Reading ‘ngarla songs’, amidst a lot of prose submissions. I love receiving books in the mail. Still waiting for ‘autobiography of red’ – I have been informed that everyone is impressed by this book, yeah really, everyone who reads it. we shall see.
I’m enjoying surfing the poetries of other countries. I guess if we do live in an age that has its postmodernness, its avants, it could be this ease with which I can participate in an international discourse. (cordite next issue on ‘generation of zeroes’? it has been making me think) I posted some poetry on the café café blog (can’t link it, for some reason I am using blogger for word…) & it was a response to a challenge. Needed to write a piece using a certain set of phrases / words. There were curious Americanisms in them too eg. nickels, zozzled, joe brooks?
But hell the poem I made seems quite lovely. Kinsella said once he thinks poetry is all about mathematics. Maybe.
But then I read kinsella again on the weekend – an excerpt from his autobiography about being wasted all the time, & stuff. How many ppl must go through drugs & the like to resurface? I guess I tire of the story more when it is a rock musician, &, usually the musician loses all his / her creative force then.
Interesting the things that come up when you select ppls work for publication. I probably don’t want to talk about lots of them, suffice to say there are lots of souls out there writing that could do with some pointed advice. Poetry is done though, with some quite good material. Ploughing through prose at the moment & I also have some tips for those in that area.
The bush is not symbolic or meaningful in its own right.
Phonetic speech is hard to write, & looks bloody awkward most of the time. yer get that moit?
The semi-colon will not make your writing appear literary unless you know how to use it (funnily enough the opposite of what I say at tutoring eg. ‘attempt the semi-colon no matter what, also some complex words; there lie the marks for hsc english…blah blah blah’)
Hey I had so many page loads yesterday. Thanks loyal readers. You’re not all my sister are you?
signed my name times new roman on your plaster cast a kitten
drawn cute & japanese next to it a symbol that makes you giggle
water dribbles 40 degrees lip-to-cheek. after inflating surgical gloves
each finger becomes a mock-torpedo breaching your personal space
a doctor says don’t take any wooden nickels surely chiming in her
pockets (nurses uniforms have pockets too) i like the cut of her jib
& with my mind in the gutter you slay me with a look your silence
loud see she has hair of the dog her dog silky & loyal if ever i have to
go see a man about a dog he will be proverbial & without doubt this
doctor’s ex-husband. conversation lags the american talk small but
quaint only the master of innuendo his bed in the next alcove helps
a cackling half-reference to nookie or fcuk shirts barely heard still
the ironic potential solid as iron. one’s shoelaces will unweave
at the worst & best of times i think bending down all zozzled
yet particularly aware of the time. over farewells i spy
a nicely dotted j one simple character legible amidst the
doctor’s signature not jane not jess not jill not jeremy or joe…
brooks of ether & opium seem to babble but in a mean way
as i shoot down the hallway.
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caught the dollar bus at the side of the road
not a preregistered stop so i’m made of gravel & drizzle
cast eyes & general disorder must seem a simple summation
the same time i am reminded of a book i once knew almost
a good friend she investigated language stalking experience & sure
i have neglected her of late i know there have been those emails
wanting to explore something i suspect something
between us when i get off the bus new work has progressed
also on a complex of prime retail space they have blown
the whole fucking inside out of it & an idling crane is eyeing me off
next to this men at lunch looking & looking & looking
three perfect reasons for not caring tendentious themselves
a driver i’ve taken to giving the time of day says both see you
& goodbye the disorganised state of a city amplifying certain things
all this as nothing not even a linear progression of time can make a dent
i’m sorting the socks i’m showering in the hopeless plasticity of wet soap
seems we are all sorting experiences letting language do her worst
with the centre but not me too clever for all that
years to go & i’ll renew that acquaintance & learn a thing
or two shes clever a wily creature she doesn’t mind being personified
as something catlike or even vixenish more’s the bonus
country fed house
offers car protection
went on a drive to albury the other day & saw nothing much at all, & i often expect to see something of interest, tomorrow i will probably stay around the house where much of interest is sure to present itself
mark o’flynn launches grassdogs on thursday 13th July / i might go for the social event, though i haven’t read the book, so he will have to sell it to me by reading the right passages…
also on the grapevine i hear roger mcdonald will be around promoting the ballad of desmond kale on the 26th / haven’t read this either though I have read blurbs which seem to proclaim it this most wondrous thing under the sun…we shall see…
quite a novel couple of weeks… ah yes…
a tentative thesis for something i’m writing (it is always helpful to be writing many things concurrently) goes like: pushing some sort of boundary is a good thing? someone out there (that i shall not name) has a phd qualification, got it by writing a big group of poems & this essay to go with it all. now the problem i’m having reading it is that the essay discusses impetus / influence lots & lots. the philosophies & theories that may be there in the poems are divulged at great length. to me this is not the point though slightly interesting. i want to know what you are doing. something more than 2 pages devoted to the fact that poetry sort of comes to you, it is spurred by thought thought & many other things. what is that? to give one example or two of my own fledgling exegetical posturings – i will be outlining small experiments i made with syntactical arrangement (cut & paste enabled) i think the poem ‘couch’ is elsewhere on this site & has been further modified & i think will make the final collection. also thesaurus based diction endeavours / internet led line generation / fucking around with the little-used traditional forms…this is the stuff i think is important, but more than that, is informing some sort of development in my writing, creating some new heuristic possibilities 4 when i do sit down & write in the ‘oh that’s a good idea / that’s a cool line’ way. but what i’m writing here has this angry edge & i am not so, rather, happy that what i think i am doing is a kind of valid research. very personal & subjective research no doubt, but anyway
should i remember i will jump online soon & post the results of my thesaurus/diction play. started with a sonnet i wrote about the bermuda triangle & am loving the fact that while diction has moved the voice (every single word is altered) it has also led me to this piece with subject matter something else entirely. i like this / it is like a boy’s annual circa 1958 taking me on some journey into deep dark & savage africa…
up on a ladder above ppl who iron
to keep occupied dust & residue of
a thousand items of clothing swirls
touching nasal passages with death
this is all nice as pie if only pie were
provided at morning tea & it stretches
into 1/2 hours & hours the motivation
hard to sustain getting off a chair like
climbing everest family heirlooms all
dotting the foothills sherpas nonplussed
have seen it all before we are even familiar
with the beligerent ‘what i am i supposed
to fucking do now?’ call that comes ever so
periodically from the next room & content
that the counsellor knows what she is doing
& i know what i am doing at the summit just
removing the death-grime rivulets & relaxing
in the opaque sparkle
why do you think one enters poetry into certain realms
i have a feeling when i worked to write a long piece it was not worth such effort / & shame that i sent it to the Ulrick prize
now, revisionist attitude – the poem seems less than good to me, even down to the dh lawrence quote tacked on the front.
idea: 2 ppl travel off to the centre of aus, with the hope of seeing one of those big wets, you know, if yr from here you might have seen a documentary in school eg. “once every ten years the aus desert comes alive…”
this part i still like but then im thinking a poem about sitting in geography class watching the video on betamax stifled with heat & the innuendo of girls uniforms might have been better. at least, why the fuck write a 150 line poem? hmmm
i used pitjanjara as a descriptor & worried about it but this is quite interesting, the permission per se for me to delve into aboriginal terminology, or even aboriginal character…
anyone ever been to hopetown? i assume i have, but i dont know. the nullabor is really straight.