A good prose poem is something quite unique and who better to teach its essentials than two of its finest poets – Cassandra Atherton and Paul Hetherington.

Image courtesy of Cath Drake

Hosted by brilliant Australian UK-based poet Cath Drake as part of her poetry masterclass series, Cassandra and Paul shared the main features of a prose poem, what sets it apart from flash fiction and poetic prose, as well as some examples. The class also had chance to draft their own prose poems, which I struggled with as I can’t always write on demand, however it did give me ideas.

I met Cassandra and Paul at a Poetry On The Move Festival in Canberra a few years ago. Their work in this area is extensive and they’ve recently edited The Anthology of Australian Prose Poetry published by Melbourne University Press, which I was fortunate enough to be shortlisted for, but my work sadly didn’t make the final cut.

Their energy and enthusiasm for prose poetry is contagious and has spurred me to explore the form further, because I’m intrigued with its dichotomy of being fragmentary and a stand-alone narrative, like a snapshot of some larger work. So my aim is to practice with Cassandra’s advice in mind – a good prose poem should leave you barking like a dog at the moon.

First Fridays at South Australia’s Art Gallery (AGSA) provide an opportunity to experience art after-hours without the daily crowds. Last night saw brilliant local poets Jill Jones and Alison Flett read poetry inspired by the current exhibition Clarice Beckett: The present moment.

‘The boatshed’, 1929, Clarice Beckett, image courtesy of AGSA

This stunning collection is split into the times of day Clarice enjoyed painting – sunrise, daylight, sunset and moonlight – with each room lit accordingly. Her work is exquisite. Using a limited palette, she captures shimmering scenes that although everyday, have an ethereal quality, best viewed from a distance to heighten the depth of each piece.

And the poetry was just as stunning. Introduced by the gallery’s director, Jill and Alison identified the work or works their words sought to frame, then alternated between themselves, as well as haiku and longer poems. Both captured the delicate movement and light streaming through Clarice’s art superbly, insightful gifts beautifully rendered.

I plan to revisit the exhibition before it closes, compelled in fact. It moved me, swept me elsewhere and yet now, left me with Alison’s lines on life and our place in it and Jill’s question – how much do we need to love the world?

It’s been a difficult year. For everyone. Just before the pandemic hit I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Shocked wasn’t the word. But it was the best kind apparently and hadn’t spread beyond a few lymph nodes. Just to be sure, we threw everything at it – chemotherapy, surgery, radiotherapy and medication – and now I can honestly say I’m a different person. The experience has changed me. For the better I think.

And throughout this time, a world of action became a world of words. I turned to poetry, as many of us did, found comfort in writing about what I was going through to make sense of it all. When I told my boss the news, amongst other things she said ‘just think of it as fodder for your next collection!’ So true and one I’m currently working on (a poem from it has recently been published in StylusLit).

And speaking of collections, this debut is a gem – Sorry about the mess by Heather Trickey – published by HappenStance. Heather received a cancer diagnosis around the same time I did and explores this in these poems along with family, loss and love. More than 200 people from across the world attended Heather’s Zoom launch and London Grip released a stunning review of the book.

I hope to post more regularly, about all things poetry, just thought I’d break the silence 🙂

Sending your poems out can be daunting. Some return like boomerangs; others are snaffled like truffles. And sometimes the boomerangs don’t come back, which goes to show right place, right time.

A good source of submission calls is Submittable’s weekly newsletter, Submishmash, which lists creative opportunities for anthologies, competitions or just general intake, aswell as residencies and fellowships. I’ve discovered quite a few publications in this – Coffin Bell, a journal with a focus on dark literature and District Lit, an online magazine seeking themed work, both based in the US.

Facebook is another great place to find out who’s looking for what, particularly being a member of writing groups. I’m in the Adelaide Poetry Gig Guide and Writers South Australia to name a couple, and recently found a host of publications seeking disability-related work thanks to one of the posts, so intend to submit some endometriosis poems.

