My Year 2014

If it does not download try FB: https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=1594538007432529&set=vb.1413220228897642&type=2&theater

Season's Greetings to all my viewers, no matter where you are, may you have peace, joy & love in your life and a happy & safe New Year - more poetry to come in 2015!

Many thanks to google for putting this video together, geez I don't think I could have done it without them :) - sure was a great effort to find the embedded html code though.

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Video: All About that Bass: Jimmy Fallon and Meghan Trainor

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Poem of the Day: Brown Honeyeater (Listen to Poem) published in Bimblebox Birds

Writers on Bimblebox Birds

Figbird

Bimblebox Nature Refuge is under threat from massive coal mining projects (including Clive Palmer) both directly over and under the refuge plus all around it, throughout the Galilee Basin. This means that the myriad life that thrives on Bimblebox is under threat, including the birds.

Bimblebox recorded poem:  Brown Honeyeater: Lichmera indistincta
Listen to Helen Hagemann read her poem Brown Honeyeater.  Play Sound

 

Brown Honeyeater: Lichmera indistincta


A brilliant blue, rising from a bronze morning
& Brown Honeyeaters are circling the garden.

Today, they are in the olive tree in my neighbour's
yard, performing aerial songs (although it's more a short

sharp, tweep!). Before spring, I counted two regular
visitors to our horticulture of Canna lilies, Yellow

Bird-of-Paradise, Grevillea, Frangipani, now there are
four! As if in concert, they dance, plunging to & fro.

It's balletic, reminding you of Rudolf Nureyev & Dame
Margot Fonteine in Romeo & Juliet. One of the

fledglings is as graceful as Maria Kochetkova, a
Giselle fluttering her wings, thin as the veil of a tutu.

There's fussing from parents, followed by a preen on
brick wall and hedge, a bird commotion of tutelage.

The best is their closeness, high in the branches, and now
that the young are fed and sleepy, the show has stopped.

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Poem for the Day: The Fascinator

The Fascinator

I am at the Rec centre
listening to Eye of the Tiger,
the woofers and tweaks
from a broadcasting screen
of the Melbourne Cup.

I am also wearing a flowered hat
fashioned from a dewy morning. Three roses
& the absurdity of a polka dot crown
that becomes a curious millinery piece.

We are twenty five women talking above
the call of the race. Mostly, we know
nothing about horses, but do know songs
like Soda Pop, Williams' & Bublé's
jazzy tune we exercise to.

I could not predict the fortune carved into today.
I did not read the signs of Scorpio or Mercury
finished with its retrograde. How could
I know I would win a Melbourne Cup sweep,
have a great birthday surprise or win the award
for my Fascinator. Homemade. I could not.

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A Day at the Applecross Senior High School

It's always nice to have a break from your usual weekly routine, spending a day at the Applecross Senior High School. It was a great alternative and exceptional time. I spent two separate hours with Year 11 students (also separate classes) and we worked on some poetry, mainly looking at metaphor. The task was to write about their family, eg. mother, father, and possibly two siblings. I used a workshop written by Canadian poet Patrick Lane who has his own wonderful images. However, one young boy wrote a very funny line;- "my brother is a rash, and is always irritating."

Class teacher is Veronica Lake, who painstakingly every year publishes a book of poetry with prize winners from all submitted high schools. This year the first prize winner blitzed the prize with a great poem titled, Wholly in the Deep.

Copies of this anthology can be bought from me by telephoning 0404666156, or through the Applecross Senior High School, Western Australia.

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Poem for the Day: Travel Mementos © Forthcoming in Poetry d'Amour 2014

Travel Mementos

               for Lucas North (1973-2013)

Wherever we went,

I brought one home,

a mug, teaspoon or book filled

with the memories of our travels.

Of all the fridge magnets

on the door, you said.

There's too many. What do you

want them for?

To recount where we’ve been, I said

what we did and saw.

I pointed to the Del Rio pelican

in the Hawkesbury scene.

Remember the kangaroos crowding

the golf course at dusk?

From the top of a kitchen shelf

I lifted a candle, dark as a pint of ale.

And look! These four magnets

mapped our circling through the mountains,

from Ocean Beach to Patonga, 

from Saratoga to Umina.

And here‘s the riverboat at Spencer,

our last stop before a treacherous climb,

those boggy edges slipping us

to my brother's Hunter Valley farm.

Left on your desk now, a curled notebook;

sodden rain caught us camping in November.

