Erasable Poetry

Yes, it is true, I have officially become an Insta Poet.

One of the reasons this platform makes me uneasy is because it is so ephemeral (which is a euphemistic way of saying ‘disposable’) – poetry necessarily takes time, whereas the entire premise of Instagram is that it is… insant.

But I’ve decided to put my grumpiness aside and instead embrace the medium by creating ‘Erasable Poetry’. These are spur-of-the-moment poems I’m writing with whiteboard markers on erasable surfaces.

I write the poem, snap a photo, post it on Insta, and then erase it. It’s an entirely different process to what I’m used to (many of my ‘real’ poems have taken actual years to complete, if you chart the process from first draft through to publication). The quality of my Insta poetry obviously isn’t as good, but it’s fun to write, and it’s a nice way to stay creative within a busy life.

As for the other #poetsofinstagram. With very few exceptions, they would all benefit from reading a lot more poetry (the sort that comes in ‘book’ format) and from being open to constructive criticism. If you’re in the game solely for affirmation and accolades, you’ve picked the wrong art form.

My two cents!

Pink Cover

Honoured to have been included in the inaugural edition of Pink Cover zine. If you can get your hands on a physical artefact, it’s a work of art; lovingly hand-collaged by the talented and passionate Samantha Trayhurn.

The launch was fun, although I should apologise for disappearing so early; I get overwhelmed in rooms full of writers! Everyone taking detailed notes with their large brains…

I don’t do Twitter (for reasons also relating to anxiety) but I did appreciate the shout-out from Anne Casey, thank you!

Here’s me at the launch, before I drank too much alcoholic lemonade and went home to lie on the floor next to my cat:

Photo credit: Dr Steve.

The other zines available on the night were Marrickville Pause and So Fi Zine; both excellent.

Thanks to Sam, your zine is lovely, and I’m so glad there are people out there creating opportunities for poets.

Home Economics

The future’s uncertain. Caution is best.
So partner up and bunker down.
Stockpile your assets. Build your nest.

To be fully secure, you have to invest.
Add gold to your palace, jewels to your crown.
The future’s uncertain. Caution is best.

If you waste your life on folly and jest
you’ll wind up homeless – a fool, a clown.
Stockpile your assets. Build your nest.

Keep your cards, at all times, close to your chest
and your feelings hidden behind a frown.
When the future’s uncertain, caution is best.

Shut your eyes to the plight of the poor and oppressed.
Give your raft to a stranger, and you’ll drown.
Stockpile your assets. Build your nest.

An ice age is coming. This isn’t a test.
Only the prudent survive in this town.
The future’s uncertain. Caution is best.
Stockpile your assets. Build your nest.

 

 

 

Tramsheds

Tramsheds, 2011. Photo by Tim Brooks.

Those old trams were like wrecked ships in the swirling murk
of an underwater crypt. We passed through in shoals –
some with cameras, some with rope. To enter,
we’d break in through a hole in the fence, ignoring the sign,
rusted and bent: TRESPASSING IS PROHIBITED
and pass from sparkling order into shadowy neglect.

Back then, in Glebe, us weirdos could afford the rent.
But much can change in a decade. The only trams now in this locale
are functional, modern, swift – transporting the Great Washed
to respectable jobs – the carriages defaced not with spray paint
but ads. The sheds are unrecognisable –
gentrified and desecrated – entry is via escalator.

It’s Sydney’s Most Dynamic Food Destination, but you can’t get
a sandwich – the closest thing is a croque monsieur, topped
with a duck egg. The exposed kitchen reveals the chefs –
tattoo embellished, ironically bopping to Elton John,
proud of their ethical lifestyle choices.
Sixteen bucks – the sandwich is oily, hard to eat, and heavy.

Above the fluorescent overheads you can see the original rafters.
Up there, time is still suspended – particles of light in stasis.
Ten years ago, I was a witness – I saw past civilisation’s façade
to entropy. It was humbling and strangely comforting.
We fear what these spaces represent
so we make them functional again. The weirdos will go elsewhere.

 

Podcast: Imposter Syndrome

Have you ever felt like a fraud, a fake, a… weirdo?

In episode 46 of the Poetry Says podcast, I chat to Alice Allan about that feeling of not quite fitting in. If you have ever felt like your achievements are somehow not valid, or that you’re a pretender who is eventually going to be ‘found out’, we’re here to reassure you: you’re not alone. In fact, you’re in very fine company indeed.

Without giving too much away, we also touch upon Nick Cave, The Simpsons and, inevitably, Radiohead.

Thanks to Alice for reaching out to me and getting this conversation started!

You can subscribe to Poetry Says on iTunes.