Like most writers, I keep track of my submissions on a spreadsheet. Inevitably the declines outweigh the acceptances, but it’s a wonderful way to track your work and more importantly, to ensure that poems rejected by one place are not resent to them!

Last week I read twice – Wednesday at No Wave hosted in The Wheatsheaf Hotel and Sunday as guest poet at Hills Poets in the Aldgate Pump Hotel.

No Wave is a series of poetry readings held on the first Wednesday of each month, the brainchild of brilliant local poet, Dominic Symes. Four poets are invited to read for ten minutes. I was first, with two relatively new poems on a seasonal theme, followed by one from each part of more than here, then a few more new ones. Next up was Dylan Rowen who shared a brave, poignant poem about his mum and the atmospheric ‘Twilight Men’. After the break was Louise Nicholas, a talented poet and friend, reading ‘At Faber and Faber’ about her recent workshop experience and another on drinking in poetry, very entertaining. Paul Turley closed the set reading a series of short poems, one of which was ‘In the Fish Tank’, a goldfish’s perspective.

I’ve been guest poet at Hills Poets before, so it was great to be invited back. Jill Gower convenes the monthly poetry group, another wonderful local poet with her latest collection, Winkle Pickers & Brothel Creepers, also published by Ginninderra Press. After a poem had been shared by each member, Jill introduced me. I started with both the first and last poems from A bellyful of roses followed by four poems from more than here (a different four to No Wave), but finishing with the same new ones. A break followed with another round of poems from all, spanning a combination of styles, content and meter.

As well as the readings, I have some poems upcoming in Ache Magazine, Coffin Bell Journal and The Poeming Pigeon, about endometriosis, strange encounters and the moon respectively. It’s good to be busy. With words.

This is a formidable collection of sixteen short stories by Aimee Bender split into three sections, culminating in the title one, “The Girl in the Flammable Skirt”.

Intricate worlds are unravelled where nothing is what it seems and desire has many faces – a bowl mistakenly gifted intensifies existing introspection, a runaway teenager holds a woman’s life in his hands, a robber and his girl steal gemstone rings until the gems start to leak. And Aimee’s style is fantastical, both her characters and sentences bristling, alive.

In “The Rememberer”, a woman watches, helpless, as her boyfriend reverts to the origin of the species, the first lines captivate with amusing brevity:

My lover is experiencing reverse evolution. I tell no one. I don’t know how it happened, only that one day he was my lover and the next he was some kind of ape. It’s been a month and now he’s a sea turtle.

In “Quiet Please”, a librarian sates her sudden lust by fucking men the day her father dies. When one parades her through the library on a couch, she reaches for the mural of fairies on the ceiling to give the fairy missing a mouth “a big wide dancing smile.” The next day, “an hour before her father is put into the ground”, she notes:

…the laughing ones now pull along one fairy with purple eyes, who is clearly dancing against her will, dragged along with the circle, her mouth wide open and screaming.

In “The Healer”, two girls attempt friendship at school – one has a hand of fire, the other has ice – finding they cancel each other out upon contact:

Their hands dissolved into regular flesh – exit mutant, enter normal. The fire girl panicked and let go, finding that her fire reblazed right away, while the ice spun back fast around the other girl’s fingers like a cold glass turban.

Lives on tilt, these encounters, while inhabiting elsewhere, are grounded in the visceral – love, fear, death, hope, what is real and what is less so. Aimee has another collection, Wilful Creatures, which is also on my wish list, because the magic is here, and there.

pays. So far this year, I’ve had two poems accepted by two magazines I’ve been trying to get into for ages. Years in fact. Happy just isn’t the word!

The first one is Magma, a UK-based magazine publishing three themed issues a year, each with a different editor. The theme of the issue my poem will appear in is ‘Work’ due out next month, and was inspired by a bee colony that took refuge on the side of the building where I work while it scouted for a new home. I took the draft to one of my poetry groups and half-hardheartedly included it in the suite of poems I submitted. When told it had been longlisted late last year I was thrilled, as this was the furthest any of my poems had got with Magma. So, you can imagine my reaction when it made the final cut.

