AUSTRALIAN POETRY
COLLABORATION
#13
SYDNEY The NSW Writers’ Centre has proven itself over decades to be a fertile nursery for new and developing writers. This is a selection from some of those attending a workshop in August 2007. NSW Writers' Centre FEATURING:
Robyn Edwards, Tim Entwisle, Penelope Evans, Sonia
Hunt,
Suzanne May
and Marian Waller
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Robyn Edwards
Bondi Dreaming
Big ladies, middle ladies, thin ladies
All bouncing over and under waves, all bounding, entering
Hurling bodies through water, skin peeling back ocean
Boundless ocean in body.
Large breasts, half breasts, skinny breasts
Bobbing on the sea, swinging, shifting, sitting, position
is everything
Breasts waving, rubbing the soft ceiling of the sky
Ocean rhythm in body.
Old women, half-way women, young women
Ocean sprites run leaping through time,
Dusk falling, moon calling, water cooling
Ocean seasons in body.
Fine ladies, dreamy ladies, wicked ladies
Body surfing the cruising wave
Head down, arms fly, hands pull, legs muscle, body
rockets
Ocean’s horizon, pirate’s heart.
Fresh girls, quiet girls, shy girls
Yelling, motioning, gesturing, waves fall like boomgates
The ocean listens to the footfall, the catcall, the young
dance
Youthful again inside each new wave.
Black bodies, brown bodies, white bodies
Colour the sky, dive under oceans, through histories,
'round nations
Changing bodies, transforming oceans
The Dreaming is alive.
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Tim Entwisle
Eco-tourism
I ate a coconut crab once.
He was fifteen years old -
a fine specimen.
It is an endangered species
in many parts of the Pacific.
You can tell the gender of a crab
by the curvature of the under-shell
so I know he was a he.
He was presented to me in the afternoon
trussed with twists of grass,
caught by the local men
and brought to the proprietess of the resort
after I had placed an order.
Madame was of French descent,
had been born in New Caledonia,
and trained as a cordon bleu chef.
Her ingredients free-range,
her flying fox in red wine had been divine.
It was she who encouraged me;
she who sent out the hunters
to bring him back alive.
I am slightly sorry to say
there is no happy ending.
I ate him that evening.
But I do owe him something,
an epitaph:
He was most delicious!
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Penelope Evans
BOLERO FLAMENCO
Full house: slow
rhythm
pumps seduction
to the balcony.
Front stage,
crushed velvet
billows gypsy flame.
Fans flutter
ebony,
snap shut to tap
Bolero accent
across pliant
wrists.
Disciplined by net
and scarlet petals
chignons glisten in
the smouldering.
The Spaniard
prowls,
bare torso
ripples.Slick heels
gathering force,
reverberate.
Spot-lit, Ravel
unravels -
sweat,
kettle-drums, raw innuendo
saturate the
air.
Maybe Antonio
Gades is justified -
culture has
become a whore.
Antonio
Gades 1936-2004
A
Spanish flamenco dancer & choreographer helped to popularise the art form on the
international stage.
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Sonia Hunt
Footsteps
The agapantha sits purple
in the earthen vase
the peaches ripen
in the bowl
spilling the sides
with their perfume
Footsteps
from the bush
fade as the door shuts
the clock ticks
in the foot's step.
Through the window
white limbs shine
on the moonlight
I hold the coffee
in my cup
and the wind ripples
laughter floats
on the surface
of this completely still
and ordinary
ordinary night
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Suzanne May
THE GLAD EYE
Sideways peek.
green eyes intent
rogueish interest
gratified with an answering spark
perhaps a naughty wink
would a saucy alluring glance
bring a response
considered carefully
unwilling to give direct invitation
only flattering curiosity
langorous dropped gaze
tilt of chin
slowly lifted brow
finally achieved the
sensuous
seductive
inviting
mischievous
look she sought
so
turned her back to the mirror
sauntered to the ballroom
ready
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Marian Waller
Stonemason’s Alley, Mahabalipuram
Wheezing, wincing at the dusty glare,
bony shoulders straining
with his load, the ageing cutter hauls
his lurching tray of rough hewn stone into the lane.
He’s on the home stretch now.
At least he’s almost there, until
his cargo teeters as he swerves
an instant for a passing cow.
Relieved at last to let the wooden cart arms drop,
he halts in time.
Nervously watching for the foreman’s curse,
he mops his grimy brow.
Stands and wavers, waits to catch his breath
by a stall piled with iridescent spices,
while a clamour of lean dogs spin,
pirouette and yelp, mad in the choking air
for scraps.
Hears now ahead, as everyday,
the fellowship of dusty ghosts creating song,
the steady chink chink chink of steel on stone,
as side by side, corralled in cluttered workshops
down this lane,
squatting on stools or mats in fields of dirt,
the powdery craftsmen
tease out crowds of gleaming
gods from soapstone.
Some see the old man standing
breathless by the lurid stall.
They turn back grimly to their art,
willing him not to fall.
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SOME LINKS
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Special thanks to the NSW Writers’ Centre.
MEUSE PRESS publishes
this collection.
All work © the authors.
APC is an occasional anthology.
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