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

 
 

PREVIOUS ISSUES

¯¯¯

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.

¯

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!

¯

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.

 

 

¯

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

 

¯

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

 

¯

 

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.

¯¯¯

 

SOME LINKS

 

NSW Writers' Centre

Poets Union

Directory of Aust. Poets

Artransit Poems

Written in Sand

Les Wicks' page

¯¯¯

¯

Special thanks to the NSW Writers’ Centre.

 

MEUSE PRESS publishes this collection.

All work © the authors.

APC is an occasional anthology.

¯

 

 

email

 

meuse

 

Top