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
http://www.iinet.net.au/~fawwa/

 

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

Kevin Gillam

 

the afternoon river

is patient and

festooned with kookaburra

and full up on winter and

the colour

of my shoe with

white froth from upstream

and through old glass are

tuarts on the

far bank

and inwardly rippled with the

worryings of larvae

as a duck cuts

against flow and

seeps into the old stool

lying, half in

half out

and ignores the rusted

sculptings of black cokatoos -

knows sunset is due.

Kevin Gillam

 

cutting cloth

 

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.

Kevin Gillam

 

 

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
Nothing alters
There is no change.
Your smile is mine
I need not ask
The kiss I take
You give

Young as I am
You love me
Old as I am
You love me
And the years between
You love me
Nothing alters
There is no change
Time still wears
Your lovely smile
And Love kisses Love
Within the ring
Where Love's duet
Does sweetly sing

Ken Goodman

----------------------------

 

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

Ken Goodman

-----------------------------------------

Mirrors

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

another page

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

Ken Goodman

 

Charles Yelverton O'Connor

 

The horse grazed aimlessly
along the shore
Riderless.

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
at Fremantle
far from the green land
of your birth.

Didn't you hear your wife
and children
call you to stay
and drown the vicious words
of a few
whose insularity
is with us today?

Instead
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
are remembered.

Laurel Lamperd

 

 

Thanks a Lot

Dear Lord

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

Jim Cornish

 

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.

Jim Cornish

 

True beauty

 

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

Ken Goodman.

 

 

 

waitin

for the sonic wall

cells toasted on hi-grade coffee rings

chords wafting suburban sun

hardie-flex fortress shudder under 28s

waitin

for the elvis rush

skin ripe tied and hairless

gettin off on neo-nazi biscuit crumbs

bent like spanish cum

waitin

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

allanboyd

 

 

 

 

Always rating season

 

Your mind fifty-six

channels of twenty-four hour

Dolby surround sound

 

porn. My mind just a

remote control, batteries

always included.

 

Your mind massages

subliminal messages

within every pout,

 

the arching of every

eyebrow. My mind not needing

subtitles any

 

more to translate that

look. Your mind an adults-only

zone which transcends that

 

classification.

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

cease transmission.

Shen

(written as a renga)

 

 

New flag

 

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

and white

and yellow

and black

"....to honour the first among many

Australians, the Aborigines."

 

Someone had obviously

stuffed up all the captions.

Shen

 

 

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

exotically-accented Hindi.

Shen

 

 

Showers

 

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

coming down

the hill to-

wards home

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

daily showers

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

raped..........with water

 

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

Kathryn Hamann

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

a voice.....raised

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

 

Silent night

the sack's shrunk

he's hanging

limp and loose

He's placed......her

Christmas treat.....right

where it belongs

Mother's still down - not a sound

 

The child.......won't wait for any rising

Back to bed

Be good

still

silent

Father Christmas......might pay a call

Kathryn Hamann

 

 

 

 

Twenty Eights

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

Walter Vivian

(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.

Walter Vivian

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.

Each entrant:

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

 

 

Entry Form

 

The 2001 Josephine Ulrick National Poetry Prize

 

NAME:

 

ADDRESS:

 

 

POST CODE:

 

TELEPHONE (Business Hours):

(After 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: /

 

SIGNED: DATE:

 

Mail to: The Josephine Ulrick National Poetry Prize

Department of English

The University of Queensland

QLD 4072

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