True beauty - Kathleen (Muir Goodman nee) Sellick
True beauty 2- Ken Goodman
waitin - allanboyd
Twenty Eights - Walter Vivian
Willem de Vlamingh -Walter Vivian
Thanks a Lot - Jim Cornish
Going to Seed- Jim Cornish
Young as You are - Ken Goodman
Mirrors - Ken Goodman
shaking with bees - Kevin Gillam
the afternoon river - Kevin Gillam
cutting cloth - Kevin Gillam
Always rating season - Shen
New flag - Shen
The descent of the British Empire - Shen
The Photograph of My Father - Roland Leach
Charles Yelverton O'Connor - Laurel Lamperd
Showers - Kathryn Hamann
Nights Before Christmas - Kathryn Hamann
NEWCASTLE 2000 POETRY PRIZE
The 2001 Josephine Ulrick National Poetry Prize
NEWCASTLE 2000 POETRY PRIZE
$10,000 Announcement of Winners
Coal River Press in conjunction with Newcastle City
Council is proud to announce the winners of the Newcastle Poetry Prize for 2000.
Congratulations to Philip Salom from Kerrimuir in Victoria on winning first place for his poem, Preservation: Things in Glass. Phil will
receive $7,000. This is the second time he has been
awarded the prize, the first time being in 1996.
Second place winner is Alan Gould from O'Conner in the ACT for
his poem, A fold in the light. Alan will receive $3,000.
Highly Commended works include:
Peter Porter, London, England, for The Sydney Spiders.
Jennifer Maiden, Penrith, NSW, for The Japanese Garden.
Judith Beveridge, West Ryde, NSW, for Ten poems in the
voice of Siddhatha Gotama.
This is the Fifteenth year that the prize has been run and
Coal River Press would like to thank the Newcastle City
Council who is supporting the prize with $10,000 in sponsorship.
The Newcastle Poetry Prize (formerly the Mattara Prize
1981-1991) is one of the most significant events on the Australian Literary Calendar.
THIS FINE POEM WON THE FIRST PRIZE OF $1000.00 IN THE 2000 TOM COLLINS POETRY PRIZE, SPONSORED BY THE FURPHY FOUNDRY. FOR DETAILS OF THE 2001 COMPETITION, VISIT
The Photograph of My Father
My mother first saw my father in a photograph,
he is standing on the prow of a navy freighter,
thin as a cigarette from two years in the jungles,
crew cut, army greens and a surprised smile,
not ever expecting to be here again.
It might have been this smile that attracted her
and she made sure she met him at the next dance,
marrying him within months.
He spent the rest of his life trying to capture
that moment that he didn't know was being photographed,
heading out in boats all along the coast
as if the mere act of flotation, a wind-shift,
would bring back that moment onboard
as he looked out with both resolve and resignation,
(which my mother saw as only determination),
that moment when everything mattered and nothing,
and knowing he didn't have to resolve the two.
He would wake at four when he was at home,
taking his small dinghy off Quinn Rocks,
checking his cray pots, dropping a line for herring,
always returning with the smell of whale oil,
the burly stuck beneath his fingernails,
his fish gutted and ready for the frypan.
He didn't like company on these early mornings,
as if the voyage had to be a solitary experience,
and never once did I fish these mornings with him.
He liked to say that God first created the voyage,
then doubt, and finally nostalgia, and confessed to hearing it in a movie. And on good mornings
on his boat he remembered how he and Pat Brewer
were hauled by a big stingray around Brunei Bay all night
before having to cut the line loose,
and on others, usually those humid February days,
with low dark cloud and the sweat already rising,
he tried to envisage how he could have changed events when a Jap sniper had swung from the top of the hut
with a quick shot, and him ducking on instinct
while Pat Brewer got the bullet in the forehead,
a tiny hole that hardly bled, lying there
like he was having an afternoon snooze.
My mother never owned a camera,
said it was like taking a picture of the sea
and never knowing what deaths it had waiting:
its underside of blue darkness
and silent drownings.
by Roland Leach
shaking with bees
shaking with bees. that
peppermint tree. hive like a
shawl. shaking with bees
electric with bees.
peppermint tree a quiver.
that peppermint tree
forgotten by bees.
that peppermint tree - workers,
drones, queen chasing dreams
the afternoon river
is patient and
festooned with kookaburra
and full up on winter and
of my shoe with
white froth from upstream
and through old glass are
tuarts on the
and inwardly rippled with the
worryings of larvae
as a duck cuts
against flow and
seeps into the old stool
lying, half in
and ignores the rusted
sculptings of black cokatoos -
knows sunset is due.
is there a reward for the slow burn?
putting words to alcohol, skimming
words, words pre-said,
that mean much more in head
than near any page. in precious drunk mode
having done one hour of domestics,
expecting some fat reward at the end of it.
there is no reward - that is the reward
now the dust will burn,
extinguishes flame, then bursts, dies again,
tries. too much dust? I poke, spread -
these flames cannot own
so easily. now the dust dances. I taste nothing.
the pen is skating.
