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Archive for May, 2009

This short poem by Joyce Freedman starts as a rollicking read.Joyce Freedman But the strain on the tangled threads of family relationships builds then snaps. It is a powerful poem. Poempig thinks every teenager who has been relentlessly criticised by their father should read this poem.  It frees the spirit and therefore belongs in the class of Jailbreak Prose. 

 

 

1.

My father said, in my teenage years 
My finest feature was tiny ears.

My spirit soared; I didn’t know 
Everyone’s ears continue to grow.

He thought I’d be a tad more neat B & w child
If less of me comprised my feet.

My eyes, he thought, were commonplace 
Much better, though, than my acned face.

2.

My ears are huge, my feet are spread 
My eyes are weak—and my father’s dead.

 

Joyce Freedman

 

 

This poem first appeared in Quadrant Magazine: #mce_temp_url# 

 

Clip Pic Amy Heague:  #mce_temp_url#

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This untitled poem of Michael Thorley’s is simple. It captures the everyday yet it shimmers with something ethereal. It hints of things beyond knowing. 

in the church

security camerasangel

how strange

these bother me more

than God’s all-seeing eye

Michael Thorley

Michael Thorley is an Australian poet who writes in both traditional and free-verse forms. His book Sleeping Alone can be purchased at Ginninderra Press, ACT #mce_temp_url#  

This poem first appeared in the Stylus Poetry Journal, Eucalypt 5: #mce_temp_url#

Photo Clip: Anna Theodora: #mce_temp_url#

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“Is there mental illness in your family?”Adell Rucker

 he snorts … matching me to his theses.

“Oh no” I say to his blank face

“It is in the species!”

 

Kerry Cue

photo: Adell Rucker #mce_temp_url#

 

 

 

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Many claim that rockstars are the new age poets. Some are, of course. But some aren’t. One rock star who has goneout of his way to prove he is NOT a poet is Bobono Correctionno. If Elvis wasn’t dead already I suspect this poem published in The Australian ( 7/5/09) would finish him off. 

 

bono

 

 

 

 

 

elvis

body could not stop moving

elvis

is alive, we’re dead

elvis

the elastic

 

 

 

elvis

 

 

 

the plastic

 

 

 

 

 

 

with a spastic dance that might explain the energy of america        

 

 

 

 

Maybe it needs music or maybe you need to read this poem through rose coloured glasses!!!  On the other hand,you have to wonder at the power of celebrityhood. Ahhh, Bono appears to be suggesting that all Americans are spastic? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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On Tuesday 12th May, 2009 a POETRY JAM was held at the White House. Poets everywhere should feel a sense of renewal in the President’s comments.

We’re here to celebrate the power of words,” President Obama said. Words “help us appreciate beauty and also understand pain. They inspire us to action.”

 It is not just that poets got a foot in the door of the White House that is cause to wax lyrical and/or metaphorical. It is the nature of the readings. This poetry involves full-on in-your-face, raw, extreme, clear , precise, emotional, king-hitting, attention-grabbing performance. It’s youthful. It’s out there and it’s the snort-of-cocaine poetry needed kicking in it’s veins. My greatest complaint about so many contemporary poets is that their readings sound simpering and half-dead, apologetic even. These performances, however, are confident and brash. They’re how it should be done.

Mayda Del Valle read her poem “A Faith Like Yours“. Here is an extract: 

my tongue a broken needle scratching through the grooves of lost wisdom mayda
trying to find a faith that beats like yours
what secrets do your bones hold?

Full Lyrics to “A faith Like Yours” @ Chicago Tribune : #mce_temp_url#

Photo from Mayda Del Valle website: #mce_temp_url# 

Here is Mayda Del Valle performing another of her poems, ‘To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before”

#mce_temp_url#

Go Mayda!!!!!!!

Other poets at the event were finalist’s in the HBO Brave New Voices Youth Poetry contest. 

Jamaica Osorio

Here she is performing her poem “1893 “on the HBO website: #mce_temp_url#   jamaica

 

 

‘On January  17th   1893 a city was buried in tears’                                                                                                                                                                                                              

The other poet featured was 19 year old Josh Bennett. 

From ‘Carbon Copy’:

‘The undeniable truth remains that

I’m a carbon copy of my pappy

exactly five feet ten

mahogany brown eyes

a hundred and seventy pounds soaking wet

and not a muscle in sight’

Here he is on the HBO Website performing his poem ‘Carbon Copy’ IN HIS LOUNGE ROOM with the fridge in the background.  #mce_temp_url#    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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This poem by award winning ACT poet, Suzanne Edgar, uses a razor-edged scalpel to cut through that  robust, jolly-hockey sticks mask of confidence we so often wear when our own mortality is threatened. Like the Greek muse Clotho who spun the thread of life from distaff onto her spindle, this poet  spins the raw thread of fear into something beautiful.

I’ve got the biopsy blues

from rather gruesome news:

feels like a punch in the gut,

they say my throat’s to be cut.

A man with a steady handscalpel

will snip off a little gland

in the shape of a butterfly ‑

both the wings must die.

He’d better not nick a chip

off neck, or cheek, or lip.

After my throat’s sewn up

and I have woken up

in the coldly clinical world

of an alien hospital ward,

will I still be a similar me

or less like I used to be?

Still feel a dizzying swing

as my mood lifts off with a zing?

Hope I can sing soprano

not drop to a throaty alto,

if I can even speak.

I bet I’ll look a freak.

That surgeon’s pretty cool,b & w butterfly

they reckon he’s nobody’s fool

so I shouldn’t think this way.

He operates twice a day,

it’s how he pays his way

to reside in Double Bay.

When a butterfly has to die

 

 

it never wonders why.        

 

 

Suzanne Edgar

Suzanne Edgar’s most recent book is The Painted Lady available now in:
 the bookshop of the National Library of Aust
the bookshop of the National Gallery of Aust
Paperchain Bookstore 34 Franklin St Manuka ACT,#mce_temp_url#, 02 62956723; 
from the publisher, Ginninderra Press 79B Lipson St Pt Adelaide SA 5015

Butterfly Clip Art : DJamesm #mce_temp_url#

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Here is a poem called Mistakes by Adelaide poet Charles Crompton aka professional performance poet, Shaggy Doo Beats. We all want to be grown-up and in control. This poem captures the essence of the offness we all feel on an off-day often in an off-month in an off year. We all have them. Charles Crompton

I was a child

That grew up

But as an adult I still in life can

Muck it up

Fuck it up

Stuff it up

Bugger it up

Screw it up

Mess it uppaint pic

Smash it up

Rip it up

Blow it up

Throw it up

Live it up

Loosen it up

Giveit up

Pick it up

Hang it up

Tidy up.

By Charles Crompton    #mce_temp_url#

This poem can be found in Charles Crompton’s latest book Shaggy Doo Beats which can be purchased through the auhtor’s website.

Clip Art Mark Lawrence  #mce_temp_url#

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