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John Jenkins

John Jenkins

About John Jenkins

John Jenkins is a Melbourne-based poet and non-fiction writer. A former journalist and occassional reviewer, he has written extensively on Australian new music. His most recent collection of poetry is Growing Up With Mr Menzies, from John Leonard Press (2008). John has also collaborated with artists and composers, and has co-written several books with fellow poet Ken Bolton: their new sequence, titled Lucky For Some, is published by Little Esther Books (2012).



Website:
http://www.johnjenkins.com.au

Shock To The Screen Door

You can hear it banging in the wind, or when someone delivers something and lets it ‘have its will’. It causes you to jump, inevitably. “Trouble in your bubble, mate?” is what Dave says when I look morose. Which might …

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John Jenkins reviews Peter Boyle

Apocrypha: Texts Collected and Translated by William O’Shaunessy by Peter Boyle Vagabond Press, 2009 “No one can count the number of people we have been in a single / life. One death is never enough.” These lines from Apocrypha sum …

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John Jenkins: The Wedgetails

Order falconiformes, family accipitidae Trees are wheeling in my dream. Diminish to a dot down here on green, my own face looks back up at me, as smaller ground-hugging birds erupt – warning shrieks from silver crowns – choughs and …

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Ern Malley: Pedestrian Verse

A gay, light-hearted bastard, ERN MALLEY cuts a moodily romantic figure within the dun Australian literary scene, his name inevitably conjuring perhaps that best known image of him, bow-tie askew, grinning cheerfully, at the wheel of his 1958 Jaguar sports car, El Cid. It is this image that also carries in its train the stories of later suffering-the affairs, the women, the bad teeth-and, speaking of teeth, the beautiful poems wrenched from the teeth of despair & written on the wrist of happiness “where happiness happens to like its poems written best” (in his inordinate phrase).

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Ern Malley: I have gone missing from this world

A gay, light-hearted bastard, ERN MALLEY cuts a moodily romantic figure within the dun Australian literary scene, his name inevitably conjuring perhaps that best known image of him, bow-tie askew, grinning cheerfully, at the wheel of his 1958 Jaguar sports car, El Cid. It is this image that also carries in its train the stories of later suffering-the affairs, the women, the bad teeth-and, speaking of teeth, the beautiful poems wrenched from the teeth of despair & written on the wrist of happiness “where happiness happens to like its poems written best” (in his inordinate phrase).

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