Cordite Poetry Review

Nativism and the Interlocutor

Posted on November 1, 2012 by John Mateer

The gypsy siguiriya begins with a terrible scream that divides the landscape into two ideal hemispheres.
It is the scream of dead generations, a poignant elegy for lost centuries, the pathetic evocation of love
under other moons and other winds. The melodic phrase begins to pry open the mystery of the tones and
remove the precious stone of the sob, a resonant tear on the river of the voice. No Andalusian can help
but shudder on hearing that scream. (p. 305)

The poet reread that endnote to Garcia Lorca’s poem ‘El Grito’ at the back of the Penguin edition of Christopher Maurer’s translations.

Then he returned to reading that poem by Lorca, the poem that bore – to use an English cliché – an uncanny resemblance to one he had written many years before, when he had been writing with a belief in the redemptive impulse of language.

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Posted in ESSAYS | Tagged John Mateer

I Have Three Wounds: Of Life, Love and Death

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Juan Garrido Salgado

Image courtesy of Los Poetas Del 5

TERREMOTO

All of what remained in us was down to hours – daily, weekly accumulations of them – silent spans like we were puppets without any public function. My family and I were silenced humans, wounds of exile struggling to enjoy just a moment in an empty Adelaide street.

Arriving in Australia was like going to a previously undiscovered desert in our family’s soul; our words and smiles became irrelevant, our tears and sorrow the only sense of life. My young children, Tania and Lenin, seemed as if they were two ancient characters of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. Not knowing any English, we got lost in the solitude of this unknown land and, clinging together, would come to be people destined to eat, laugh and mourn together as one for our entire lives.

One night in June 1990, as we were coming home to the Pennington Hostel from Adelaide City on the bus, a man started yelling at us in English.

‘This is my land!’

His sounds made us sink into the floor, else we would have drowned within a minute of swimming in his Aussie accent. Another night, after returning from her first day in the Pennington Hostel Childcare, Tania remained very quiet. We all sat at the table to eat, drink and talk of the day.

Suddenly Tania spoke. ‘I will be mute forever?’

At that moment, I felt a 7.2 magnitude earthquake, so common in Chile. But no water sloshed in our glasses. Our dishes lay motionless on the table. We were already in Adelaide – it was only I that was rattling.

I felt like I was falling into pieces. I wanted to scream, and to continue to fall without a parachute. No passport. Just … fall. Back into a prison where I once lived instead of the one I am in now. I had put my children in the most modern of prisons – this country where they are today. Looking at us, Tania again asked her question. ‘I will stay mute? Because no one speaks Spanish at me here, and I don’t know how to speak in English.’

I looked at Lenin, my 3-year-old son, as he continued to take his milk and eat bread. Tania cried. We all cried as four castaways from the sound of the Spanish word. Past and present will always be an open wound of not knowing where we belong, where our life dwells versus where our bodies simply exist. We were four ‘new people in this country that someone else calls paradise.

Battle with Foreign Words

I am a tree living in a city
Where people are
I can’t speak their languages
I can’t write them either ...
But I dream every day,
Perhaps I would like to be a poet
I have many leaves that are my eyes,
I see everywhere
My heart is a storehouse for my fruits.

My roots are invisible toes
Stamping on the soil in deep relationship
With worms, ants, snails, and spiders.
Plants, seeds and flowers too
Sharing the great silence of
Our mother earth.

The sun, our father, protects us.
He is always with me,
My brother wind visits me sometimes
And together we dance in the sky,
Or jump over a cloud and swim through
The immense blue

A glass of water from my sister gives the most
Refreshing liquor
Everyone is equal with the other ...
It is not easy to live as a tree
I can’t walk,
I have to be here, forever
To survive here is not an easy matter
You have to convince them of who you are
I am a tree dreaming of being a bird in a nest,
Inside my poet’s heart.

And so began a long struggle with a new language inside a dominant capitalist system when we arrived in Australia. It’s a struggle I find paralleling the political refugee status that I had and still have, and of not being accepted as a citizen in a country that only accepted its original inhabitants as citizens in 1967.

