. I thought of them again this morning when I heard you laugh circus pink camellias into an azure sky and I hope that if they are reading this they experience now as I did then a truly gypsophila anticipation.

bouquet #2

May 11, 2010 at 2:40 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 9 Comments
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now, in these wider cleaner rooms
with my mind released
from the bounds of daytime madness
with space
i can cling less desperately to
the gentle art of happy endings

from this soil
there is a grief grown
into the fabric of being
and it too is a flower
waxen yellow

perhaps that is courage at its center
and loneliness its pollen round which
gleeful bees gather voracious like
anonymous commuters at a car accident

but, in this act of fantasy, the heart
or this act of fantasy, belief
or this act of imagination, joy
a flower too is grown
the fabric of breath

Bouquet #1

May 10, 2010 at 2:54 pm | Posted in poetry, writing | 8 Comments
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I have breakfast eggs and
daisy tunes accordian style
have forgotten my intention
toes have a certain sureness though,

Comfortableness I invented
wrapped in who with ribbons
made of clouds and balconies
hips will twist to questions though,

Perpetual is variegated eternity
an heraldic tea cup filled
with brims and symphonies
shoulders warm with newness though,

April frangipani curl, a tantrum drum
parsimony seeds in poppy cake
news reports of tonal change,
this tray is getting weighty though
and so,

The Speed Poets Gig

May 6, 2010 at 6:53 am | Posted in performance, poetry, video blog, writing | 20 Comments
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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.

Anzac Day 2010

April 25, 2010 at 6:01 am | Posted in writing | 10 Comments
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Corporeal Squires! Take this latest report to the troops and broadcast the response!
Yes sir! May I read it first?
Of course not, it is highly classified. But General Costello will be here soon and he wants it done.
Yes Sir!  Can’t he do it himself? I’m a bit busy getting shot at.
Squires to the troops:
Good news people. The working class male has been examined and he is not necessarily evil. (General hurrahs)


The working class male, cannon fodder, always has been, he says, at the docks she was wearing, as the zzip takes off the top of his head. Milne Bay, 25 August 1942.


Two old blokes in the smoking section discussing salary caps and the football. Two beautiful young European tourists walk by. Just for a moment, the conversation stops, eyes flicker. It is an instinct and it is enticed. Their wives return. He  kisses her on the cheek and the other, older, a veteran, his hand moves slightly, brushes hers.

mostly blue and some yellow

April 21, 2010 at 6:47 am | Posted in poetry, writing | 18 Comments
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(For a larger, much easier to read version, click on the image above.)

Samba Libretto (excerpt #1)

April 15, 2010 at 6:58 pm | Posted in samba libretto, verse play, writing | 10 Comments
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Setting – One uncomfortable wooden chair, paint peeling.

Enter, stumbling as though pushed onto the stage – One uncomfortable wooden poet, skin peeling. Mid-forties, wearing last night’s tuxedo and a bemused grin, trailed by his bodyguards and his therapist. He looks back for a moment. Looks down at his hand, surprised to see flowers as he was expecting scissors dripping blood.

Poet(Grumpily as though at the end of the argument with the person who pushed him onto the stage) Whoops, sorry. Now where was I? That’s right, that creation and destruction are coins of two different sides and so forth. My new verse play is going well. I have already hidden the story in the first few lines. It is a classic symmetrical butterfly on the side of a Japanese vase. So instead of listening to me rambling on, here is a scene from it. (He sits on the chair.)

(Louise enters with an easel containing a still life of flowers. She starts to paint. Leonard rushes in naked and dripping wet and grabs her in a huge hug.)

Leonard – Louise! I have to tell you. Joseph Heller was a Jew!

Louise – Yes, Leonard. (Disentangling herself from the hug.) Please put some clothes on. If you keep doing that, I shall have to put one of those newfangled locks on the bathroom door that only lets you out here when you are fully clothed.

Leonard – Hmmm, no you won’t.

Louise – Yes I will, your polymorpheus perversity is becoming excessively tiresome and look what you have done to my painting.

Leonard – Oh, it is as beautiful as your poetry, which one is you?

The Poet(Jumping up) Perfect, perfect. (Rushes toward the actors before being restrained by his bodyguards.)

(end scene)

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