During the weeks of doing this course, I have been really blessed with reading some extraordinary poetry written by other students. Some of it moved me so much, I asked for permission to put there here. So each week, I’ll probably add to this post with new poems I’ve discovered. I mean, some of these other students are just so talented, you know? They string words together like a Möbius strip and form entirely new concoctions and then ‘act all surprised’ when you’re impressed by it LOL. They weave this incredible landscape entirely with words and much of it seems tactile and evocative of a real world. Anyway, enjoy! I know that I will!
- I Protest – Imogen Hannabach
- Monsoon – Jeshurun Hofmann
- Window – Ryan Brown
- Her and my Serious Predicament – Jeshurun Hofmann
- Where have the all artists gone? – Ryan Brown
- Coffee addiction – Carley Duvenage
- Untitled – Matthew Crawford
- Kitchen Table – Thuy Hoang
- Soundless Wind Chimes – Darcy-Lee Tindale
- Cliche Corruption – Alan James
- In the shade of the Eucalypts – Ryan Brown
Author: Imogen Hannabach
Dear God/ Goddess, Pantheon thereof, Un-named
unknown deity, anthropomorphic
personification, whoever is in charge
of things around here;
I would like to protest
the cult of Twilight and
fifty fucking shades and
girls who don’t eat and
the Valentine’s Day machine and
reality tv programming and
Jean-Luc Godard’s “Breathless” being
off the market while they just keep
making Nicholas Sparks
I thank you for Neil Gaimen’s new Dr Who episode
and this years Soundwave lineup, and the
Motley Crue/ Kiss 2013 tour
but can we do something about the fact
that my Aunt can’t marry the
love of her life just because
she’s a woman, and the way
my niece looks at herself in the mirror
even though she’s only twelve, and
if you could find out what’s happened
to the happy ending that Walt Disney
and Hollywood and the advertising
industry promised me
that would be awesome.
Could you show me
which form I need to fill in
that would be great.
Hello? Are you
Author: Jeshurun Hofmann
Every morning from June to September the skies
are grey. The air is pregnant with endangered humidity
waiting to display. The first drop falls with a guaranteed
promise, monsoon is here. By noon, tin rooftops are dancing
with an untiring rhythm. Nature silences the works of man.
Deep in to the night the earth drinks to its thirst as the skies
shed tears from pains of months past. Attempts from
the sun will be overthrown, for three months straight
this is the tone.
Author: Ryan Brown
rain streaks its
past smeared palm
fingerprint. The fractured
of well-aimed rock
my reflection in
Her and my Serious Predicament
Author: Jeshurun Hofmann
And there I am stuck in it
I cannot get her off my mind
Each day a dangerous heartache
Every minute a pain to bear
Every joy a distant memory
Black and White now shade my day
Sense is lost
My purpose entirely shaken
I cannot but marry her
Where have the all artists gone?
Author: Ryan Brown
Where have the all artists gone,
to work in banks and offices,
to chase their forty hour dream
and superannuation scheme?
Where is their resistance,
or are they, too, seduced
by cooking shows
and prime time news
and are they now pacifists
in a losing culture war?
Or are they medicated,
and too afraid to part
with their van Gogh ears?
Were they lobotomised
so as not to cause alarm
or do themselves harm,
or are they simply too afraid
to open veins and spill
their lives upon the page?
So where have all the artists gone?
You will find them at the supermarket,
at a restaurant,
they have just finished work
and turned their backs on us;
they are too afraid
of hunger and immortality.
Author: Carley Duvenage
To measure my day in coffee cups
is a good way it would seem,
because I’m simply a disciple
to your bush evergreen.
You’re wicked and cheeky
but sensuous still.
Your frothy perfection
A measure of my daily thrill.
I crave the way you’re served:
drip brewed, percolated or pressed,
a simple means to a way
of living my life unstressed.
Your instant is my enemy,
so too decaffeinated
and to your Irish cousin
I’m surely vaccinated.
So my morning barista
will serve you best by day;
whether ristretto or doppio
or a simple iced latte.
And so my day is measured
in coffee cups by five,
for you’re hit of caffeine
and bitterness I thrive.
Author: Matthew Crawford
this here missive
written earnestly dismissive
sent by rapid channels patiently to you,
just my way to share
these private little thoughts I bear
though, common as they are, I guess you knew.
I too am
and my confidence eroded
after all these years of toil leaving jot.
So, please write
back, inform me
of your own specific story
and believe me I’ll feel better with my lot.
PMT from my side of the fence
Author: Alan James
the argument quickly turns
black thunderclouds swirl in your eyes
reflecting verbal emotional sledgehammers
forcing my attention
scent of love turns to hate
changed from sexual attraction
to ‘don’t touch me’
back to love
blame shame regret
‘I bleed for you every month and I hate it’
I can taste that sentiment as assuredly as a mere male can.
