Sunday, November 28, 2010

Book Launch

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

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Coral Carter & Deanne Leber, Poetry Reading 31st October 2010

Home cure for obsession

I have tried

alcohol gluttony starvation
nicotine sugar chocolate earth tea
herbal pills sleeping waking walking
pacing laughing crying
cognitive therapy
flagellation drugs masturbation
prayer prostration meditation
writing painting screaming ashes
sackcloth self harm hypnotherapy
oxygen deprivation
begging sobbing pleading
electric shock isolation
talking listening

Dr Phil

a nice cup of tea

any suggestions?

~Coral Carter

Baby Blue – For Ezekiel

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

~Deanne Leber

Monday, November 15, 2010

Neil J Pattinson & Belowsky, Poetry Reading 26th September 2010

Yo Yo Willy

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

Guru #1

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
or wait for that guru
to materialize
don’t be surprised
cuz a guru
always comes in disguise

there it goes down 5th avenue
wow, check that smile
that ain’t no average smile
that’s the smile of a
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
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

all will be answered
as Anderson investigates
in a two hour special
not to be missed
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
mega sounds
perfect comic timing
and he’s ready to meet
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


Thursday, June 10, 2010

Steve Smart, Randall Stephens. Poetry Reading 27th June 2010 with Brown Dog Saloon

Something Wrong In Bohemia

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?

~Steve Smart

Randall Stephens' Blog here; Tales Told By An Idiot

You can hear 'partners in rhyme Brown Dog Saloon here; Brown Dog Saloon


Friday, June 4, 2010

Janet Jackson & Kevin Gillam, Poetry Reading 30th May 2010

white boys

I like white boys in black clothes
I like them

the black t-shirt sleeve-edge, white bicep
the cool nape, tide-touch
the black sock, thin sparse-haired
the Cleopatra-milk-bath hands, stark knuckles
and nails

the diffident fingerprints
he puts on me

the fierce streak of
inside him

~ Janet Jackson

Janet's blog; Proximity Poetry

Kevin's new chapbook Closer To Now is available here Picaro Press


Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Paul Harrison, Poetry Reading 25th April 2010

into the night

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










~all poems by Paul Harrison

The Last Disciple First

Afeif Ismail, Poetry Reading, 28th March 2010

Afeif & Vivienne Glance

Old Trick

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
-count 9,8,7
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
In Gondwanaland
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
demanding life.
their alien souls shrivel
they are returning
not for the weight of nostalgia
to be buried in their homeland.

Afeif’s Blog

Monday, March 1, 2010

Peter Jeffery, Poetry Reading 28th February 2010

Ostia Antica/3
by Peter Jeffery

We are half cousins to the fish

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

WA Poets Inc

Nicolette Stasko, Poetry Reading, 28th February 2010

by Nicolette Stasko

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
their going
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
pointing out
where the stars used to be
from under the glare of so many
busy street lamps

Glass Cathedrals

Jeremy Balius, Poetry Reading 28th February 2010

I don’t hurry
By Jeremy Balius

Way out past the ship masts
that look like fakirs’ beds

of needles in the harbour,

ship lights blink like Christmas lights
on the gutter of the sea.

Whoever hung those lights did a shitty job.

I would not be proud of my house
if my Christmas lights looked like that.

If we tried to swim out there, I’d say
There they go who know; they might not
have a dollar to their names,
but they sure got a lot of sense.

And everybody’d chuckle.

Let’s swim out into the night with
one stroke for the lonely-hearted,
one stroke for the left-behinds.

I’ll keep watch
to see if we make headway,
occasionally shout directions,
but my goodness, will they listen,
those fools?

Sweep me up wind and carry me within earshot.

I don’t hurry for heaven.
So what? I don’t hurry.

*first published on a Red Leaves / 紅葉 bookmark;

Black Rider Press