The Arts Queensland Award for Unpublished Poetry 2001
Cyber Poems Some perfect poems, with a nod to Jean Cocteau.
an earthy, briny mix,
warm insistent licking
gulls somewhere else,
breeze selling wet stories
whirr of crickets,
burp of frog
then
urgency of feather....
pelican? swan? wings
hung to dry
feet mould into sludge
and head fills, empties, fills
with river
to the blind
Kevin Gillam
a life
can you see a life in
reptilian skin,
a firm flung mouth?
a life that's embraced
the religion of doubt?
I can see a life
staring
drinking me in
Kevin Gillam
Catchment
river warps like old glass
and words don't move
words don't move here. from city rhythm
they shy
blue wrens skitter atop yellowing carpet
of unmoving words
breeze beneath verandah. no moving words.
tuart leaves silvering
no moving words -
butterfly unfolds like book
massage oil reminds that hands and
not words move here
ripples of frogs from ponds
of unmoving words
no moving words. only sky making/
unmaking itself
oil drum rusts alongside
words not moving
jetty half under. no moving words.
the river not going this way
or that.
Kevin Gillam
,
Are we the wimps of poetry?
Composing poetry instead of prose
content to pose the questions?
Poets in their lifetimes never eat
caviar or truffles,,,,,,,,,,,,, nor taste
the honeyed words approvingly
dripped from smiling lips
of those who know mechanically
the right of writing rites.
Lightweights in a mismatched
match with literary giants
who almost automatically
mix each mishmash of words
to combat the competition
and compete for one raised
hand ,,,,,,,,,,,,, ,,,,,one kind word.
Writers of a Lesser Genre
deaf to all defeat,,,,,,,,,beating
constantly against the doors
of recognition,,,,,,,,the closed minds
of technicality,,,,,,,,the inner cliques
in their introverted inbred webs
spinning masterpieces easily
preying,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,Goliathlike
on all the davids of the word.
Ann Davis ©
This rocky knoll
is guarded by
random stands of
skirted warriors
green spears
piercing blue sky
and strong black feet
firmly braced
in broken granite screeWalter Vivian
(THESE MAGNIFICENT, SLOW-GROWING ANCIENTS ARE ON A PIECE OF EXPENSIVE REAL ESTATE ONCE KNOWN AS BILLY GOAT FARM. THE ORIGINAL INSPIRATION FOR THE POEM IS SOMEWHERE IN THE FOOTHILLS, YEARS AND KILOMETRES AWAY.)
If Thomas Timothee Vasse
of Dieppe
had not drowned in the surf
at Geographe Bay
in 1801
but lived
to welcome the Bussells
in 1837
could he have persuaded them
the Nyungar people
were not wandering nomads
but guardians of the land
who had kept the ancient laws
forty thousand years.
Now the forests are eaten
by wood chipping
the cleared land
turn the rivers to salt
where the Nyungar fished
and danced the corroboree
of the hunt
sang of the totem
kangaroo, goanna and emu
and the great serpent
which came from the north
carving life-giving waterways
out of the earth mother.
In thirty years
of living with the Nyungar
Thomas Timothee Vasse
might have learned
the relationship of the land
to the people
and the people
to the land
but the old truths are forgotten
and we, the inheritors
ignore their passing.
Laurel Lamperd
(Published Western Review - October 1997)
Heritage Trails
Like snail leavings
they spread across the country
twining along vanished railway lines
over vacant hearths
smothered in red pig face.
Researchers come to discover
past reminders of lost forebears
among the bridal creeper
broken china and rusty cans.
Finding nothing
they might have stayed at home
or gone holidaying in Bali.
Only the mute slag heaps
can tell the tale of
blood and sweat
pain and sweet desire
and babies in the cemetery.
Laurel Lamperd
Sisters
We shared a room
two beds and a wardrobe
dressing table and bookcase.
She was younger than I.
She nearly died at two
with diphtheria.
They fumigated the house.
Our bedroom was papered up
for a week.
Her friends came
and played dolls on her bed
when I wanted to dream
with Anne of Green Gables.
Mum said.
They're not hurting you.
I want my own room, I said
which wasn't possible.
There was my brother.
My mother said.
There were four of us
in the same room.
Tough luck, I said
and slammed out of the house
down to Helen's
where there were four of them.
Helen was always babysitting
the youngest.
We slept together
when there were visitors
cousins Sophy and Amelia
in the other bed.
They're not friends either.
