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




N

mean

O

ing

TH

in

ING







rothko

painted
empty
graves

~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.
Refugees



Transcreated by Vivienne Glance and Afeif Ismail


Forced to flee from their heartland
not fearing death
but
demanding life.
Year
after
year
their alien souls shrivel
they are returning
not for the weight of nostalgia
but
to be buried in their homeland.







Afeif’s Blog

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

Ashes
by Nicolette Stasko

All over the world
poets are going up in flames
leaving
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
clothes
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;

http://www.myspace.com/redleaveskoyo

Black Rider Press