Tuesday, December 6, 2016

Kristen de Kline - #38: Roses 2

it isn't all it's cracked up to be
     on the outside
American Gothic neighbours from the rear unit
drip in acrylic
steal your roses
chase you with pitchforks
crush crimsony petals
beneath Puritan heels
another bloody stone in your shoe
thorn in your side 

they promised 
sun shining rain falling
foreign port twin bed with a stranger
no warm arms all around you
man with a lazy eye
he speaks not a sentence to you 
share lines over 50s formica: grey, flecked 
when he thinks you're not looking 
he shaves off more for himself
lazy eye man doesn't like the way you toss your hair laugh 
     flirt with the bar-man
throws a half glass of Oyster Bay in your face
calls you a skanky whore 
Sav Blanc tear drops 
     run, rock'n'roll 
decimate your mascara
raccoon eyes 

it should have ended there
'he used to send me roses, I wish he would again ...'
the poet says he'd be standing patiently in the rain
holding the roses 
but things bottles moods
thrash around
someone tosses a Bitburger bottle at a lounge room window
glass shatters in triangular splinters
like toffee in a movie set

you tell me that roses grow inside 
morning comes around goes around
you take the dust of a long, sleepless night
light a thin green candle light another cigarette
learn to forget let me sleep all night
tarnish the golden rule

5.12.16 (#339) Alive until this Myron Lysenko

made out of lust
he grew into a mistake
bed wet until puberty
an integral part of a dysfunctional family
tried not to be stupid
teachers not fooled
kept finding his lost temper
made friends and loved them
had jobs but didn’t work at them
fell in love with a fluffy jumper
married without procreation
a writer who wasn’t writing
alcohol and drugs failed to improve his mind
serial monogamist
ignored family
played sport until fat
produced two children
wrote several neglected books
tried to be caring
moved to the country to become a tree
alive until this line

Photo: Myron Lysenko

Monday, December 5, 2016

Sarah St Vincent Welch #339 Wattlebird

Honeyeater beak
Wattlebird on Wattle St
city grey, soft, fleet

Dylan Jones #58 Apple Leaf

Susan Hawthorne #343 odd dreams (with a nodd to Sara Dowse)

DP 343 odd dreams with a nod to Sara Dowse

sometimes you wake
with a revised family history
my dream tells me that
my grandmother long dead
hit by a tram in St Kilda
had not died but instead
moved to London where
she married a CND activist

I mull over the logistics
of this    in 1958 there were
no electronic passports no
fingerprinting at the border
a good fake passport
could get you through

and my mother's grief?
in the dream she knew
but back then the truth
was that she would never
see her again too far away
to travel too costly to make
those expensive trunk calls

and the politics? it's this
that makes me doubt
the dream most while
progressive in matters
concerning women
it's unlikely she would
leave her daughter for
such an uncertain future

the dream's genesis?
all these stories of
grandmothers searching
for grandchildren born
in captivity kidnapped
by military families
I too am searching for
the lost grandmother
the one who would
have understood

my mother is dead
so I can't ask her I have
to believe the waking
story which itself is
almost as incredible
as fiction or odd dreams

Michele Morgan #331 ciméara

chimerical form
cheats the everyday

http://www.govettbrewster.com/len-lye/ Len Lye, at the Govett-Brewster Gallery

Kerri Shying R - # 147 Harden girl.

Harden girl.

Monitor the temperature
 in stored hay    for
 days are kept    within
those bales
short and long
bundled in
the string of soft slim

 summer women   hungry
tense-legged men
following  what hopes 
winter warmth
 fodder  meant to be
 doled out

never this   conflagration

wild and high  always  
 a seven-brigade  fire
his  girl

her father turned
decked another    who
went down       a bag of
sand     stitches torn     no matter
what hand  the maker     still heat  

can split
across the seams  
shouting   out    the tendency
to blaze   to leap
to feed

Rob Schackne #185 - Untitled

Famous for a poem
written when he was so drunk
he doesn’t like now
its edges curled
trodden wet leaves
he takes his walk with umbrella
in ten minutes sees the marvelous
it reminds him of a prayer
a great love, a missed flight
an arrow, a bed, a blister
he wishes he wasn't famous
the film is screened
again and again and again
several people watching
one soul claps

Richard Tipping - Everlasting Stone #22 - Let Go

Let Go 1980   Granite, engraved text, goldleaf. Dimensions 10 x 32 x 7.3 cm
Possibly included in the exhibition Word Works 2 at Powell Street Gallery in Melbourne, 1980. Included in the exhibition Hear the Art at the Eagle Gallery, London, in 1997, and returned to Australia in 2010. Thirty years plus. Even a small granite word work like this weighs about 4.5 kg. Giving weight to words.
At the point of letting go you fall through the O as a hole in space. 
The dictum to 'let go' retains its potency in the Buddhist sense of releasing ourselves from attachments. Dharma as cosmic law and order, and as the teachings of the Buddha. The three Jewels: "I take refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma, the Sangha" ... while wishing that less people needed monotheism.
Personally, I'm very attached to these 'everlasting stones' and have no intention to 'let go' whatsoever: it is life which will let go of me some day before long). 

Let Go   1997    Wood, brass hinge, engraved text, goldleaf. 
Dimensions: 9 x 24 x 4 cm (closed); 9 x 48 x 2 cm (open)
Declared as an edition of 21 but only about a dozen made. 
Shown in the exhibitions Heart the Art at the Eagle Gallery, London, in 1997; and Versions at Ubu Gallery, New York, in 1998-99. I have two left. One is hiding inside an artwork at the Art Gallery of New South Wales (sssshh!); and two are in my studio. Like a lot of editions, I have no idea where most went.