Young as You are
Young as you are
I love you
Old as you are
I love you
And the years between
I love you
There is no change.
Your smile is mine
I need not ask
The kiss I take
Young as I am
You love me
Old as I am
You love me
And the years between
You love me
There is no change
Time still wears
Your lovely smile
And Love kisses Love
Within the ring
Where Love's duet
Does sweetly sing
In my hearing, in my seeing,
In my head and in my heart
Find you there my own true love
The essence of my being
In the beginning there were no mirrors
Life was a shape in the mists of dawn
Then pools of light and water silenced and
Self was born
Now the mirrors of life are magnified
with diverse names
With shapes of many colours pictured
in the different frames
And in the many years that watched
the comets pass
So have mirrors seen shapes grow and fade
Until no-one stares back from the glass
The shards of mirrors shattered from the
violence of the age
Lie now in forgotten places as time turns
And the tears that hide reflected faces in
the mirrors left behind
Have left their dying traces in the memories
of each mind
While old and ancient peoples with reflections
time had worn
Are denied their true possession, and are
Shapes without a dawn
Charles Yelverton O'Connor
The horse grazed aimlessly
along the shore
The gun rested on the white sand
beneath the ebb and flow
of the tide.
What brought you to this fate?
A body floating in the surf
far from the green land
of your birth.
Didn't you hear your wife
call you to stay
and drown the vicious words
of a few
is with us today?
They got beneath your skin
like maggots do
in the defenceless sheep
burrowing into the flesh
until you cried for mercy.
But they gave none.
You rise out of this alien land
like a god.
The miners blessed you
as the waters poured into
Mt Charlotte Reservoir.
Your name is emblazoned
in street and suburb.
Where are their monuments?
The destroyers are forgotten
their grave stones fallen into ruin
their words occasionally resurrected
by a few researcher
While your glorious deeds
Thanks a Lot
I don't know if you will remember me but my name's Lot.
In Sodom I was one of the good guys but when things got too hot
we had to get out mighty quick while the going was good
so we dropped everything and dashed off like those two angels said we should
just before you trashed the place and destroyed the sinners
and we had to leave behind our goods and miss our dinners.
Our dopey sons in law wouldn't come along with our daughters
so I guess they perished by lightning or got burnt in their quarters
and serves them right but I don't think that should apply to my wife
who was the apple of my eye as well as the light of my life
even though the poor woman never had a name
and when she looked back at Sodom she wasn't really to blame.
She only dropped her scarf and of course she came to a halt
but when she glanced around to see where it was, Pow! She was a pillar of salt.
The trouble is now the populace is chipping off lumps
and some of her extremities are becoming only stumps
and cows come for a salt lick and lick off all the good parts
so when I see how diminished she is it is breaking my heart
but if you could see your way clear Lord to remove the curse,
restore the missing bits perhaps and put everything in reverse,
I wouldn't mind even if she was only skin and bone
if I don't have to be miserable and spend the rest of my life alone
and I also wouldn't mind sacrificing a few lambs and maybe a goat
and if you want more there's my good green kaftan and rabbitskin coat.
If you could manage this Lord I'd be extremely happy and grateful
and my rotten neighbors mightn't be so snooty and superior and downright hateful
because they don't believe me when I tell them about the angels and the salt
and I'm pretty sure they think the Sodom fire business was all my fault.
Hoping you will give this matter your favorable consideration and that it's not
too much to expect and remain your humble and contrite petitioner, Lot
Going to Seed
I used to be a sapling dancing
nimbly in the breeze.
Now I'm just a gnarled old tree
with wobbly, knobbly knees.
My foliage is becoming sparse,
my limbs are getting weaker.
My bark's becoming blotchy
and my joints are getting creakier.
My roots are limp and languid,
my nuts are dropping down;
my leaves are curled and crumpled
and the tips are turning brown.
I've got galls and knots all over,
I think my sap is thickening;
when I notice how young saplings bend,
I find it rather sickening.
I've been inspected by tree surgeons,
they've prodded, poked and cored me;
They've tallied up my annual rings,
they've lopped and cropped and shored me.
I've seen them scratch their heads and say
there's no more can be done.
Now I can only stand and wait
until the axemen come.
