I’ve never been particularly good at subtlety. Nor at the slow ‘ease into’. So let’s not be subtle nor try to ease into the message here. The message is this.
By end of February I will have a perfect bound, 120GSM Knight Linen two sided 56 pp ACTUAL BOOK printed with my name on the cover and my poems inside for you (if you feel like it) to get your hands on!
It’s a collaborative effort between myself and Chloe Callistemon, another local poet, whose work was short listed for the Shapcott prize in 2013 and was also Speedpoets call back of the year. Trust me, you’re gonna love it. We are getting towards the final stages of the project (negotiating with printers etc) and I am actually getting excited now as deadlines loom and the manuscript has come together.
I’m finding myself in an odd place creatively at the moment; as this project is nearing completion and another project is reaching a critical point in the drafting phase, I’m finding my writing is less spontaneous and more focused on refining and ‘corralling’ work rather than plucking it from wherever it comes. I’m also finding myself reflecting more often on what functions my writing fulfils for me, how it separates from and then reconnects back to my own subjectivity and how it has become both a means of being and a means of getting-in-the -way-of- being. More importantly, I’m finding myself trying to strategise as to how and where it will fit into the (so few) hours of the (so few) days of 2014.
And now here’s a poem (or three).
three examples of taking this thing too serious-like
the street is imagined as an echo of dust
(how quaint) as chambered
rounds in your throat sit politely
and you wait for delivery
you busy yourself with drafts
multiplying and unfinished
as ballpoints in a drawer you fish
through when looking for something else
you think perhaps this is how you will
lose the found parts of yourself
among old pens as ink
in you clogs then cracks as clay or concrete
grateful when rain comes at last
conducting earth out from under you
and it and that and this and you and everybody else
will all be always already entirely okay with it
you think of this
how it and you will feel on paper
as you become a small voice
lost in small voices
you hear her as a note hurled up
three and a half feet tall
the only thing you wrote worth singing
la-la-la-ing her way down the hall
while you busy yourself in maps to something
of great purpose and something to call daring
hurling yourself back through your bones
she pulls a face and calls you silly
steals a pen and draws the world