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Posted in ESSAYS | Tagged Juan Garrido-Salgado

Fauna Sounds: An Interview with angela rawlings

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Graham Nunn

Photo by Starkadur Barkarson

Since the inception of the Arts QLD Poet-in-Residence Program in 2005, we Queenslanders have reaped the benefit of an international poet spending three months in our state. Each poet has brought new perspectives, ideas and energy to the poetry community and some of them have helped reshape our (poetic) landscape. These poets / agents of change include Jacqueline Turner (Canada), Hinemoana Baker (New Zealand), emily XYZ (USA), Jacob Polley (UK) and our 2012 resident, angela rawlings (Iceland/Canada).

I had the privilege of working with angela rawlings in 2010 when she was an invited guest of QLD Poetry Festival. With that, I came into this interview with some insight into the wonder she could create on and off the stage, so when Cordite tapped me on the shoulder to do this interview, you couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. Now, having done the interview and again enjoying the privilege of working with rawlings, seeing her inject energy and wisdom into the community, it’s a smile that has only grown wider.

Graham Nunn: As the 2012 Arts QLD Poet-in-Residence, you had the opportunity to visit a number of locations throughout the state to harvest material for the Sound Poetry and Visual Poetry project that launched at Queensland Poetry Festival 2012. How did the idea for this project originate?

angela.rawlings: Since 2009, I’ve been developing Hjlóðljóð (translated as ‘Soundpoem’) – a prototype series for Sound Poetry and Visual Poetry based on Icelandic geography and language. Hjlóðljóð focuses on audio recordings of water, photographs of glass vials in Icelandic landscapes or with soundscape contributors encased inside of them and a physical collection of vials comprising the Hjlóðasafn (Museum/Library of Sound). While each vial has the capacity to recall a certain sound via synaesthesia, by and large the objects themselves are visual or tactile in their materiality. I was also learning my way through photography, so I moved from photographing landscapes and flora to photographing bottles in the moment of their sound-harvesting. For me, this replicated that moment when an unknown though communicative element becomes known through an act of identification, of naming. There was the landscape itself, the documented landscape, the documented moment of naming and then the naming itself (which existed beyond the photograph as a portable museum of sound).

An integral component of the project hinges on exploring notions that humans read their environments and/or that humans are in conversation with landscapes and inhabiting non-human species. Through Sound Poetry and Visual Poetry, my intention is to actively question embedded notions of what a (sound or visual) poem can be, what bodies (be they human, water, weather, other) are capable of or even constantly composing and how to ethically read, converse with or interpret non-human entities.

The position – with the title of Queensland Poet-in-Residence – has provided an opportunity to explore what it means to be a poet affiliated with, if only for a brief time, a large geographic region. How could the work I undertake create dialogue (and/or collaborate) with the land and inhabitants? How might I form a creative research project that would place me in a situation to interrogate my relationship with and ethical approach to an eponymous region?

GN: I imagine it is incredibly important to feel a connection to each of the places you visit, to be able to move beyond the surface and enter into a deeper dialogue with the land and its multi-layered history. I am eager to hear about your QLD experience and your engagement with the many places you visited.

a.r: The opportunity to visit Queensland for three months – immersed within bioregions completely unfamiliar to me – to develop new work has proven important for me. Similar to immersion in foreign human languages, immersion in foreign bioregions heightens my capacity to sense environments that are partly removed from the immediate superimposed semantics I have inherited. Looking at organic litter on a beach, I know little more than cursory titles like ‘leaf’, ‘shell’, ‘seed’. In the Daintree and, later, Magnetic Island, I was mesmerised by little balls of sand littering beaches as tides receded. It took two days of studying to eventually spot the heavily camouflaged crabs scuttling amidst those balls and into holes nearby them. The sand balls and their intricate arrangements indicated a deep logic at work, but one I was not equipped to decode.

Fauna proliferates in rural Queensland, so I was humbled to spend time near wild bandicoot, cockatoo, kookaburra, kangaroo, orange-footed scrubfowl, brush-hens, orb spider, blacktip reef sharks, cicada, huntsman spider, and platypi. Prolonged exposure to flora and fauna – beyond the glimpse of recognition and the fleeting moment of identification – led me through welcome realisations: ‘I may know a name given to you, but I do not know your name; I do not know you’ and ‘I may not know your name, but we’ll sit together and learn something of each other.’

While I was in Longreach, poet Helen Avery shared her family cattle ranch with me. The cows in-yard provided an incredible opera. Having grown up in rural areas, I’ve heard mooing before – but I’ve never listened to mooing. I spent a long while in close proximity with cattle, recording their polyphony. The experience surprised me, since I could not have anticipated that the soundscape of a cattle yard would become a seminal component of the project.