The dove did lend me wings and I did fly
Far from this land of loneliness and grief
To where a haze of peace encircled me
For I did fly where sunbeams meet
The river and the hills, where willows
Dipped their filigreed leaves and gently fanned
The opalescent depths; in the far distance
Pines were there, a solid blue-black mass
Of staunch protectors. And there I sat
Until the calm serenity entered me
And I was one with hedge-briar, bird and swan
No longer human, but a thought fashioned in form
To see, and feel and know - True Beauty
Kathleen (Muir Goodman nee) Sellick
A poem just discovered, written many years ago
With words that hide a memory that Time can never know
For the Dove that lent its wings to fly that lonely heart
Has joined the peace eternal of which Death is but a part
But where do sunbeams meet, and scribe a river's road
With willows leaved with filigree, a jewelled fan's abode
And distant pines that countermarch to drive the fiends away
So many years have passed to hide the echoes of that day
That place of peace wherein she sat, with patience by her side
For there the calm serenity came to soothe her wounded pride
And she was one with briar rose, and she was bird on wing
And she was one with quietness - while all the world did sing
For beauty was the gift of thought that turned the day around
A place enclosed in magic that never will be found
for the sonic wall
cells toasted on hi-grade coffee rings
chords wafting suburban sun
hardie-flex fortress shudder under 28s
for the elvis rush
skin ripe tied and hairless
gettin off on neo-nazi biscuit crumbs
bent like spanish cum
for the dysfunction
peelin back layers
purgin inner stones
lettin jelly cubes melt
before the bow reaches hi-water bliss
and we're in it
Always rating season
Your mind fifty-six
channels of twenty-four hour
Dolby surround sound
porn. My mind just a
remote control, batteries
Your mind massages
within every pout,
the arching of every
eyebrow. My mind not needing
more to translate that
look. Your mind an adults-only
zone which transcends that
My mind wants to stay up late,
watch forbidden films
merge into the warm
fuzziness of static at
the end of a day's
programs. I've figured
you out finally - your screen
doesn't go blank, there's
only a short-lived
afterglow because you never
(written as a renga)
An Austrian artist's
idea for a new Australian flag ;
it had an upside-down Uluru
"....because of the natural
abundance of the land,"
it had the southern cross
and a background of blue
"....to represent an inclusive, multicultural
society with many origins,"
it had a line dividing north and south,
"....the inspirational night sky," and
it had colours of red
"....to honour the first among many
Australians, the Aborigines."
Someone had obviously
stuffed up all the captions.
The descent of the British Empire
"....coming up on the right
of the plane just now...."
She leans excitedly over my shoulder
as Buck Palace swings into view
while we circle overhead the Thames.
She talks loudly to family across
the aisle and exudes a faint scent of
spices and incense mingled with sweat,
thrusts her head into my armpit
in an attempt to see a little better.
Her sari is patterned in blood and gold,
and traces of henna still mark a palm
which stretches out to point toward
what lies just beyond the wing
of the plane. She's travelled a long way
to drop in on the Queen in person like this.
When this guest finally gets to meet
her hostess will she try to chat
(as women inevitably do) of sons
and daughters-in-law, of wedding
dowries and money problems, or complain
about the hot sun on her back
when she hangs up washing each morning ?
The anticipation on her face will only grow
while she breathlessly awaits a reply
in what she imagines will be Her Maj's
Grandma grew up in a dry land
Once the tanks were but silt
and a fine display of bare ribs,
it became her task: the two-mile
trek to cadge water from the spring
The worst day - when she tripped
the hill to-
The water ran before her
a dark shadow - gone
by the time - she turned
to trudge again that baked-hard path
This was a story to be told and retold ...
In the arid season of fire.....my brother and I
belonged to Grandma ..... Each morning
she gave us a jug of.....stove-heated water
and while we scrubbed up.....preparing
to meet her inspection.....she placed outside
one bowl .......... for that day's washing of hands
We grew and cast out.....new
circles.....in which to spend our
summers.....and Grandma had
to leave.....her anxious scanning
of the hills.....for signs of the enemy
The nursing home read her a schedule
made no sense to her
intermittent rain inside?
In the morning Grandma
was lifted from a warm bed.........and led
to a cold room .......... There she was stripped
hauled .......... onto a slippery chair
Back in an armchair
shrouded in a pea-green rug
Grandma sat stunned
shivering away the hours
The next day
when the bright -Good morning
arrived .......... Grandma brought up
the reserve .......... a nice left
hook ........ with lots of power
Highly Commended in the Eyre Writers Tunarama Festival Awards
(HIGHLY COMMENDED IN THE EYRE WRITERS TUNARAMA FESTIVAL AWARDS AND PUBLISHED/TO BE PUBLISHED IN PORT LINCOLN GAZETTE)
Nights Before Christmas
The nights before Christmas
burdened so heavily with heat
sleep is crushed
The nights before Christmas
lit with lights
twinkling promise at house after house
The nights before Christmas
when Father has to work so hard - so late
and.....he brings home each night
to carol in the season
stirring Mother.....to add her
part to the chorus
floor creaking -
the thumpings sounding forth
Mum gets to meet Father Christmas most every night
he's big enough to wrap her up
the present he has is certainly large and certainly red
He's conscientious about delivery
under that dying tree........as
a child hungry for Christmas.......watches
the sack's shrunk
limp and loose
where it belongs
Mother's still down - not a sound
The child.......won't wait for any rising
Back to bed
Father Christmas......might pay a call
In fluting flight that skips the sky
gorgeous gawdy ring-neck parrots
bring delight to ear and eye
chattering in scented gum blossom
Flashing red, green, blue, gold
as colourful as cousinly macaws
delicately gripping nuts for gnawing
strewing the sand with petals
and trilling all the while for contact
with chatterers in other foliage
Then, mutually fleeing trees
to pierce the sky in arrowed flight
merging movement into sound
the music of fleeting rainbows
(I HUNTED PARROTS WITH MY CAMERA FOR WEEKS TO CAPTURE SOME APPROPRIATE EYE CANDY. I'D HATE TO HAVE TO ILLUSTRATE A WILDLIFE BOOK!)