They say we look alike.
I can see her in me
see where the bloodlines
and genes mingle.
But I'm closer to Sophy than her.
Laurel Lamperd
Email &endash; llamperd@wn.com.au Website &endash; www.wn.com.au/llamperd
Edith Cowan House
on the brown porch
she waits on the steepest slope
for joeys restless in their pouch
this is better than feng shui
to a house where leaves barely fall
sundown will bring peace
a xerox count
a stack of letters to post
night will bring avenues
of standard moons
magpies sending messages into tin
trees groaning in their aging
and in the dim light
windows will open on recumbent kangaroos
sentinels on grass
across the lake
twin fountains will cease like rain
she waits for night to lift its skirts
swishing past in important gowns
she suspects there is a presence here
ball dresses in eye-masks
pinched cheeks, fans feathering chins
gentlemen parched in dusty boots
uproarious laughter
no matter what comes
she will mingle and clap
at the sight of it all
******
I Came Knocking
at Tom Collins House
it's a year of houses
this one lives forever
inside walls turn the hourglass
language shifts like sand
words drift between the lines
I wait in quiet trees
listening for slippers shuffling
along passageways and doors
my instrument clicks nervously
your pen is kept at the head of the desk
moves only with a living hand
the inkwell is dry now, save for the odd stain
indelible in the light, searching a window's shoreline
I imagine a figurehead at the desk
stooped, gathering a wind's paper trail
while I wait
the air lifts
valleys are warm inside my glass castle
I find the tunnel to Alice's wonderland
the way a breeze rolls on my knees
imagine life like an ocean liner
seas breaking in and out
making you want the land
I'm here alone
where autumn gathers a permanence
on this leaf-littered ground
Joseph and Tom are long gone&emdash;
I turn the door handle, find it opens
gently in my hand
Helen Hagemann
© Copyright 2000
Neptune's nocturnal raid wiped our footprints
hurled our refuse against the wall.
Now, icing sand, border to a jelly sea.
A gull glides a zephyr.
Wildscreen that night.
Ribs curl upwards.
Strands of flesh dangle.
The camera pans the flattened grass.
A lioness licks her jaw, eyes close.
Others bask their flanks in the sun.
Later, Hitler declares lebensraum.
Tanks explode walls.
British bombers have their turn.
The morning after the Dresden firestorm
smoke drifts from rubble.
The credits roll over the eternal flame.
Phil Ilton
Buttons
Each of my shirts
had buttons of different colours.
Your black slim-line dresses
had matching buttons,
masking their inner red.
My hugs triggered
your childhood intruder.
Your rejection
had my boy within
yearning for love.
I have wished
I could've sewn
all your buttons
to your dress,
for me to see.
There's no stitching now.
You're a different needle,
constant in my veins.
My past aphrodisiac,
now my withdrawal.
And as you spend the night with him
where, what colour,
are your buttons?
Phil Ilton
Unwelcome Share
In the foreground
people digging;
a phalanx of surgeons
shovels their scalpels,
dune buggies their theatre trolleys,
plastic bags of infected sand,
their laundry linen.
In its illness
the surf frothed yellow.
Out to sea
the duplicitous horizon
concealed towers
sucking the seabed.
Black gold is a bonanza
on the share market.
Phil Ilton
To Mitchell
Your face is a changing chameleon
One moment it ís open and friendly
Then closed and stoney
You let people know only what you will
Your face can be stern and angry
Happy, bright and jolly.
It can hide the light within
Or flood all those around with your brightness
You absorb much
And reflect little
You take in all around you
But only let out what you wish
Your eyes are your weakness
And your strength
Through then you see all
And leak out your secrets within
You are strong and caring
Happy and witty
You think about all around
And consider their place
I am glad and proud
To have a place in your
Complex and intricate life
I am proud to be your Dad.
R o b C u m m i n s
My friends,
Look at your hands.
They are coated with
The blood of your neigbour.
Anger, cold anger, insulates your heart.
Your eyes are glazed with envy,
Envy that should have
disintegrated over the years.
Listen. Your neighbor is singing.
You don't have to like the tune.
You don't have to sing along,
Just listen.
You need not sing with them,
But respect them when they speak.
You need not like them,
But speak no evil about them.
They are the same as you
And you must quickly learn this.
For everytime you murder one of them,
You are slowly killing yourself.
When the sun slowly sets upon your home
You may urgently need them.
They will be there for you
Because you would have been there for them.