GN: For someone who has never experienced Iceland and its volcano and glacier-shaped landscapes, I am interested to know whether this project has uncovered any parallels; any similarities in the way these two unique places open up and speak?

a.r: During my second day of the residency, I met you and several other lovelies for lunch. As we ate, I noticed the word ‘ISLAND’ in a large font outside of a nearby building. At first, I read this as Ísland, which is the Icelandic place-name for Iceland. After lunch, we passed by the building and I realised that foliage obscured more text; in fact, it read ‘QUEENSLAND,’ but the bulk of QUEEN was obscured (except for the last part of the letter N). Somehow, the Iceland-of-the mind didn’t feel so distant at that moment.

I’m sure there are similarities – crossover species of birds such as terns, plovers, oystercatchers or that both islands have desert interiors and comparatively lush perimeters – but I’ve noted more of the differences. Iceland is a young country in geologic terms, while Australia is ancient. The flora and fauna that have evolved in Australia are at such different levels of succession compared to Iceland that it dizzies me. My greatest enthusiasm in the rainforest was viewing large epiphytes for the first time. Flora grows on flora here. By contrast, Iceland’s ecosystems are quite sensitive and have noticeably suffered from overgrazing. Trees cover only 1-2% of the island, and so the more common flora to see there is moss covering lava rocks, or grass fields, or introduced species such as Alaskan lupin.

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Posted in INTERVIEWS | Tagged Angela Rawlings, Graham Nunn

The Interlocutors: Poetry and Jazz in Collaboration

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Geoff Page

Geoff Page with Simon Milman at The Loft in Canberra, 17 June, 2012

How do jazz and poetry talk to each other? Of course, they can lament their shared marginality to the majority culture – but that will take us only so far. They can boast of their heroic figures over a century (jazz) or the millennia (poetry). They can hyperventilate about the talents of the latest prodigies in either form, but that will almost always be ahead of the facts.

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Posted in ESSAYS | Tagged Allan Browne, Geoff Page, jazz poetry, John Clare, Lynn Hard

4 Artworks by Melanie Scaife

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Melanie Scaife

[EasyGallery id=’melaniescaife’]

With her new set of oil paintings, 2011 Glover Prize finalist Melanie Scaife leaves behind her dour and wintry Clarice Beckett-like landscapes in favour of something lush and dynamic. She trades spectral and sallow greys for roiling reds (cadmium, perylene and alizarin) and symphonic blues and greens (viridian, cobalt, cerulean and ultramarine).

Instead of the static and indifferent earth, here she paints the benign and infinitely generous water. Even in the industrialised inner west of Melbourne – under the Westgate Bridge no less – Scaife finds kaleidoscopic, luscious, incandescent colours bouncing around in the oily shallows.

Not surprisingly, these works are highly responsive to different lighting states, handsomely repaying time spent with them in a naturally lit space as day turns to dusk. They serenely command our attention.

In individual works, colours jostle, one swatch ‘pops’ after another. Even in the single colour work ‘Murmur’ – a tour de force in blooming crimson – there is an intriguing narrative of the daytime blues seen and left behind. Like the isomer the colour takes its name from, alizarin crimson responds to its surroundings like litmus. As does the artist to hers.

Scaife invites us to find light in darkness. To find motion in stillness. To find enlightenment in meditation. She invites us to join her in an interior landscape.

– Chris Boyd

Posted in ARTWORKS | Tagged Melanie Scaife

4 Artworks by James Bonnici

Posted on November 1, 2012 by James Bonnici

[EasyGallery id=’jamesbonnici’]
*Click on the image above to view this gallery.

These distorted face images hint at the psychology of the represented individuals during private moments. The confined space and harsh florescent lighting add to the claustrophobic atmosphere and help to accentuate the figures’ restlessness. They are a reaction to their constructed environment, repressing their human reality.

Posted in ARTWORKS | Tagged James Bonnici

2 Translations of Alex Skovron

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Jacques Rancourt

PEN Melbourne’s Translation and Linguistic Rights Committee (TLRC) recently commissioned Jacques Rancourt, French poet, translator and director of the Paris-based Festival franco-anglais de poésie, to translate a collection of poems by Melbourne poet Alex Skovron. Skovron and Rancourt discussed and read their work via Skype at the recent IFLIT/Light in Winter Festival. PEN Melbourne plans to publish the poems early in 2013. Presented here are two of these translations.

