Come celebrate the launch/arrival/release of In Hand, Amanda Joy's book of poetry. 7:30pm, December 17th at The Fringe Gallery, 94 Bawdan street, Willagee.
To be launched by Dr Andrew Burke, with readings from ze book by the dapper & strange, Black Rider himself, Jeremy Balius and the sky snapping, word mistress of Recoil, Coral Carter and music by the wildly delicious Kissin' Cousins! Bring your dancing slippers... and a poem to share!
Some blurbs ..s.... s
Amanda Joy's In Hand is a sustained love letter, a farewell signature in a handwritten flourish. It is a celebration of the body, of loss and acceptance, family, water and landscape. These poems work their spells in language cast under pressure into a sublime, lyrical whole. ~Anthony Lawrence
The poetry of Amanda Joy stretches out to touch the reader both physically and spiritually. Her words penetrate to the heart and soul of relationships, opening to the naked eye not only those we have with lovers, friends and strangers, but that which we have with the natural world that surrounds us. Then deeper still, to the relationship between our own thoughts, needs and desires. In Hand has a devotional quality. Each poem an experience, to be carried with us and contemplated throughout the day; each poem a flower of mystery, whose petals await their revelatory blossoming. ~Ray Sapienza, Moongaze Publishing, editor of Fragile Arts Press, author of Tumbled Streams
‘In Hand’, by Australian writer Amanda Joy, offers much in a diverse selection of poems. These are poems of love, desire, longing and language as experienced in these and other states. The common trope these days of the body as language is nevertheless used in many vivid and quite extraordinary poems. Any reader who engages with Joy's poems will find many such subtle constructions, courage to confront the real, or the mysterious, and the general adventure of life and language. Knowledge and sometimes some ‘difficulty’ in this writing, thus enhances a life lived - but a life revealed in subtle ideas, and vivid images and sharp details, and as language, lived intensely. ~Richard Taylor, Conversations With a Stone
Amanda Joy's writing conveys perfect fragility as she tells of a world where beauty is temporary and to be held reverently for the moment it exists ~ Victoria Fotios, Sunday Morning Spiders
It is as though my heart grew arms and legs and was swaddled by a blue blanket some winged angel plucking you from your cloud placing you in my arms
I’m still surprised that you spilt from my thighs and how your father had the sense to mop the floor so the cat doesn’t drink it he explained as the last tear trickled down my toes before stirrups and epidurals missed their spot
I grew into pain that day
It is time I pulled you into a poem but no matter how I try to wrap my alphabet around your aaaaahs your eeeees your gentle coooos nothing expresses love as you do
I know the science take one sperm and one egg and kazamm! the big bang! a universe begins! But there is no equation no explanation of enzymes or stars or cells dividing that can capture all of you
There is no me and you I cannot see where I end and you begin in my belly on my belly
You have just come from speaking with angels by the time you can tell us your banter the meanings will have gone
I used to think that the universe could best express itself in words until you came along my baby blue my son
So Much Poetry Pass’s U By *********************************************************** Their Waz Faece’z at the Bus Stop this Morning. Fuck it Stank!!!!!!!!!!!!!! & Damn – I Had to Thieve a Glance – Their Waz nothing in it.
So Much Poetry Pass’s Us By *********************************************************** On the Way – Stroll Mode. A Willy float’z Down, Like a “Walkin the Dog”, Yo Yo – Flit’z & Sputter’z, (2 Catch a Bug) Full on Clown’z Thoze Bird’z. Noticed he Had a Brown, Feathered, Dizfigurement. (In A Wing) Thought it Twaz Fucked Up – But, They’z a Freak A Nature – Juzt Like Me?
So Much Poetry Pass’s EM By *********************************************************** So, I’m Down In the Storm Drain – (It poss’s as A Cackling Creek, from Winter Rain’z) Clear’n out the Can’z & Bottle’z. The Daily Migration, of 4 x 4’z Meander By – (It’z Saturday) There’z that Well Drezzed Derelict, Down in the Gutter A’Gen.
So Much Poetry Pass’s We By *********************************************************** There’z A Lady, the Other Day. (Croatian, European dissent?) Juzt take’z the Pull Tab’z. & Dizpozez With the Rest of the Can? So Much Energy Expended – 4 What? Dizabled & Grief Mutilated, Individual’s in far Flung Kingdom’z. Surely if We Invested Here, in Viable Humane Being’z. Were in a Better Pozition to Spread a virus, Of the Humanitarian Variety – Global of the Warming – Fuzzy Nature. But What The FUCK Would I Know?
So Much Poetry Pass’s
******** ******** ******** ~Neil J Pattinson
43 21 life of a working class guru has just begun
not easy to become guru’d how many hours does a guru work? 5 guru hours = a 40 hour week but does a guru get 8 hours sleep? what wheat does a guru eat?
so go find yourself a guru its not cryptic code cuz hey, now you can google your guru or go straight to www.guru.com or wait for that guru to materialize don’t be surprised cuz a guru always comes in disguise
there it goes down 5th avenue simon wow, check that smile that ain’t no average smile that’s the smile of a real living, loving guru free and on the loose
a london guru a new york guru an LA guru PR guru ad guru media guru finance guru guru at the Chateau cuz a guru ain’t restricted to a himalayan cave the guru has broken free from weird freaky sheets it’s armani suits with a perfect guru fit prada shoes bvlgari jewels
no lama guru no ghandi guru no maharishi guru no hendrix guru no lennon guru no marley guru no dead gurus only living, loving gurus
no longer do gurus tell to the time from the sun it’s rolex and every guru has one
number plate is simple it’s GURU#1
at the airport you got club lounge exec lounge and of course the guru lounge a place where gurus can connect and subscribe to guru weekly
some fly coach some fly first class i fly the only way i know that’s guru class
and catch it tonight on CNN as Anderson Cooper investigates the sweet life of the guru and asks the question "is there a hidden guru lying dormant, dormant within you?"
