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The Little Red Door & Winston Thursday night saw the launch of Alogopoiesis, the fascinating new collection from Amelia Walker published by Gazebo Books.
Amelia has been writing and performing poetry since her early teens, had seven books published, including four collections of poems, and teaches creative writing at UniSA. And this launch was a little different, in that other local poets read from Amelia’s book who shared their connection with Amelia, their chosen poem(s) and responded with one of their own.
First up was Mike Ladd who read the first poem in the collection ‘Kite’, in which the speaker studies a tree-trapped one ‘arcing, diving’, considers how it arrived there by ‘romancing cyclones’, juxtaposing this child’s toy with ‘the opposite of violence, shining like a knife.’ Mike then read a poem about his mother who, as a girl, was literally caught up in a dust storm, continuing the theme of turbulence.
Kerryn Tredrea was up next with ‘You’re missing’, where the absence of another creates ‘holes’ to be sewn up, re-filled, as if darning a beloved garment to make it last longer, with the action of missing a way for the speaker to keep the loved one present, near. Kerryn responded with a poem about internet dating, another way of seeking what may often seem an elusive someone.
Heather Taylor Johnson followed by reading three versions of ‘Taking time’ that revolves around an ailing father isolating during the pandemic to stay safe, the daughter understanding and yet ‘it stung’, realising the risks associated with contact, ‘But still. But still.’ Heather then shared a three-part poem about menopause, mirroring the refracted self in a multitude of ways.
Sarah Pearce read two different versions of ‘Island’ next, in which a woman is the island upon which ‘sailors wreck themselves’, and how she is ‘cultivated’ and ‘shaped’ by another woman who, after everything, prefers the speaker ‘wild’, her original self. Sarah responded with a poem called ‘Ophelia’, unspooling the tragedy that culminates in the individual being ‘mossed in fear’.
Last up was Bronwyn Lovell who shared two versions of ‘Through the cracks’ where a relationship is examined and left wanting, the ruin of the furnishings surrounding them indicative of where it’s at, as the speaker relates to their ‘chipped’ plates, feeling ‘faded, missing, cracked’. Bronywn finished the readings with a poem about her ex-boyfriend, echoing the previous disconnect.
Gazebo Books offer ‘books for curious minds’ and indeed it is a curious book, with an extraordinary structure throughout and a title that captures the contents perfectly – ‘alogia’ meaning an inability to speak fluently and ‘poiesis’ making – and so these poems speak of absence, the blank space of a page where the challenges of being exist. The interwoven intricacies of several versions of the same poem render it kaleidoscopic, the colours and cadence and circularity so evocative of life, that a reader’s compelled to explore it.
at The Wheaty Wednesday night was epic featuring a stellar line up – Bronwyn Lovell, Alison Flett and Dominic Symes – who helped launch each other’s new collection.
First up was Bronwyn whose work I’ve long admired and her collection, In Bed with Animals from Recent Work Press, is possibly one of the best debuts I’ve ever read.
Bronwyn is a novelist and science fiction scholar as well as a poet, and her work has been shortlisted for some big poetry prizes, including the Dorothy Hewett Award. These poems speak of one woman’s experience of gender discrimination in an ecofeminist voice, calling attention to the exploitation of the environment and animals too. ‘Bitching’ is a fine example, in which Bronwyn draws comparisons between herself and her beloved dog Carmela, both in terms of treatment and temperament:
We domestic animals are still wildly
frightened. If a man mauls me,
they will look for the predator’s DNA
carved in crescents under my claws.
from ‘Bitching’ in In Bed With Animals by Bronwyn Lovell
Alison followed next with her captivating collection Where We Are published by Cordite Books, evocative of home wherever that may be.
Originally hailing from Scotland, Alison travels back to her roots in these raw, visceral poems of longing and belonging, of here and there, conjuring memories along the way interspersed with the delectable Scottish dialect. Alison’s poetry is simply brilliant and I was so pleased to see her infamous fox poems in this collection, (which form a chapbook by themselves published by her own imprint Little Windows Press), a symbol of this fleeting life that shines with her brilliance:
from ‘Semiosphere’ in Where We Are by Alison Flettthe rain runs in rivers
through its red-black fur
and the pavements are thick
with its foxy scent
and the rain rises
to meet it as it runs
and the pavements run
with rivers of its redness
Last but by no means last was Dom reading from I Saw The Best Memes Of My Generation also from Recent Works Press and with a title that sticks.
Dom founded the monthly No Wave poetry readings to try and fill the gap left by the Lee Marvin ones, brain-child of Ken Bolton who is another fine Adelaide-based poet, both of which I’ve had the honour of reading at. Dom’s work is both tender and funny, can make you laugh out loud or nod in rapt agreement, and he had a clever technique; letting the audience choose which poem he shared, that cheered for a Cher poem louder than a Prince one:
I’ve been instructed by The Guardian –
which I pay for now
after being guilted by that widget which kept telling me how
many free articles I’d read & which I’ll admit
feels kind of like paying a bully at school to stop you from
getting beat up (I believe that is called a ‘racket’)
– to feminise the cannon
from ‘Queering the Cannon’ in I Saw The Best Memes Of My Generation by Dominic Symes
Adelaide has a thriving poetry scene, much of which buzzed in the room that night, and with this being the final No Wave coupled with the heartfelt words shared, emotions were high. And it was a festive celebration too, with Alison supplying delicious home-baked treats and party hats, each with a line from a poem and it’s author on the back. Everyone was invited to select one that speaks to them; this was mine:
And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass.
from ‘And the days are not full enough’ by Erza Pound
So if you’re looking for stocking fillers, buy these books. Brimming with confessions, heartbreak and wit, they will not disappoint because their appeal extends beyond poetry. It reaches you.
J V Birch 