The work of the TLRC primarily focuses on issues of translation and linguistic rights and their effect on readers and writers across the globe. This includes access to literature at a most basic level. Concurrently to this access, PEN places great emphasis on the role that literary translation can play in enabling cultural exchange. – Elaine Lewis, PEN Melbourne

TACHES SOLAIRES

Les gens ont rempli les espaces ouverts de la ville,
ils se tiennent épaule contre épaule, s’attendant à tout.
La plate-forme au-dessus de la Place est vide.
Une sensation de malaise caresse les têtes nues,
leurs couronnes de cheveux s’amenuisent dans la brise ;
regardez ces journaux enroulés, ces foulards qui tressautent.

Le bourdonnement devient chuchotement, le chuchotement
délivre son secret, le secret
est trahi, se répand comme une épidémie ;
en dehors de la ville, ils construisent une pyramide de livres.

GALATÉE

Le pire c’est quand il me traîne dans son lit la nuit :
Sa chair molle et moite, son tâtonnement en sueur,
Ces intrusions flasques. Pourtant, ses yeux me hantent.
« Oh, serre-moi, serre-moi ! » supplie-t-il pathétiquement,
Bien qu’il connaisse ma paralysie – tout ce que je peux faire
C’est de fixer sans ciller le plafond de pierre.

Ensuite, il me caresse toujours amoureusement,
Polissant ma cuisse avec une guirlande de tissus,
Puis s’efface dans un ronflement. J’écarte les couvertures
Et me tiens sous la pluie. Me tiens là à imaginer la peau.

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Posted in TRANSLATIONS | Tagged Alex Skovron, Elaine Lewis, Jacques Rancourt

Fogarty & Garrido: A Bilingual Conversation between 4 Poems

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Lionel Fogarty

Mapuche ‘campesinos’ – Lionel Fogarty

Chile our liberation fight is the same
Indigenous courage we must unite on land we relate to better than rich
Chilean brother we here are unity for you
Columbus 1492 was a white man like Dampier and Cook
Yet today we still find them in society
Aboriginals let come in tremendous
Resistance in mind and body for the Mapuche people fightness
The persecutions by the rich
We as all indigenous can’t break the pride, dignity and joy
Chile we here will give support
Never were heathen savages
Nature we live within
Chile Mapuche brutality, murdered
I’m glad you are reclaim land
Chile a discrimination of Indigenous is fettered and pained by us
Mapuche brothers all black children here will take up the weapon
Towards peace and justice
Mapuche sisters as here are suffering misery, yet we praise your strength
and determination.
You Chilean people staying here, let’s get up
Together and bash capitalists to the dumps
Live on, we are the earth, the land
Indigenous Chilean you shall shine in our heart’s spirits
We had civilization before they came so we know the way to a future
Chile Mapuche we are with you to liberation.

Mapuche (translated by Juan Garrido-Salgado)

Nuestra lucha de liberación es la misma
con el coraje indígena debe unirnos a la tierra,
Relacionarnos mejor que los poderosos.
Hermanos estemos unidos.

1492, Colon fue invasor como Dampier y el Capitán Cook.
Hoy, todavía los encontramos en la sociedad.
Hermanos que nazca la verdadera resistencia
Contra la persecución de los poderosos.
Resistir en cuerpo y alma en la lucha del pueblo Mapuche

Aborígenes e indígenas del mundo
No perdamos el orgullo, la dignidad y la alegría.
Desde aquí crece la fuerza
Nunca seremos un páramo salvaje.
Lo natural vive dentro de nuestra alma

Pueblo Mapuche: brutalidad y masacre
Interminable batalla por recuperar su tierra:
Yo estoy con su lucha.

Chile: discrimina al indígena, lo engrilla y lo encarcela.
¡Hermanos Mapuche!
Todos niños negros de esta tierra.
Tomarán las armas por la paz y la justicia.
¡Hermanas Mapuche!
Aquí también estamos sufriendo en miseria,
Seguiremos orando por su fuerza y determinación.

Hermanos chilenos, sigamos juntos en nuestra lucha.
Levantémoslo! Para barrer con el Capitalismo
Viva la madre tierra; somos tierra adentro.
Indígenas su espíritu y corazón brillarán.