Willem de Vlamingh
We traversed the great sea void
our three lorn little ships
Nijptangh, Weseltje and Geelvinck
at night, like lone yellow stars
flickering riding lights dancing
in the depths of gale-riven dark
by day, lonely columned sails
specks on endless horizon.
And so we rode the storm cycles
seeming every sixth day a tempest
bearing east onto the great land
that had swallowed ships
strewing folk and treasures
into drowning coral depths
seeking the Ridderschap van Hollant
and the poor souls that crewed her.
Our crew dreaded oblivion
when at last at the world's edge
we saw, rough line of land
scribing sea-space from sky
and herring gulls, shortened sail
found anchorage off a wooded isle
sweet sandy solidity of God's earth
and rowed ashore to pray.
There were rats as great as cats
in innumerable quantities
and good Captain de Vlamingh
named the isle, Rotte Nest, and
in the land four sea miles east
pillars of smoke spiking clear sky
we found swans, satanic black
in the Swartte Swaane river.
We sailed past more arid shores
of that moonscape land
found Captain Hartog's isle
and his poor pewter on a post
hammered out our own copy
weighed anchors and set sail
gladly anticipating touch-down
in Java, and civilisation once more.
THIS POEM WAS INSPIRED BY THE TASK OF JUDGING A LOCAL POETRY COMPETITION ON THE THEME, HENCE THE SLIGHTLY ACADEMIC TONE. THE PHOTOGRAPH IS OF THE DUYFKEN REPLICA OFF COTTESLOE, APPROXIMATELY A DUTCH SEA MILE FROM WHERE VLAMINGH LANDED. (ROTTNEST IS NINETEEN KILOMETRES OFF SHORE SO THAT THE SEA MILE WAS PROBABLY ABOUT A LEAGUE OR THREE MILES.)
The 2001 Josephine Ulrick
National Poetry Prize
The winner will receive $10,000 at a ceremony to be held in association with the Brisbane Institute at the Customs House, North Quay, Brisbane on Tuesday 27 February 2001 at 6pm.
The closing date for submissions is 30 November 2000
Conditions of Entry
The Josephine Ulrick National Poetry Prize, offered in memory of a significant patron and promoter of Australian art and literature, is intended to stimulate new Australian writing. Consequently the poem or poems submitted must not have been published previously nor submitted for publication or to another literary competition.
should submit a single poem or suite of poems not longer than 200 lines in total
can only submit one entry
must be an Australian resident
must forward 3 copies of their entry typed and double spaced on single-sided A4 paper, together with a completed and signed entry form. The author's name must not appear on any page containing the poem(s), as all poems will be judged anonymously.
enclose a cheque or credit card authorisation for the entry fee of $20.00 (incl. GST). No receipt is issued unless a stamped, self-addressed envelope is provided.
Entries by fax or email will not be accepted. Entries will not be returned. The judges will be appointed by the Department of English at The University of Queensland and their decision will be final; no correspondence will be entered into.
Administered by the Department of English,
The University of Queensland, Qld 4072
The 2001 Josephine Ulrick National Poetry Prize
TELEPHONE (Business Hours):
TITLE OF ENTRY:
(This title should be identical to that at the top of the poem itself. To guarantee that all entries are judged anonymously, your name must not appear on the pages containing the poem itself. The title will be used to identify the author after the judging is complete.)
TOTAL NUMBER OF LINES SUBMITTED:
(Remember to include four copies of the entire poem or suite of poems.)
I hereby declare that the poem entered for the prize is my own work and has not been published nor offered for publication or submitted for any other prize. I have read the conditions of entry and agree to abide by them.
Author's Name: Signature:
Witness's Name: Signature:
I authorise payment of $20.00: Bankcard Visa MasterCard
NAME ON CARD:
CARD NUMBER: EXPIRY: /
Mail to: The Josephine Ulrick National Poetry Prize
Department of English
The University of Queensland
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