Rob Schackne #184 - Punchy Penado #5


Ever feel like
they squandered
your education

he sees sprayed
on the wall that
he’s pissed on
it’s a still night
two cats emerge
follow him home
he gets them on
his wavelength
and they glide away


Raining hard
rooftop nighttime
he always says
he sleeps better
but actually
bathed in sweat
with a gashed brow
wants to do him harm
in search of meadows
with wild flowers
downpour of noise
this storm is fixed

Robert Verdon, #378, special bodies

(inspired by Susan Hawthorne’s 'Weapon of War’.)

war is the state against babies
a shriek down the barrel of
an elegant cor anglais, perhaps
red inkblots in snow or dust
crying up, crying up, in the veiled world
whereon everyone makes the
supreme sacrifice in time
though it may not always be so:
I am the Resurrection and the Life
no longer the words of a sad lunatic

the state in its majestic
monopoly of violence
holds off civil war
the classy war
of who holds which
end of the stick
the most despised of her class
executed for a miscarriage
the living touchstone cast,
lynched from a dying tree

they dig a grave for each birth
these would-be angels
in their majestic monopoly of silence
special bodies holding off
with the old night terrors
of disintegration
the growing up of our labour
of our special bodies
which know the sad music
of immortality

Mikaela Castledine #339 Christmas has got away from me

Christmas has got away from me
she says
and don't I know it
fast it races on crooked legs
nimble for one so unwieldy
dodging and diving

Refuse to try to outrun
in such an undignified lather
it will wait eventually
lolling pleased with itself
against a sunny wall

Pretend not to notice
walk on by
twitch your fingers close by your thigh
see if it follows

Carol Archer - Drawing Breath #5

Kit Kelen #340 - if


if I'd worked with my hands
by now they'd be bent
they'd be the shape of something made
hoe's handle, a hammer

or in the garden
I would be that carrot curled
so the shop wouldn't take it
the more delicious, more precious for that

if I'd worked with my head
I would be a big number
or I could never agree with myself

as it is
you can see
how I have
come to resemble
a poem
sad surprise

all this legislation
I have yet to pass
and the clock running
and running away
and the clock


When I Die - Day 5 - Sara Dowse

When I die I’ll miss those dreams
Every night a ticket to, what is it, my soul?
If so, what a miracle it is to have one,
A box of tricks, my own private camera obscura,
My own private eye, my very own splicer.

Biograph, one of the first ones
And so aptly named, silent mostly, with printed captions,
Though now and then an echo of a word.
A puzzle this, I could swear there’s dialogue
Among the players, some mere strangers,
Somehow spared my cutting room floor.

The other night the premier of the state
Made love to me – almost – before he slammed the door.
Seems this soul is a brave thing to have, so much more than me:
Echoes of the poem we kids read before we were taken to the movies
Holding our breaths, our shadows risen on the screen.

Magdalena Ball #21: Spring (revisited)

Spring (revisited)
                  after Edna St Vincent Millay

beauty is not enough
returning and repurposing
opening stickily

you can no longer quiet me
with the redness of leaves
I know what I know

sun on my neck
spikes of the crocus
the earth’s good smell

life is an empty cup
a flight of uncarpeted stairs

it’s not enough
to come down this hill
strewing flowers

I know what I know

Last poem in the series "Five Ways with Edna St Vincent Millay"

Béatrice Machet # 309 WAITING

# 309
The waiting part
inside us
piercing through our eyes
this dreamy density
this high pressured desire
you know how it feels
how it is

this cornucopia-like movement of aspiration
might be the more lively      the more intense part of love
for waiting is a mode    a modulation of loving  that
flashes lights
while reading a powerful statement
is revealed through

la part de nous
qui attend
perce nos yeux
cette densité rêveuse
sous haute pression ce désir
vous savez comment ça fait
comment c’est

ce mouvement cornucopial d’aspiration
peut-être le plus vif    le plus intense de l’amour
car attendre est un mode     une modulation d’aimer qui
lance des éclairs
en même temps qu’elle déchiffre une puissante déclaration
est révélé dans

Béatrice Machet # 308 JUST A WORD

# 308

Just a word he said
the unfathomable no one is able to utter
the never used the never worn out word
the very lost one  among many layers of words
at the very center of words themselves so
it’s impossible to pretend it is an isolated left
unsaid word thus
no real status for it but maybe an identity
as if such a thing could be a word’s characteristic
and where to find it if not at the core of grammar

a word
in the endless void of its non-significance yet
enjoying some kind of permanence then
a feeling of continuity thus
a way for itself to be represented

just a word he said
to express the nothing
to be said or written
from inside from this
animated inner world
where no words are needed

rien qu’un mot dit-il
l’insaisissable que personne ne peut prononcer
le jamais utilisé le jamais usé
le perdu précisément parmi des couches de mots
au centre exactement des mots eux-mêmes de telle sorte
qu’il est impossible de le prétendre isolé
non dit donc pas
de réel statut pour lui mais peut-être une identité
comme si une telle chose pouvait être la caractéristique d’un mot
et où la trouver sinon au cœur de la grammaire

qu’un mot
dans le vide infini de sa non signifiance cependant
il profite d’une forme de permanence alors
il ressent la continuité donc
un moyen pour lui d’être représenté

rien qu’un mot dit-il
pour exprimer le rien
à dire ou écrire
depuis le dedans depuis ce
monde intérieur animé
où les mots ne sont pas nécessaires