Antes fue nuestra la civilización,
antes que llegara el Colonizador,
Sabemos el camino hacia el futuro.
Hermanos Mapuche nuestra será la liberación.

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Posted in TRANSLATIONS | Tagged Juan Garrido-Salgado, Lionel Fogarty

Malaman: Words for ‘Sound’ from Several Languages

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Annea Lockwood

Malaman is a chanting of words for ‘sound’ from several languages. They are chanted with the intention of releasing their inherent sound-energy and are neither words for music nor for sound-as-noise. These are words for sound, one of the world’s prime energies in a similar capacity that light is a prime energy. These are the oldest words I have discovered to date.

Malaman (12:31) | by Annea Lockwood

In order to move beyond the performance of these sounds, and to initiate a flow of unbroken energy, the words are chanted in their original pronunciation – not consciously making rhythmic or tonal variants (as one chants a mantra and does not perform it). Then the variants which come about appear as a part of the process of change which the sounds’ energy induces. They happen to the chanter.

The following words – transliterations – are not spelled phonetically. Underlinings distinguish the accented syllables, no underlining indicates equally weighted syllables:

singyam:  (Cantonese)
tsooin:  (Welsh)
fooin:  (Gaelic)
ayhos:  (Greek, with a guttural ‘h’)
duidum:  (Turkish)
malaman:  (Maung people, Northern territory, the ‘a’ as in ‘ah’)
soun:  (Middle English)
Klang:  (German)
sadeu:  (Sri Lankan, the ‘a’ as in ‘ah’, the ‘eu’ as in French ‘deux’)
sote:  (Farsi, as in French ‘sauter’)
leeud:  (Swedish, the ‘ee’ very fast, the ‘ud’ as in ‘hood’)
swara:  (Malay)
awnee:  (Yoruba, ‘aw’ at the back of the throat with a fairly closed mouth position)
n’zeembo:  (Shona, the ‘n’ a chesty grunt)
nad:  (Sanskrit)
anhadnad:  (Sanskrit, all ‘a’s as in ‘ah’; meaning = the unstruck sound)

This chant is based on my belief that some old words are what they stand for … that these words are energy generators. Nourishing.

About the time I was doing ‘Malaman’, I wrote: ‘I suggest that sound is a major energy form, like light or heat and that all sounds partake of this, even that sound is an agent in world creation, so that in working with sound one is working with something analogous to the deceptive power of water. That same element – water, which we control at will, turning taps on and off, sustains the body which turns the tap. Sound is used rather like water now, we turn it on so easily via our devices, seeming to control a force which can actually shatter the body (at extreme levels), and yet can pour through the body (at another strength), relaxing tissues, nerves, energising quietly.’

Posted in TRANSLATIONS | Tagged Annea Lockwood

Exit Ducky?

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Christopher Funkhouser

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Posted in POETRY | Tagged Christopher Funkhouser, James Bonnici, Sonny Rae Tempest

Draught

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Ivy Alvarez

When I read of a ribcage being sawn
then cracked open

I think of walking alleys
lined with glass, holding water. The squid can never close
its eyes and I keep finding another station
to get lost in, the rain pinning me, getting colder
we drink our fill and eat more
the taste of sesame oil coats our tongues
a drum pounds and a woman hums, sings,
plucks strings, silks arrayed around her

and here I am
a fistful of muscle in my hands
two litres of blood at my feet

Posted in 52: INTERLOCUTOR | Tagged Ivy Alvarez

A Burning Confession/Declaration/Exclamation

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Ellen Kombiyil

Angels can’t save me. I knifed Eulas it’s true.
But before they string that noose
Can’t I tell my side of the tale?
Dogwood Avenue, four in the morning.
Eulas said he won’t go.
Fatboy Bobby said, No. Uh-uh.
Git yer punk ass down those steps you
‘Ho! But Eulas won’t budge like a mule.
Is it so wrong then, what I done?
Jersey cops don’t give no peace –
Knuckles to the back of the neck, no respect,
Let me be, let me be.
More I think on it, more I gotta say
No. You know I don’t know why when they
Opened the door Eulas fell in the snow.
Po’ bastard bleedin and howlin,
Quotin his big daddy reverend.
Rapscallion don’t fool me.
Sundays baptizin at the lake,
Takin sips of Tanqueray on the slick.
Underneath proclamations, a thunderous slur.
Vanquish your demons, he say,
Which is what I done, what I’m doin,
X my heart and hope to cross that final river. I know
You won’t take me in heaven – Mister
Zilch, that’s me – but don’t take him neither.