Benjamin Raymond
I Don't Recall
You told me, 'Life's a bitch. Get used to it.'
But somehow I don't recall registering for life.
No one dared to ask me
Whether I'd like to be here or not.
No, somehow, I don't recallÉ
I don't recall staring down at Earth,
Pointing and saying,
'That's where I'd like to be.
Bring on the tragedies,
Bring on the problems!.'
No, somehow, I don't recallÉ
I don't recall going online
And submitting my information to planet earth
So they could call me back
If I fitted the job description.
No, somehow, I don't recallÉ
Benjamin Raymond
If I could reach back
soften your hurt
be the person you wanted
it would delight you
,,,,,but not me.
If I could reach back
pull you into the present
share with what I have
it would content me
,,,,,but not you.
If I could plunge us
far into the future
all past would be dust
and it would free me
,,,,,from you.
Dawn Bruce
Libretto
We hung wind chimes
in a garden archway,
delighted in first tinkle
like a child's laughter
growing more boisterous
and tossing sound
through every gust of air
rising and falling
like birds revelling
in currents
of a windy day.
During the storms
they clashed
against the timber arch
that held them
at one small point.
Sound became noise,
anger
slashing grey air,
hurting
wounding.
Now air is still.
The wind chimes
have lost their gilt,
hang rusted, one bell missing
somewhere in the weeds
of our garden.
Dawn Bruce
Dream-child
in the shadow-secrets
he lies curled quiet
a whisper away
from truth
in the midnight stillness
he uncurls stretches
a ghost drifting upward
from the past
in the morning bleakness
he is banished by
the clatter of crockery
and every-dayness
Dawn Bruce
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Walter Vivian
Perfect Cyber Poem 2
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Walter Vivian
Perfect Cyber Poem 3
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Walter Vivian
Chat Room
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Walter Vivian
I HAD A SWAG OF CYBER POEMS, WHICH I RECALL AS BEING SUPERIOR TO THESE, LOST WHEN I CHANGED COMPUTERS.
ONE OF COCTEAU'S CHARACTERS IN HIS SCREENPLAY, ORPHEUS, (ORFEU?) WAS HOOKED ON JOTTING DOWN NUMBERS HEARD OVER A CAR RADIO, AS PERFECT POETRY.
JUST FOR FUN!
Currents of wind swirling rise over the plains, across the sky fly threads of ibis elongated
Beating wind through winter's cold - spirits of the storm.
Comes summer, heat has drawn the air with dryness in anticipation of explosion with
awesome power.
Laser lightning with brilliance flashes illuminating clumps of buloke trees
Heightening the feelings of awareness, exciting with promise.
Dense drops of rain pound with thunderous drum roll,
Assaulting senses with sound, lashing the country with furious intent.
Then sun breaks through, uplifting dulled spirits.
A magpie carols with joy pouring from the heart in careless rapture.
The night's velvet cloak folds over, enclosing the brilliance of day,
Obscuring the landscape, awakening loneliness echoed by a mopoke.
As stars in jeweled brilliance shine night brings restful peace
But across the land the surge of life beneath the surface lies
Excitingly unpredictable.
Audrey McGilp Smith
"Jaguar, jaguar -
there in the wires,"
she says. It's the
way she sees,
such that metal
twisted
can be more
than curves and lines.
Ryan Scott
OBEJCT D'ART
Half moons of coffee rings
dunning a brown surface -
which clings to wood it's
meant resemble - which
peels. Saucers -emptied of food -
refilled with butts - at three points (one is
kicked over). The Best of
Glen Campbell. A crushed
can. A pen kicked
into view. Windows
filled with landing lights, deliveries,
faces mostly unknown, the shadows
of trees like
fringed skeletons assembled
around the final light
of convenience
and more windows
- and
his boots
polished everyday.
Ryan Scott
TIMETABLES AND PASSING
Sometimes buses and trains
and buses flow like the
perfect remark made in
the moment, the ramification not known
until the bus pulls away from your stop.
Sometimes an entire life can begin,
thirty minute sponsored fables
pass and relationships
end to the flop of heels on heel and the
click-click, click-click, of nails on teeth.
Careless words come less readily
when running for the bus, the hiss
of a reopened door, closing around you
pulling at the sides of your mouth, but jaws
fix around the wrong combination of sounds
while staring at the gap between
numbers, and wishing
for a bus to lighten
this corner and take this now
to a destination twenty minutes away.
