Poetry

 
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“Editors of small magazines and anthologies are the unsung heroes of Australian literature. Working on shoestring budgets, or for nothing, they create the foundation for poets to develop. Service as an editor myself (Nine Lives, Black Possum Diaries and as book review editor for the academic journal Social Alternatives) means I know something of such labours of love. On the topic of generosity, a shout-out to the convenors of poetry events. (Favourite performance haunts: Sydney Poetry Lounge, Poets Up Late, and Can You Keep a Secret in Brisbane.) I also appreciate the collaborators who’ve adapted a number of my prose poems for performance. It was a pleasure to hear my prose poem ‘When the Americans Came to Town’ broadcast on ABC Radio National and to be the featured poet on its PoeticA program, twice. It was a thrill to hear the lyrics of a poem from Mountains Belong to the People Who Love Them transformed into a choral work performed at the Queensland Performing Arts Complex and to play a role in developing friendly relations between the Australian and the Korean people. It was moving to contribute to a benefit for coal miners with deadly lung diseases and to see another choral performance of another work, ‘The Nature of my Illness Being …’. This experimental prose poem was inspired by the find, in the dirt of an abandoned mine office in Blair Athol, of a bundle of sick notes penned by coal workers. It was first accepted by the editors of the Melbourne journal Verandah before being anthologised (All Walks of Life). Ann Bermingham and the Mt Nebo Men’s Choir adapted it for the benefit at Magda’s Community Artz, Brisbane and performed it on one night only, an unparalleled experience. (Perhaps this particular prose poem is not done yet!) I’m currently assembling individual poems on the theme of work for a fourth collection. Again I treasure the careful attention paid by journal editors who are publishing my poems, one by one. Dear editors, dear convenors, dear adapters, you illuminate the darkness of solitary creation. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

The author is collected in anthologies: Kookaburra Shells, Small Packages, Taboo Haiku, The Sky Falls Down. Journals include: Blue Dog, Blue Pepper, English Teachers Journal, Hecate, Indian News, Mozzie, Plumwood Mountain, Right Hand Pointing, Social Alternatives, StylusLit, and Tasmania 40° South.

A poem inspired by a hairdresser (Terry Windred, 1951–2012) of a country town, in The Sky Falls Down: An Anthology of Loss (Ginninderra 2019)

124-LUV

Don’t even think about spending more than two seconds
bleating about your broken heart in her salon
because she’ll tell ya straight –
men are only good for one thing.
After a hair appointment with Terry
you leave feeling like you’ve danced all night at a disco
’steada having the dead cells on top of your head tizzed up.
Every time you book in, she has redecorated
and is swirling around in a weird teenage outfit
running a hand through the latest colour in her hair
or the tinsel wig she wears after the chemo.

Hates it when she can’t work any more.
Drives her husband nuts as she runs up her Bankcard
on huge mirrors and rows of lights across their living-room ceiling.
I see this jazz when I come to stay the night.
She’s wearing slinky black pants and a sexy pink T-shirt
and I’m in my fake leopard fur to help her believe
we’re drinking cocktails and not spending the evening
lounging on the double bed she can hardly leave
now her bones have started to shatter.
Darl, she tells her husband, you gotta get me back to hospital
for a decent shot of morphine
.
The poor bugger’s so sleep-deprived he can hardly dial the ambos.
When they register it’s multiple myeloma they know she’s in trouble
but she chirps away as if they’re two spunks tempting her
into the back of their panel-van to zoom her to a midnight beach
instead of the Emergency Department.
I’ve seen you guys somewhere before – that naked ambos calendar!
They laugh back Lady, you should be on TV.

And before they close the ambo doors
her husband calls Darl you won’t believe
the number plate, it’s 124-LUV
and she answers I’d like to give these spunks 124 love.
They ease her away like she’s celebrity cargo
while we stand in the empty driveway
and punch the air
and cry 124-LUV –
as if we’ve discovered
the meaning of life.

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