The second publication is Cordite, an online magazine here in Australia based in Victoria. Like Magma, Cordite has themed issues, with the occasional no-theme one, and a different editor each time. My poem, ‘Every other Friday’, appeared in the ‘Monster’ issue edited by Nathan Curnow this month and was published on my brother’s birthday, which was apt seeing as he featured in it. This is quite an old poem that I wrote back when we were living in London and again, I included it in my submission on the off-chance it might resonate. It did.

So, is this luck, timing or perseverance? I think all three. Poetry is incredibly subjective and what one editor disregards, another selects. I remember a blog by Kim Moore, a UK-based poet, who shared her experience of finally getting into The Rialto. The message is, never give up.  And the irony is, I’m appearing in the next issue of Mslexia, another magazine I’ve been trying to get into for years, albeit with one sentence about this very thing.

The last show I’m reviewing for mindshare is #nofilter, a blend of dramatic theatre and music at the Marion Cultural Centre last night.

Offering “a backstage voyeuristic view of The Black Dog Circus”, this was an intense experience from beginning to end, exploring themes of suicide, drugs, gender, rape, body dysmorphia and violence, with the audience seated at tables equipped with popcorn, glitter, tissues and patient clinical assessments of each of the casts’ characters.

In the first scene, we see a young girl who, after saying goodbye to her friend for the day, battles with demons, literally, as she tries to reconcile her fears and worries aided by an angel of sorts who is soon overpowered, culminating in the girl slitting her wrists in the bath.

The next scene opens with a clip of two schoolgirls sitting on a bed chatting, enter mum who is furious at their intimacy, throwing one out while she screams at the other (her daughter), packing her bags, so she can leave. Next, we see the daughter sleeping rough, shooting up, prostituting herself, the final part an overdose played out to an excellent cover of Madonna’s Like a Virgin, accompanied by a talented violinist.

One of the most poignant scenes centred around a girl wheeled onto the stage in a chair by one of the demons, who then proceeds to wind her up like a doll to perform, until she remembers her body and reveals a scar across her belly like a rictus. She spies three balloons at the top of a pole and scales it lithely to pop each one, watching as they explode into glitter.

In fact, balloons bookend the show – black ones escape from a box like desperate thoughts through to yellows rising indicative of hope, not before a single one of the latter kind is examined by each cast member as if confused by its bright presence.

And so, the show progresses deeper and deeper, each scene standing alone, but connected with the dark at play in our lives, how you keep it in check or not, the human condition stripped and raw. This was my top pick last year, but it was cancelled due to one of the cast members taking their own life, one of many images of young people flashed on the screen as the remainder sing a beautifully moving rendition of Coldplay’s Fix You to sobs in the crowd.

 

The purpose of the show, with part proceeds going to suicide awareness, is to normalise the conversation about mental health, to reassure people it’s okay to not be okay and that no perception of shame is too great to seek help. Powerful doesn’t cut it.

My fourth mental-health themed show to review for mindshare was Rose Callaghan’s 12 Rules for Life performed at the Rhino Rooms last night.

Originally from Melbourne, Rose moved to Sydney for, in her own words, ‘dick’, having been single for 7 years, which is almost 3 Olympics and in Australia, about 15 Prime Ministers. Rose thinks dating apps are ‘rivers of shit’, as many state their occupation as ‘CEO and Founder’, which she interprets as an overconfident Uber driver with an ABN.

So now armed with boyfriend and having grown out her fringe, which she refers to as ‘face curtains’ (and interestingly, men’s pubes as ‘dick beards’), Rose is seeking some rules for life. And that’s when she discovered Jordan Peterson, a psychologist and author of self-help books, aka ‘a Trojan horse for masochism’. Rose played some audio clips to demonstrate this, in which Peterson draws comparisons between humans and lobsters amongst other things, prompting Rose to exclaim:

He’s so sexist, he makes Trump look like Clementine Ford’s moon cup!