Ryan Scott
WATERMELON MEDITATIONS
Picnics on Saturdays
hands chase flies
reds and yellows dissolve
the black lumps
no-one wants.
This is how
I'd like to think it was
when it came to eating
melons, as I peel
off the clear skin of food wrap
biting at the sweet mess
pink and burst
over my chin, swarming
with black seeds
those not swallowed down
with pencil ends and finger nails.
If only these odds and ends from
nerves could hold the seeds
until a vine could unfurl
perhaps from my belly hole
or straight through the gut, where
my friends and the
curious could come and eat.
"WaterMelon Man," they'd call me
and I'd think it a suitable name.
Ryan Scott
Dress drapes her figure with power
the hair knows better than to stray
the face - a blank masque
(make-up ,,,,,,brush coded)
Her partner ,,,,,,knows his place ,,,,,,how to keep it up
the children (one or two) are framed with gilt
kept small on the desk ,,,,,,the human touch
There's a nanny / childcare / aged P / whatever ...
outbreaks of domesticity dare not approach the shrine of work
She's tough ,,,,,,a video of Îhow-to1
each freeze-frame ,,,,,,defining professional
achieving the cliché it's one with bite
She ,,,,,,has power and thrust
nothing dares ,,,,,,get on ,,,,,,top of her
it's all so refined ,,,,,she never never emotes
mirroring without reverse ,,,,all that is demanded
And if we cannot be ,,,,this image - rating double X
we ,,,,,,are the betrayers
,,,,,, the lesser beings
we heard the plain song ,,,,,,were too small ,,,,,,to push
aside St. Peter ,,,,,, and rattle those gates of pearl
,,,,,, ,,,,,, May failure give us back
,,,,,, ,,,,,, ,,,,,, enough
,,,,,, ,,,,,, of ourselves
to turn besotted eyes ,,from the green-backed land
In the cast off spaces ,In the valley of dry bones where
the winds blow ,,maybe
,,,,,, ,,,,,, there is
,,,,,, a whisper
,,,,,, ,,,,,, of another heaven
Kathryn Hamann
Cat's Paw
"Traitor" you cry
running hands at me ,,,,as if you
had right to claim me ,,,as yours
From such unseemly displays
I roundly turn my back ...
Surely ,,,,I never knew such boors!
present company and their pats
not to mention - the superior food is
all my present world.
Go on! Get lost!
,,,,,, You're the one
out of place and time
Learning nothing! Understanding less!
I return ,,,,,you scold
delaying the filling of my bowl - and why
because I allow them bait ,,,,,,I need
never offer those ,,,,fallen long ago
Lifting my nose to the door I demand
exit ... shake at you ,,,, a most offended paw
Try to see things from a cat's point of view
Your household deities left
for whatever ,,,,,,you might dare put before us?
Well no cat was made
to accept second place and If I wish
for company, why? should I curl
nose under paw and snuggle
up with loneliness
(Of course it is different, if we
chose to absent ourselves on
feline business whose secrets must
remain closed to the human race)
We cats ,,,,,we like to spread our favours,
run several households at once ,,,,,,and if
we have the skill to negotiate a network
all sharing the delights of sleek, purring pussydom:
why complain? ,,,,,why should any?
be denied the pleasure we alone bring
Ask - do we love you less?
,,,,,, ,,,,because we make sure
that our lovers are more
,,,,,, ,,,,,than one?
When we deign to be with you, we
charm with every movement
dazzle with each line and curve
whether posed in watchful sleep or
artful games ,,,,,,and if so moved
we may chatter ,,,,,,graciously passing on
tidbits ,,,,,,from the latest feline gossip
before taking purr-productive pleasure
in the one
chosen
for that hour
branding him ,,,,or her
with a rubbing caress
Stilling time
we fill space ,,,,,,with warm waves of
feline love ,,,,,, and as your hands
are soothed by velvet fur ,,,,,,we make
our claim complete
So ,,,,,,when it comes ,,,,,,to a cat's greatest art,
we felines ,,,,,,expect you ,,,,,,to show appreciation
enjoy the joke ,,,,,at your expense
take delight ,,,,,,in how we arrange
our schedules to be
the one special cat ,,,,,,to many
Kathryn Hamann
Angel
you were born
I was your many-winged seraphim
you sank into my deep feathers
one by one my eyes began to open
you found ,,,,,,wings were soft
a softness ,,,,,,that scratched
your skin ,,,,,,that sucked you
down ,,,,,,clogging your mouth
forcing you ,,,,,,to push
out ,,,,,,desperate
for breath ,,,,,,un-
regurgitated
the time of your growing
the time when wings
thinned ,,,you trialed
strength ,,,,,,broke feathered bars
once pried apart ,,,,,,your eyes
could feed ,,,,on what lay beyond
I know my wings are no longer seemly
that you must go
that you will return
begging them for the shelter
they cannot give
In the shadow of what was
you will lie down
weeping
until all ,,,,is spent
then ,,,,you will be gone
and my eyes will wear out
one by one as I wait
for another return
for what I do not have
when the angel of death comes
the kiss shall be blind
Kathryn Hamann
Allergy Alphabet
asthma add asthma add allergies add ...