Posted in 52: INTERLOCUTOR | Tagged Ellen Kombiyil

Shakespeare’s Interrobang

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Nick D’Annunzio Jones

To be or not to be …
Pondered loud enough
For Wales to hear

Posted in 52: INTERLOCUTOR | Tagged Nick D'Annunzio Jones

the kings of sorrow

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Paul Summers

the drizzle strips
the palette bare,

as blank & as fragile
as methuselah’s hair.

the kings of sorrow
face down the waves

& stare, their weary
eyes relinquish care;

like gods invoked
in the white-lead

glare of a guiltless
sun on contrite air.

all history drowned out
by the cackle of seasons.

Posted in 52: INTERLOCUTOR | Tagged Paul Summers

The Sorrows of Young Hippocrates

Posted on November 1, 2012 by A. J. Elsequence

Twice daily I talk with
synaptic clefts, with or after meals
we take long walks
in the blister-pack twilight

In my unipolar moments
I write the lovely darkness
lend me your pistols for
the journey, I am about to unmake

How do you feel in yourself about
bathroom scales
and guilty emissions when
all pleasure fails

Maniacal, melancholic and epileptic
are the affections of spring
we must purge them
freely
downward

Posted in 52: INTERLOCUTOR | Tagged Andrew Elsequence

Anyone Who Spends the Night on Cader Idris Will Die, or Return Mad or a Poet

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Allison Bishop

(With Taliesin, Battle of the Trees)

I travelled in the earth before I was proficient in learning

once
and again once

time layers until the piling on the piling contains the gems and the corpses of everything we might once have to become

I will prophesy not badly

time circles a cliff bay at the saddle of Cader Idris – sometimes a red kite with her fragmented cry – her beak poking at singularities – sometimes in wave pulses of wind she flies on – but always in cliff rocks who chant in such long breaths that listening with my feet is the only way to hear

I was enchanted by the sage
Of sages, in the primitive world

toes reach with mind’s pause so that time’s flight rushes and stalls long enough to speak – rooted into the strata so that mountain’s layers are places where kites circle on a wind – rocks singing and moving – laughter in the ages of their becoming

The mountain has become crooked

I am rocked in the full embrace
I am kite circling with a cry

I travelled, I made a circuit

and then silence

I have been a tear in the air

once
and again once

I played in the twilight

Posted in 52: INTERLOCUTOR | Tagged Allison Bishop

Postcard from Oulu

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Broede Carmody

You pull faces at a sun that doesn’t quite set. The wind speaks Scandinavian tongues and the trees shiver and sway—hypnotic waltz in the mind. Lakehouses creak in tune with your grandmother’s bones; scent of pine intoxicating every stretch of your capillaries. Marimekko fabric brushes your lover’s pale skin. Just yesterday a goldfish drowned on the kitchen floorboards. You trace the outline of someone long dead and like each breath before the last you slowly begin to forget.

Posted in 52: INTERLOCUTOR | Tagged Broede Carmody

This Smile

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Josephine Clarke

was not brought to you by Facebook
curvature of the lips simultaneous
to a flicker of your looking
this warm spring morning
your hands never still
bring in the tide I can’t get
from one end of the house to the other
my shouts are blown back into my mouth.
the hills scalloping the horizon
this muslin shield is useless

I make myself porous to hold you in

Posted in 52: INTERLOCUTOR | Tagged Josephine Clarke

Annales

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Justin Lowe

your email was well-timed
and equally well-received
Germanicus

I see you have removed
your father’s bust from your masthead
his victories over the Suevi

is this to assuage his critics
who always seem so close
a mere fingertip away

or the whims of a distant Emperor?

