CONTRIBUTORS

Jill Jones

Jill Jones based in Adelaide. Her most recent books include A History Of What I’ll Become and Viva the Real, which was shortlisted for the 2019 Prime Minister’s Literary Awards for Poetry and the 2020 John Bray Award. A new book, Wild Curious Air, is due from Recent Work Press in later 2020. In 2015 she won the Victorian Premier’s Prize for Poetry for The Beautiful Anxiety. Her work is represented in a number of major anthologies including The Macquarie PEN Anthology of Australian Literature, Contemporary Australian Poetry, and The Penguin Anthology of Australian Poetry. An entry on her work is included in the current edition of The Oxford Companion to Modern Poetry in English. With Scots-Australian poet Alison Flett, she publishes chapbooks through Little Windows Press. Currently, she is a member of the J.M. Coetzee Centre for Creative Practice, University of Adelaide.

‘Mix it with grit’: Claire Albrecht Interviews Jill Jones

Adelaide poet Jill Jones sits down 1,525.5 km from me, Claire Albrecht in Newcastle, to discuss her sparkling twelfth book A History of What I’ll Become.

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Introduction to Em König’s Breathing Plural

Will we miss nature, asks Em König in Breathing Plural? In ‘dreams of stale breath’, maybe. Or ‘in another life, on another planet … maybe’ (echoing The Only Ones’ only hit). Glenn Albrecht says in Earth Emotions, ‘It [nature] effectively no longer exists’.

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Improvisings. Of Sheer Now.

1: What I’ll Become I am assembled a history of what I’ll become Far off there are holdfasts cosmos winks, metal and darkness The mind is also a swirl needless opera The divine numbers are a gamble zero is a …

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To Split and Join

To praise impressions wherever bodies lie down, whoever To be with skin To not be but be here To not be a cut-out on a back lot To keep shoes fit and batteries keen To be as real and dirty …

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Restless

I’m restless about affinity There’s a form of am in every dream Stress prevaricates Aniseed lingers You can be too fond of fences making shiny choruses Air is a treasury The horizon fills with shallow light There’s devil in the …

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The Blossoms of Retail

We become our shopping something that’s not quite feeling a semi-emotion as if underwater or near tears unable to breathe or drown. Are we living in the present tense or another kind of mood? Where are the horses, the plains? …

Posted in 84: SUBURBIA | Tagged

At Least Four Instances

how do you fend off the sea it will be here if not ever but as your fever or your shadow when you stop breathing do doors open as they did does your hand feel the same in the night …

Posted in 83: MATHEMATICS | Tagged

The Storm

The storm catches on the door. It’s a good sign, a surge that’s more than breathing, that blows away dirt from reliquaries, and directions from their careful signs. It’s near speech and near trembling, sky bringer fate crowning from its …

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My Skeptic Tremor

Perhaps I require revolution rather than mending day or need to get back to my ill channels, disinterest, a fetish or two and a more obvious sin than procrastination. Force is never equal, not in my calculations, nor is severance …

Posted in 78: CONFESSION | Tagged

Seven Formulas of Method

1. Data: Sun on the right hand Sand fun this roght hend Sent an tho rught hind Sin ends thumb raght hond Song in that reght hund 2. Mix: on the right sand / sent behind / thumbs end rage …

Posted in 75: FUTURE MACHINES | Tagged

In Flight Entertainment

‘no more blues’, that’s not a promise there’s no traction or policy in the blues all those bars are too long a cycle to make for twittering views no more plaints or graces no thanks, ‘watch and listen carefully’ enhanced …

Posted in 72: THE END | Tagged

Bearing False Witness

Stories of the heat rise above the boards and the walls bounce them, like lies. Walls are made of stuff that hides from me, those measurements, the mason’s spans. Dust is the choke, and across vision there’s a bar. I …

Posted in 70: UMAMI | Tagged

In My Shifts

I come in with language I come out of. Its weed, its shrill bugs. A harvest, a rot, a dervish. Cooked into night. Swum from beginnings. Patterns at the bottom of a pool. Something that doesn’t fit. That shifts and …

Posted in 69: TRANSTASMAN | Tagged

Asks

What’s it like to be refurbished tackled or finger-printed? It’s not something you can ask but I’m asking. What is it like to be watched waited, frisked? Whenever I worry about my suit my transparency, I don’t think of brightness …

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‘All truth is crooked, time itself is a circle.’

You’re diagnosed with an incurable illness. You meet someone at a support group. They teach you how to tango. You both undergo a miracle cure. They become a vampire. Your tests come back clear. You delete their photograph. You change …

Posted in 64: CONSTRAINT | Tagged

Compositions

Some days are white staring deep into surfaces where tides push shores, sand climbs mountains. The new border is sometimes vague though flamboyant and ever mercantile. There’s boredom in the banlieue, middle management cadres deal in non-core activities. It’s all …

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Becoming Crystal

at Te Moeka o Tuawe (Fox Glacier) I take my stone heart to the river, it moves with all the other stones. I slip and shear, ribs crack like ice that makes of the river gravel and gold schist and …

Posted in 54: TRANSPACIFIC | Tagged

Coot Observes the Trashing of Venus in Tahiti

This deal prov’d as favourable to our push as we could witness, not a Clutter was to be seen the whole deal and the Airship was perfectly clear, so that we had every advocate we could detail in Observing the …

Posted in 54: TRANSPACIFIC | Tagged

A Minuscule Map of the Country

(discounting the Coriolis effect) The antipodean plug lies in a pool, like any other plug, any other pool, where breasts dunk and voices drown with the universal two-bob watch. Nonetheless, a garden gnome or a kangaroo shadow is plastered into …

Posted in 54: TRANSPACIFIC | Tagged

No, the System Did Not Work For Me

I landed among delusion, with a lag and a dogsbody. I was hauled within a millimetre of someone’s brown balaclava. I was a deb in line with a litre of jackpots holding a new key and a gypsy. I blundered …

Posted in LEE MARVIN | Tagged ,

Hindley Reverie

A lunch poem Perhaps everyone drives round these blocks forever as cafes get lost in the trawl of Hindley Street these blocks, just to see something happen. ‘Adelaide’s No.1 Party Venue’, a kind of inroad or airborne, the sound, lonely …

Posted in LEE MARVIN | Tagged ,

Leaving, Are You?

I’m not an anonymous tip-off or the cracking up over death. I’m not easy or the slider on the machine, I’m not evidence or the answering tape. Don’t tempt me! I’ve seen you around the courts and terraces, I see …

Posted in 50: JACKPOT! | Tagged

Give Yourself Up

(poem ending on Newtown graffiti) If I do not join       clouds       my attempts of song hit       the roof       line without wings my effort but       she’s crying       conversation leaks damage       & not alone I swig orange       sun ahead of rain it figures       your life planes cuts       across trails spans aerials       I am …

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ELECTRONICA Editorial

This issue of Cordite makes a bow to music and the ways musicians in various modes and guises have used electric technologies to generate sound. When David suggested this editing gig to me, I thought how odd, and then, perhaps, …

Posted in ESSAYS | Tagged