blood testing
crying to the power of cortisone to the power ...
diagnostic deafness determines good diagnostic practice
E. coli gone feral
failed Aged Ps
grouchy guts love gastroscopies
hospitals one after another showing us their doors
immunoglobulins dying to be injected
jazzy jelly beans an anaphylactic shock guaranteed with every second one
kinky kidneys
leaking blood
mid-stream urine (on a two-year-old???)
nap time (just kidding)
opportunity socks for that Nobel ovation
patient waiting
questionnaire twenty pages plus qualifies as quality ...
respiratory function ,,,,,,(nil???)
stethoscope chilled (on the rocks)
this may cause a little discomfort
umbrella platitudes
ventolin vice
warp time on special at your local casualty
X-rays
yawns (not permitted)
Zambia sounds good
allergies
asthma
attitude
breathless
breathing
belligerence
confused
cantankerous
catastrophe
d___
,,,,,,,,,,,,,, AMA OFFICIAL WARNING
allergies in children are caused by
a neurosis (a dementia?) flaunted by
a certain type of middle-class middle-aged female
attention seeking due to hands full of time
albeit known as - "a mother"
avoid this hazard at
all costs (see code d)
- an AMA official warning...
Kathryn Hamann
About This Business of Take Up Your Cross ...
Look Lord
I hate to point this out
but in your famed quote ,,,,,,cross
was singular ,,,,,,I've still
got at least eight ,,,,,,large-size
not to mention ,,,,,,all those
little crosses ,,,,,,slowly swelling
and then ,,,,,,there's the bits
with the odd piece ,,,,,,still to come together
You ought to be aware ,,,all
I got was the standard issue ,,,,,two hands / two shoulders
AND WE ALL KNOW WHO'S RESPONSIBLE
So I'm not doing a lot of following at present
you'll just have to nail me to each one in turn
or do I have to do that as well?
No Lord ,,,,,,It doesn't work
while I'm doing my ten minute stint on one
the others are crying ,,,,,,"What about me?"
"me first" ,,"me" ,,,,"me"
bloody me raised
to the power of infinity
Lord! ,,,,,, This is not
the time to do your ,,,,,,Now
you see me ,,,,,,Now you don't
I haven't got one hand left to clap
Kathryn Hamann
( First published in Arc of Promise by Kathryn Hamann)
Fringe Arts Collective Inc. Presents:
The Arts Queensland Award for Unpublished Poetry 2001
The Arts Queensland Award for Unpublished Poetry is seeking
submissions for 2001. The award, inaugurated in 1999, promotes the
development of young, new and emerging Australian poets. Entry is
free and open to anyone who has published not more than one book of
poetry (excluding self-publication). First prize: $3000, second
prize: $750, third prize: $250. Submissions close 6pm, Friday 31
August 2001. Judges are poets Gig Ryan, Peter Boyle and Philip
Neilsen. Winners will be announced during the Subverse: 2001
Queensland Poetry Festival, October 4-7 2001. Entry Forms can be
downloaded from the Fringe Arts Collective Inc. website:
<http://www.fringearts.asn.au/>www.fringearts.asn.au or by sending
an SSAE to:
The Arts Queensland Award for Unpublished Poetry
PO BOX 5787
West End QLD 4101
Further enquires please ph: (07) 3891 5118 fax: (07) 3391 0447 or
e-mail: <mailto:subverse@powerup.com.au>subverse@powerup.com.au
(ENTRANTS ARE ADVISED TO CHECK OUT LAST YEARS WINNERS ON THE WEBSITE. THEY WERE RICH IN PLATH-ETUDES BUT THE CHAPS SEEM TO BE JUDGING THIS YEAR SO THERE COULD BE SOME CHANGE!
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