is there a guru ready to jump out create meditate speculate negotiate communicate
tonight all will be answered as Anderson investigates in a two hour special not to be missed you me and the mysteries of the contemporary guru
and now also available on youtube so find that tag tag goo tag goo goo tag goo goo goo tag goo goo goo goo goo tag goo goo tag goo
cuz if there’s a guru online it just could be a true living, loving guru who sees your designs blueprints scripts mega sounds perfect comic timing and he’s ready to meet offline out on main street ready to be your very own living, loving guru and make it happen
or get ready to download a guru and stick in on your AMEX stick it on your pod yes, it’s steve jobs the one and only living iGuru iGuru iGuru
Something nagging at me, Something about the person I intended to be, Something about not being quite up to scratch, Something about having behaved at times Like a bit of a bastard, Just can’t put my finger on it, Think I may have done the wrong thing Over and over and over without meaning to
I’m not a bad person, I was trying to be Bohemian, Trying to live up to some idea of what a poet Is supposed to be like, The Bacchanalian lifestyle choice Of an ancient generation
I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, Wasn’t trying to be cruel though That may be how it came across, I am not trying to be Nick Cave anymore, I was never trying to be Charles Bukowski, I am trying only to see some way through the fog
Some days speech is a practical impossibility, I want to explain my position, I want to have a position to explain, Yet I resort as always to trivialities
If you want me to explain why I’m So bothered by Tom Cruise, Why movies with monkeys Make so much sense as a political training ground, Or which member of Motley Crue was the blonde one, I can, it was Vince Neil, but that’s irrelevant
The point is in what kind of person you are, What kind of artist you aspire to be, How you live, why you live, What you leave behind And whether anyone forgives you in the end, The point is understanding why you are the way you are, Being willing to change, to be less of a shit
The point is that being a good person And being a great artist Are not mutually exclusive, You can be both or one or the other, Most days I wake up feeling like neither, But which would you choose, If you had to choose between?
so anyway next time yr standing in line at the shops 70 days into a somatic low grade kick in the balls with a depression darker than a northern winter all fucked up on alcohol debt & loneliness & the teenage girl doing check out enquires after yr health & well- being it's probably best to smile all polite & say not bad, thanks not too bad then pay up & bag up & move for the exit cos you've both got some living to do
I don’t know how many names I have had
But today I am an African Sinbad
Who came to Gondwanaland
To teach, how you’ll be able
To make an elephant disappear in front of a thousand people.
If want to enter a magic moment
-close your eyes, close your eyes
-Hold your hands near your heart,
-take a deep breath
-Turn in your mind a new page
-imagine there is an elephant on this stage
-Let your imagination
fly to a fantastic scene from heaven
What a lucky number! 7!
It can make an elephant disappear
In front of two thousand eyes in just a minute like a dust of sand!
Make a fist with your right hand
Put your thumb like a trumpet
You’re the soloist in a large band
The elephant you imagined is right now under your nose stand
Blow three times 1,2,3!!
Be proud be glad
The elephant begins to fly!
Quickly! Open your eyes before it disappears like a dust of sand
Watch it! Oooppsss!!
The elephant has gone!!
Don’t feel sad! Really you’ve done well, not bad
Actually this lesson is not about an African Sinbad
Or about traditional magicians
It’s about the difference between two Politicians
The first liar makes us totally disagree with him
And the other we totally believe in him
When his hat runs out of rabbits
He blows our dreams away
like my imagined elephant
From now on open your eyes
And realise there is no trick or surprise
Except the one the huge crowd supplies.
Transcreated by Vivienne Glance and Afeif Ismail
Forced to flee from their heartland
not fearing death
their alien souls shrivel
they are returning
not for the weight of nostalgia
to be buried in their homeland.
On the Lido, small black Romans eat the fruits of the sea, Spiked anemone, mussel eye and whorled sea snail. Still dripping salt water held between fingers, They are gulped down as a groper, Blind with huge dull eyes, mumbles weed on rocks, Till sated, they belch and flop away In a dribble of towels and flapping thongs.
But in Ostia the small brown Romans Dived deep into the element, With the alertness of a gull sighting flake of fish. Water held as their port in the hands of the sea, Thus cradled and rocked, they watched The sad dying of dolphins in the net Or the squids cast on the mosaics. No wonder they were brothers to the sea, And saw the huge marriage feast of Neptune Where nymphs and horses and gods trailed tails, Sexual, rhythmic and pulsing through water, Their proudest stance Was prone or diving down Into the rapture of the deep Where in bronzed love, these water gods Laughed ripples of minnows from their mouths
All over the world poets are going up in flames
little piles of ashes
in the shape of mountains
it seems we do not notice
so much else is ablaze
but the darkness
is growing and
it is not our eyes
who will be here
to help us see?
to be the mole of the wind
reminding us of death’s bright
where the stars used to be
from under the glare of so many
busy street lamps