The bright glow of your frame survives, the

day you slipped an arm around the bronzed

Solomon Wiseman. A cap angled on his rigid

head, bringing the green back into your eyes.

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Graphic of the Day: A Laugh for Writers

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Poetry Reading at the Moon Cafe

Christ Konrad and Helen Hagemann - Reading at the Moon Cafe - 13th September
Here's our Profile
http://www.perthpoetryclub.com/saturday-13th-september-christopher-konrad-and-helen-hagemann


Reading poetry this Saturday, 13th September at the Moon Cafe. It's always great to share a spot with another fine poet and that is Chris Konrad. Starts at 2pm til 4pm. Food and wine are also available in the front section of the cafe. Often the club is filled to capacity. And it's thanks to the many hands who dedicate their free time, that makes this event successful.
http://themoon.com.au/events/perth-poetry-club/

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Poem for the Day: Poetry Workshop with Tony Curtis

Poetry Workshop with Tony Curtis

He tells jokes and Irish tales, takes you into
a Dublin pub with barrels of whiskey, his words
phrasing like the soft swish of a poured pint.

When the room writes to the tasks of the day,
he slips you into the backlog of home, through
old grumbling nights with the porch light on.

His guitar is the sound of dusk under the
lemon tree, or laneway where you smoked
cigarettes made from Gum tips. He sets your

mood, as distinct as the sun is to the stars,
even the planets are aligning themselves
with your laughter, throbbing into the room.

He's better than that Tony Curtis in Some Like 
it Hot. Hilarity like a gunshot waking you up,
as if poetry writing could lift you from your

heavy bootstraps in winter, take you to the park
like a kid on the roundabout, a bag full of chocolate
drops going round and around. Then like a breeze,

he lets loose without discretion, letting sticky,
gooey wrappers fall to the ground, so that your
swallows of marshmallow and cocoa feel like

sex, chewy nougat like intercourse, strawberries
rolling about like tongue seduction. In the end, he 
has you where he wants you  - writing poetry.

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Poem for the Day: Creature Comforts

Creature Comforts

There are several rooms in the house,
with pet beds in geometric shapes.
Some have man-made fibres, others wool.
One has a compartment the animal
can travel through. With no expense spared,
it's a courting to give the cat ample space,
a silence where no dog lives.

At midnight, there is a weight of four paws
awakening your impoverished dreams,
the cat, finding a waist in the shape of a sweater,
or liking your scizzored legs, curls there as if you
might not notice a lump of floating fur.

In three degrees, she finds relief
near your face or in the abundance
of PJ's no longer one thing, yet another.

She'll be content at 2.00am
to snore inside your ear, or play
hopscotch as you turn, stretch pelvic floor to feet.
Fearful, watchful, fitful, she'll nuzzle
wildly into your craving sleep,
doona meeting two minds like opposing planets,
sheets cooling at both tail ends.

You're not prepared for this torment
as you plunge through it.
Nor can you turn the clock back
to what came before,
not this lifetime of coming together.
It would be like metal without a shape,
no sound without a bell,
a bell without a clapper.

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Poem for the Day: Young Love in Bobby Socks

Young Love 

Under the outside porch, the wind knocks at the windowpanes. You crouch down on the front step, it's comical and the little petals of his pink corsage brown with exhaustion. Your hand shakes, pinning it onto your cardigan, and quickly you rush through the streets to the entertainment hall. Red lights charm musicians' faces. This beautiful kingdom is in the mood, and now it's 'Rock around Clock'. You put your high tail on, flay back, pucker lips, spin in the wave of his arms that dominate the night, tap the parquet floor as if it's the clickety-clack of the train that runs beside the sea. Your shining face is a rose in his eyes. The dance is a handshake like a weapon that pulls you quickly from fear, then back again into the light. Your right leg swings a charleston side to side. It's a kick high, kick back. What a dance! What a dancer! See how his hands are like handlebars, as he jitterbugs to the right of your body in opposite flight, a two-time double shuffle according to his beat. You follow. He spins, pulls you in, pulls you back, and under as if you're going through town in his white Cadillac, absorbing his grace, his dimpled chin, as he hauls you into a night full of stars, and then the vibrations of the hall subside, and you're back on the porch, with the lights left on. You don't see his hands holding your face, kissing your face with makeup in your eyes, and he goes away, crushing the heavy bushes you've both stepped from, your bobby socks full of burrs. You walk inside, into the rest of the night, tap on the wardrobe, tap on the bed, tap on the headboard overhead, your heart in paradise.