Author: Thuy Hoang
I was born and raised in a two stories house
It was a triangle shaped house because the land wasn’t so perfect.
My neighbors always thought we were a weird family.
Mother father went out to work in the mine every day,
I was left at home with my Russian dog sometime even for days
But thing is…
In the bathroom there was a well
Father dug the well in 1988
It’s dark, damp and covered with moss.
It looked like a savage to me
But I never minded it.
It was my best friend.
So many times I looked down to the well, staring at the reflection of myself on water
And I started to wonder…
About why our house aint look anything like our neighbors’
About why we never had a kitchen table in the kitchen room
It always felt lonely like the lamp light
Yellow and nostalgic
Knives and cutting boards
They always lay there everywhere
But there was no kitchen table
I always wondered…
Soundless Wind Chimes
Author: Darcy-Lee Tindale
I hung the voice pipes of bamboo
ornate with shell and stone
not one of porcelain or glass
too excessive, too expressive.
I admired the suspended hollowed tubes and waited for the wind to play.
Too lurid, too loud.
I snipped a string, glued a tube and dulled its tune
and while my neighbours built of tin cookie cutters and silver forks hung on
borrowed string played a pleasant tinkling
a dull thud.
Author: Alan James
It was a dark and stormy night raining cats and dogs.
Lightening streaked across the heavens …
‘You’re a walking cliché’ she screamed
I was mortified, a walking, cliché? What do you mean?
‘You speak the tired words of others and never your own’, she replied.
The writing was on the wall, I was scared out of my wits frightened to death.
Her words, you see, sent a shiver down my spine and cut me to the quick.
I felt gut wrenching pain, heart-stopping fear but I could read between the lines this could be the end of a beautiful thing.
It was the quiet before the storm in our journey.
‘Cat got your tongue?’ She said
‘Stone the crows’ I said ‘what more than love do you want?’
‘What?’ she asked?
‘Because I love you more than life itself’ I purred
‘But those words you whisper are just sweet nothings’ she said.
‘No’, I replied with gathered strength, ‘these accusations are slings and arrows of outrageous fortune’.
I knew secretly that it was better to have loved and lost, then to have never loved at all so I was prepared to fight for the right to shed my light despite her smite.
‘You continue to speak in cliché; actions speak louder than words’ she said
But all is fair in love and war opposites do attract I knew for a fact and I loved her so.
‘I remember when we meet’ I said
Falling head over heel in love,
Walking in the rain making gooey eyes sucking face, there was no pain
‘You are the chalk to my cheese’
‘You the sunshine of my life’
‘The apple of my eye’.
She was unmoved by my flowery sentiment, I know not why.
And I thought, time will tell I’ll prove her wrong because every cloud has a silver lining. This was my time to shine and as they say when you have lemons, make lemonade, haste makes waste so I devised a plan.
And what seemed to last an eternity burning candles at both ends
I worked my posterior rotten toiling through the night to make my case.
I was not an animal of cliché but a man of substance
A human being of poetic justice.
I wrote an original score of such honesty before the face of god and country,
That by dawns early light I felt as old as the hills, I was like a bag of bones,
Brain dry and body tired, seeking rest and mortal sustenance,
I had moved into the unknown country of purity and soul, I had become transparent without the shield of trampled word.
I felt that from this ordeal I was stronger; I had grown as a man!
And it came to pass; she saw my truth in the harsh light of day
Into my yearning arms she sunk full of love, life and laughter. We became one, together meeting as equals.
And so, I always recall the pain of it all, but from the experience came wisdom and with wisdom came experience on the tree of life.
But fear not gentle reader, we continue to live happily ever after …
Because …time heals all wounds… and all’s well that ends well
In the Shade of Eucalypts
Author: Ryan Brown
When I heard your brethren scream
in wind-blown boughs of eucalypt
I ran outside and found
your feathers strewn,
blood-stained grey on dying grass.
I found him crouching in the shade,
pupils flared and teeth entrenched
vicious in your breast,
but by some miracle
he dropped you and fled,
a twitching heap
of shredded wings
and broken legs,
a drop of blood shed
from obsidian eye.
I held you dying in my hand,
still a child
not yet learned to fly
the wind had brought you down,
robbed you from your nest.
I felt your heart
when you broke through,
plunged below rippling sky
and saw your blood
streak warm chlorine.
A rusted spade pierced the earth
and tore a shallow hole,
I planted you in sandy soil,
where Empatiens grew,
where still, on summer days
I hear your brethren cry
when your killer stalks
splintered light and settles
on your grave to sleep
in the shade of Eucalypts.