(at which point Rose checks the audience knows what a moon cup is, explaining it should be called what it is – ‘blood bucket’). Rose is a feminist, belonging to many groups on Facebook until they start fighting each other, at which point she cancels herself and joins a smaller group, until they start fighting each other and so on, until she’s in a group with just herself where ‘things are a lot calmer’. Suffering from Attention Deficit Disorder, this is ideal for Rose.

Rose believes only homeowners watch The Block and they should invent The Renters Block Edition, where the winner gets their bond back. Continuing the house theme, Rose spoke about how her baby boomer parents no longer have space for her small collection of childhood things, despite their huge empty house where her bedroom is now a study, which most in the audience could relate to, along with the way men come to bed and simply announce ‘I’m sleeping now’ and do just that.

Rose was entertaining, and when sharing her own life rules before closing the show, there were some fundamental messages – ‘own your mental health’ and ‘respect people’s mental health’, something we should all do, despite the challenges we’re often faced with. So, what are your rules for life? Mine’s simply ‘Life’s short, make fun of it.’

With Adelaide Writers’ Week wrapped up for another year, I want to share some of the highlights for me, predominantly poetry, despite the limited selection this time.

The Opening Address, Imagination Redeems, was delivered by Ben Okri, a Man Booker Prize winner for his novel The Famished Road. Ben was an engaging speaker, believing that “literature is one of the great freedoms” and that “reading happens in the theatre of the mind”. Being human is a strange condition, which we “seem to accept and hurry about our lives”, and Ben went onto explain the concept of unfreedom, where “our deepest dreams are strangled at the roots of their dreaming place”. Ben left us with these words:

The strength of our freedom is wholly dependent on our imagination. Children see small castles in stones growing into adults who cannot see the small stones in castles. Literature is a way of seeing with the mind.

The first session was Open Book with David Malouf, the title of his new collection, which spans all stages of life. David explained how he learnt poems by heart, his first favourite being Kenneth Slessor, quickly followed by Rainer Maria Rilke, Wallace Stevens, Emily Dickinson and W B Yeats. For David, poetry comes from a dreaming, rather than a thinking, place, and when planning a collection, he waits until he has enough poems and then tries to order them in a coherent way. David shared the title poem from his new collection, and ‘On the Move’ and ‘Late Poem’, stressing the importance of close listening and layering in language.

Next up was Fiona Wright’s The World was Whole, the follow up to her award-winning essay collection Small Acts of Disappearance. Fiona’s writing is mesmerising, part poet, part memoir, who doesn’t consider herself to be a confessional writer. She’s not ashamed of her illness, with her new book about managing it on a daily basis. When stuck, she reads Helen Garner, a famous diarist and thinks herself a slow writer, having to battle with a double consciousness in that she can never just sit in a park and relax, her mind is constantly working. Fiona spoke about transcendent time (a journey) and imminent time (here and now) – her new book focuses on the latter.

The final session I went to were the Poetry Readings with Birgitta Jónsdóttir, David Malouf, Fiona Wright, Joelle Taylor and Ben Okri. Birgitta’s an Icelandic poet, who read a moving piece about refugees as heroes and another about colonising women inspired by the #metoo movement. David read a poem about the war in Brisbane in 1944 from his first solo collection, followed by a few from Earth Hour, another of his fascinating works. Joelle’s a spoken word poet, sharing how she was raped by soldiers when she was five then reading excerpts from a canto in her new collection, Songs My Enemy Taught Me, to express this trauma. Fiona read from her new collection, Domestic Interior, including the title poem and the entertaining ‘Thank you internet’ which comprised a conversation Fiona overhead in a café. Ben closed the session by sharing a love poem, and another about stars and wishes/fishes, a clever play on words.

Needless to say my book collection has grown considerably with a few of them signed, so roll on next year’s Writers’ Week, and may there be plenty more of the poetic kind.

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