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Graphic of the Day: Writer at Work

As a woman, I would add the following list:-

1. Do nails
2. Attend exercise class
3. If raining, attend the new Danny Green Gym
4. Have coffee with the girls
5. Shop for food, clothes, make-up, etc.
6. Talk to daughter on the phone for 2 hours
7. Do some gardening, preferably trim bushes, pull weeds, cut winter roses
8. Prepare a creative writing class/ notes/ research
9. Take the dog (or cats in my case) for a walk to the park
10. Babysit the grandchildren

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Reading as a Performance Poet at the Dome, Maylands

 

MONDAY SUPPER CLUB

I will be reading from my two books (+ new work!) at the Dome, Maylands on  Monday, 18th August.

Check out their delicious menu

http://www.summersupperclub.com/

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Overnight in Barcelona!

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Final Days in Barcelona: A Day at the Pool (El Bruc)

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Poem/Painting Collaboration with Paige Preston Byrne's 'Stone Bird' (inspired by sculpture in Montserrat)

Painting by Paige Preston Byrne (Washington, DC)

                                                                  stone bird

                                                                  stone bird sits
                                                                  in the middle of time
                                                                  inquisitive little fellow
                                                                  his tiny head looking over something
                                                                  perhaps he feels the wind, or hears
                                                                  the striking waves on the shore
                                                                  he can't fly
                                                                  but lives beyond
                                                                  the brushstrokes of art




Please note: the following was translated from a Catalan dictionary app.  The correct Catalan
is soon to come, kindly translated by folks at Can Serrat for the Open Studio



                                                                  pedra ocell

                                                                  pedra ocell se senti
                                                                  en el medi de temps
                                                                  homenet inquisitiu
                                                                  el cap tony buscant per alunga cosa
                                                                  potser se sent el vent,  o escolta
                                                                  les onades pegant a la riba
                                                                  ell no pot volar
                                                                  sino que viu mes enlla de
                                                                  les pinzellades d'art
 

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Two Poems @ Open Studio, Can Serrat a collaboration with Paige Preston Byrne (in translated Catalan)

Painting by Paige Preston Byrne (Can Serrat)

Frill-necked Lizard

he's been knocking his knees
at the ant-hill ball
collects his hat and coat
with a flick of tongue
how smart he looks
in his blue suede shoes,
diamontees & pleats

it's wonderful to think
that he's all leather
feisty
not yet skinned

LIangardaix Volant-Nu

ha estat colpejant els genolls
en el ball formiguer
recull el seu barret i l'abric
amb un moviment de la llengua
que sembla intel.ligent
amb les seves sabates blaves de camussa,
diamants i plecs.

es meravellos pensar
que es tot de cuir
lluitador
encara no esqueixat

 

Silverfish

Not as lucky as a Las Vegas dollar                                    

Painting by Paige Preston Byrne (Can Serrat)

nor as silver,

but if you look inside paneled rooms

there may be several silverfish

touring endlessly in the house

of a miser or in one of those 19th century

cottages where the rain soaks North Somerset,

bookshelves covered in trench coats.

You know that silverfish chew into glue,

plaster, paint, photos, sugar, coffee,

hair, carpet, clothing, dandruff,

book bindings and paper (and that's

a lot to get through in a week!)

Imagine one slippery silverfish

in the musty library of a French poet

travelling through paragraphs of Reverdy,

John Donne, Simone De Beauvoir or Sartre,

his hunger moving toward simile and speech,

words curling into little white ropes

and lifting from the page,

one letter at a time.

Peixets de plata

No tant afortunat com un dòlar de Las Vegas

ni tant plateixat

pero si mires dins de les sales amb panells

pot haver diversos peixets de plata

voltant sense parar a casa

d’un avar o en una casa del segle XIX

en la pluja que amara North Somerset,

prestatgeries cobertes de gavardines.

Saps que els peixets de plata masteguen cola,

guix, pintura, fotos, sucre, café,

pel, catifes, roba, caspa,

enquadernacions i paper (i és a dir,

molta feina per una setmana!)

Imaginat un peixet de plata relliscós

a la biblioteca humida d’un poeta francès

viatjant a través dels paràgrafs de Reverdy,

John Donne, Simone de Beauvoir i Sartre,

la seva fam es mou cap al símil i la parla,

les paraules es cargolen en petites cordes blanques

i les lletres es desenganxen de la pàgina una a una.

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