I detect a certain reticence
in your typeface
I miss the sanguine purple

but confess to having winced at the presumption

your aunt informs me
the chatlines are milling with rumours
of Julia Livilla and a certain procurator

the forums were once
a great comfort to your aunt
exiled to these provinces

but now she comes to me
with a face full of anguish
and a pledge to consign her notebook to the grotto

ten sesterces a day I give
to one of the slave boys
to bury her router in the potash

and each night I ache with pity
at her abject sighs
over the mulish songs of the Berbers

conjure the gateway to her happiness from my sleeve

Posted in 52: INTERLOCUTOR | Tagged Justin Lowe

The Hauntings

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Jessica Raschke

eloquence is a furious hurricane,
it whirls and consumes and turns dizzy
all the known elements

and when it wanes I watch the water
turn to waves in sunset heat…
and so the hurricane goes, it goes in a snap,
and its echoes just slide away…

but they haunt my system until
I’m spread crippled and still,
beset by a self-conscious mind

I’m left alone, sometimes, with the ghosts of this,
of the eloquence that once occupied;
they jeer and they groan as they hand me in bones
this utterly frugal offer:
a steel-grey shroud of cold-frigid air

apparently

it’s some comfort against
the impending reheating,
the slow build-up of hurricane wild

I wait…

the waves reverse the water
the sun rises like a shadow
and I can see it, the prospect:

of being silk smooth again
of being a slick social delight
and of being another cruisy-witty raconteur
who wraps them all, whatever audience there is,
in a hurricane of crucial hot air

Posted in 52: INTERLOCUTOR | Tagged Jessica Raschke

After Janus

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Carly-Jay Metcalfe

Conifer branches like oars,
the sky forces pods of rain into clods of earth.
Dirty, rolling clouds freckle my eyesight and people
shrink away as they hear the inelegant sound of scratching.

Whatever you have done – whatever you have told me –
the world is going wrong.
You speak of dry ground, shrunken rivers and puckered riverbeds.
No pebbles for us to gather – no proof we have been here.

Your emaciated authority has me laughing deep into my belly.
A necklace of droplets making their familiar migration across your chest
in a place where the dead nurse carnations on their lapels.
Triangle folds like a handkerchief – the edges as sharp as a gull’s beak.

Salt shoots up your nose,
ferried by the wind, making your skin crawl.
Untrammelled waves curl under sand while my legs
catch fish with slippery accuracy.
You can stand on the short saying, ‘I think we’re done here,’ but I am not.
I’m catching fish with my wet thighs,
letting them swim through.
I tack my legs together; feel the scales resting on my virgin skin.

Posted in 52: INTERLOCUTOR | Tagged Carly-Jay Metcalfe

My Singing Empty Hands

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Shari Kocher

i hold the boat steady and my sister
climbs in the boat smells of lavender
as only the image of a boat
can smell of lavender in a dream

water purling at the lip my sister
has not grown any older
my sister says
i smell like garlic

my sister takes the oars
you sit she says i row don’t you know
anything? my sister’s words
smell strongly of washing powder

she flinches when i touch her
shut up she says just let me row
my sister’s hands on the oars
smell of soap and some sinister

cheap perfume my daughter sometimes
wears when she is angry my sister
closes her hands on the oars
my sister does not see me at all

there’s the smell of kelp in the water
some rival in her head do you remember
nothing she says you say is true
i taste the snow in the air between us

my sister rows
precisely and with determination
the book grows soggy in her hand
ink grass clippings blood

why aren’t you helping she cries at last
thrusting the oars at me as she sheds
her crocodile tears you never do anything
the book with which she has been rowing

from under her lashes my sister
watches me my sister’s tears
taste like lamingtons my sister’s voice
shines with the cut of scales

my sister does not see through her crying
the flash of real fish in the flashing water
my sister sits in our small boat
in the middle of that wide little water

with rounded shoulders
the smell of iron filings
something burning
she wears our mother’s hair

Posted in 52: INTERLOCUTOR | Tagged Shari Kocher

Avoiding the Eponymous Hero

Posted on November 1, 2012 by Jo Morris

He’s first on the scene, sweeping the sky with his hands,
claiming its moods and movements as his own.
In the wings, we see the footman waiting to come on.
He shuffles his feet, wondering if anyone will notice him arrive.

I want to tell you – look for anonymous, not eponymous.
Find someone not famous
and he’ll touch you like he’s never been touched
closing his eyes
and while the hero soliloquises about the moon and stars,
he’ll trace their light on your cheek, your neck, your breast.
He might not compare you to summer
but he’ll bring you peaches warm from the tree.
And while, in the heat of the moment,
he’ll weep for his dead-centre friend,
once the story is told
he’ll walk with you into the wings
and out into every day.