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Suits black ink faded to green and stretched over weathered fingers the tribal heart an illusion due to my grandmother’s name layers of memory etched into his skin five cents a name and twenty dollars to hide his impulsive nature I never knew the other woman the symbols of his past shine through grease and scars and sweat and his honest work tools held aloft like a sabre hands that fixed all the people around them but still broke every thing they touched pieces of video recorders and televisions still litter our world I remember tracing each image with tiny fingers and feeling dwarfed by his greatness he lead by example those identifying marks saved him when I could not recognise his clean shaven face and screamed for my bearded [...]

Landscape

Voices of Haiti is a synchronic document, the proverbial Bermuda grass of sensory experiences; it has no fixed center, no predominate bassline, and no resounding agenda, other than that of presenting the shimmering diversity of lives in the post-earthquake world of Haiti.

No motion has she now, no force / she neither hears nor sees

Traci Brimhall & Eryn Cruft

Visual Poetry Rachael Briggs is a research fellow in the philosophy department at the Australian National University, and writes poetry to unwind.  She is the winner of the 2011 Val Vallis Award for Unpublished Poetry, and the cafe poet at the Cafe Checcocho (through the Australian Poetry Centre’s Cafe Poet program).

Myth of Cosmos

So what are some other major facets of Ashbery’s relationship to American pragmatism?

The Magic Cat by Andre, Year 6 Stanmore Public School The feline stands as proud as a lion. It is as blue as the eyes of a dark panther. Its journey comes across the valley of the kings. Its whiskers white as a dwarf star. Even if its head is like the desert, Its body becomes the waves. Its gemstone is hard and heavy, Though can be lifted with the greatest of ease. Its silence is the call of the wind, And its presence is the breeze. The talisman is the only thing we have, Even though we have a lot. It didn’t cost much, but its value to us is far more. It is an Egyptian symbol, The last she could find. My mother travelled the world, Before she met [...]

The Catalogue: Eight

I want to start with a problem: an overwhelming, close to paralyzing sense that an essay about John Ashbery’s poetry is like a representational critique of a cubist painting.

Francis Thompson 1859-1907 by Robert Adamson He slept by the Thames in newspapers, a makeshift blanket, fevered talk. A loaded opium pipe. How much did it cost for his pencil to curve across pages? At dawn a red fox limped past and unsettled the sparrows. Francis drew down words, one at a time— worried about his best lines as they appeared in print. He addressed envelopes in a curved hand to enfold his poems— then walked to the Post Office at Charing Cross. A century later, I read ‘The Hound of Heaven’ by a river in New South Wales, hear a bitter chuckle before his ‘running laughter’— revelation’s soundtrack.  Robert Adamson has lived near the Hawkesbury River for most of his life. A series of juvenile misdemeanours resulted in him being [...]

The Poetry Object encourages young writers and their teachers submit poems and photographs about objects that are special to them. Springing from The Red Room Company's education program, The Poetry Object is a free writing project for students attending NSW Public Schools in the Sydney Region. Special objects that inspired poems in 2011 included coffee machines, beloved pets and books, the Quran, cricket bats, musical instruments, jewellery and clothing, revealing the rich meanings that objects acquire as irreplaceable parts of our lives. As part of The Poetry Object 2012, six celebrated Australian poets have been commissioned to write new poems about their own talismanic objects. Winner of the Thomas Sharpcott Prize, Nicholas Powell; performance poet and fellow Sharpcott Prize winner Rachael Briggs; Judith Wright Prize runner-up Sarah-Jane Norman; 2011 City of Sydney Poet, Kate Middleton; Samantha Hogg, an exciting [...]

Exile: an invitation to a struggle

Whim as a form of virtue, constancy as grace.

Chittagong