Meredith Wattison

Meredith Wattison, born 1963, is a poet and essayist. Her six books of poetry are Psyche’s Circus, Judith’s Do, Fishwife, The Nihilist Line, Basket of Sunlight and terra bravura, shortlisted for the 2016 Kenneth Slessor Poetry Prize. Her recent essays have appeared in Cordite Poetry Review, Rabbit, Plumwood Mountain. The 2016 anthologies, Contemporary Australian Feminist Poetry and Contemporary Australian Poetry feature her work. She is the winner of the 2017 Gwen Harwood Poetry Prize.

Wright Vociferous – ‘Birds’ and ‘Skins’ – Physiognomy, Identity and the Wild Spoken Word

Our presentations organically generated overlays. Had I had more time, I would have brought in her first recognition of ‘I’ experienced at around three years of age.

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Virginia Woolf’s Incidental Pilot, Marianne Wex’s Legroom and the Dancing Man

I first read Virginia Woolf’s short – just six pages – essay, ‘Flying Over London’ (Selected Essays, Oxford University Press, 2009), in a café in Sydney. The barista deftly worked a rising swan into the frothy surface of my coffee.

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The Film Student’s Shoes

Under the sole of each size 12 shoe is a large egg-shaped hole. The lost layers grade inwards to a clean pared edge. Cross-legged, his proof of purchase on Sydney’s streets, footpaths, lanes and alleys shows itself. His polished uppers …

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World’s End and Gadigal

I share a café table in Redfern with a young man whose bitten nails are lacquered scarlet, or Hunter’s Pink, like a London bus, then roughly scraped at by his teeth. Let’s call him Dorian. His hands are large, pale …

Posted in 63: COLLABORATION | Tagged

A Writing Surface of One’s Own

A waitress here has The Owl and The Pussycat tattooed on her goose-pimpled biceps. They sweetly peek from the hem of an unseasonable short sleeve. Indigo-inked, theirs is a nursery frieze’s block print detail. She is all at sea in her ravaged pea-green tights. Her roughly made skirt abounds with floating, shifting dice. It retains its looped yellow fringing, a faded tangelo backing, from its vintage past life as a painted velvet souvenir cushion cover. She has a ring at the end of her nose, her nose, a ring at the end of her nose. Her girlfriend’s lips, hair and boots are cerise. With honey, she sweetens – and makes a meal of – her sweetly gratis hot tea, blushes like a peach, purrs. The illustrated waitress hovers, calls ‘Who?’ and, like a zephyr, swoops with a cloth, a notepad and a fluffy rainbow-haired Troll Doll-ended pencil.

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Sunlight and Finches

Slipping through frosted wombat runs, like an animal, I recoil where the dead deer lay. As naked as Bellow’s mares. Her flanks and rump to be had. She is a photo taken by headlights, a Shoah archive, ‘Results of search …

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Armstrong’s Zeitgeist Visor

The geese on our dinner plates hung but implied progression. Would bear with me as I declined, protested, held fast. Would still be there next morning under a cold meal, ‘I’m going to pretend it’s a fried egg’, I’d announce, …

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