Arlington

arlington

The high-rises were going up and the builders dust
was blasting sideways every time a truck juddered past
in a flatulent rush. All night, the squeaking of axles
and the hollow thumps of rusted barrels –
I was striving for noble silence but could only manage
tinnitus. The mind, like muscle, will eat itself
if not nourished. All highways are charmless –
they’re for people who work just for the paid leave,
counting down the months and weeks
until Bali or Thailand or Tahiti – a highway
gets you to the place you postponed happiness for
as fast as possible. No wonder I was miserable.
So I veered off down a side street in the loveless chill
of a wintry spring and trekked mud through the carpet
on the day I moved in; the awning forming a prison
of rainwater. Boxes strewn through the kitchen,
I gazed out at a hulking mobile phone tower
behind the trees: At least you’ll get reception here?
The nearest tram stop was Arlington; orderly
as a model train running through a miniature village.
Whenever I walked towards it, my body would shrink
but so too would my surroundings – the only clue
as to why it felt weird was the sound – as in dreams,
Arlington was muted; soundless. Trams would appear
in silence and I’d join its cargo of tiny people
to travel, like an epiphany, back to the loudness of life.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Doctorate: Year Three

phd-comics

One of the reasons people become slightly awed when you mention you’re doing a doctorate, I think, is the amount of time it takes to complete. “Three years, minimum?” they gasp, as if by the time you will be striding up to the podium on graduation day, you’ll be breathing oxygen from a tank produced by Coca Cola and shaking the cyborg claw of the Vice Chancellor, whose red eyes will glow warmly before he stabs you in the arm with a hypodermic needle, causing you to wake up all sticky inside your Matrix pod feeling annoyed that your illusory perception of physical reality had to come to an end before you had a chance to hit up the bar for some free champagne and canapés.

Let me tell you: three years goes a lot quicker than you think.

Even though I am completing this doctorate part time (which means I have up to eight years to get it done), I still feel that my output so far has been shockingly low. Out of the 30,000 words that I have to produce for my exegesis (a scary-sounding word that rhymes pleasingly with the word ‘Jesus’, making it easy to simultaneously blaspheme and express panic about your doctorate: “Exegesis Christ!”), I have written 3,000. And of those 3,000 words, I have to rewrite approximately 2,000 of them.

So, y’know. If we’re going to liken the writing of an exegesis to the climbing of a mountain, I am essentially still dicking around at base camp in my still-pristine hiking boots, slurping loudly from a mug of whiskey-laced billy tea.

I’d throw myself off a cliff in despair, except that I’d have to actually walk up the cliff to be able to do so.

Confusingly, my supervisor keeps assuring me that I have much to be proud of. So, let’s look back on 2016 and see what came out of it:

Sappho Poetry Night

Known as ‘Avant Gaga’, the Sappho Poetry Night takes place one a month, and it attracts quite a crowd. Toby Fitch, who is a formidably brilliant poet (and also, incidentally, a nice dude) asked me to perform in April 2016, and I was chuffed (if terrified) to appear on the bill alongside Lachlan Brown, Lindsay Tuggle and Melinda Smith.

It went well. I’m finally starting to feel comfortable in front of a microphone, and comfortable with the idea that people might actually want to hear my poetry – that it might bring them, like, I dunno, pleasure? I read exclusively from my long poem ‘Golden Repair’ and people laughed and were stunned at what seemed to be the right moments.

The icing on the cake was being asked by a random gentleman if he could buy my book. Sadly my book does not as yet exist, but I was astonished to be offered money by a complete stranger for my poetry. Money, for poetry?! Wtf lol.

Recording Studio

In July I was asked if I’d like to participate in the official launch of the new recording studio at Western Sydney University. I said yes, and was introduced to Wren – a sublimely talented violinist who is currently also completing a Doctor of Creative Arts at WSU. The idea was that we would work together to create a music + spoken word piece, to be performed at the launch.

I felt like a total sham standing in a recording studio beside a true artist – I hate the sound of my own voice, and so it felt like I was ‘ruining’ the gorgeous music she was making with her violin.

But I wanted to rise to the challenge – ‘rise’ being an appropriate word here, because we ended up creating a piece that used a bird as its central motif. We decided to work with my poem The Come Down – and it was incredible to hear another person create a soundscape around my words that, for want of a better cliché, brought them to life.

Sadly, I don’t yet have the video or audio from the day we performed it! You’ll just have to take my word for it: it went well. We made music together; art. It was wonderful.

Meanwhile, you can check out Wren’s music on her SoundCloud, and here:

Corrupting the Minds of Undergrads

Another first: my poem Marrickville was included in the syllabus for creative writing in Semester Two 2016, at WSU.

It has long been my goal to contaminate the minds of youths. So I was extremely pleased.

At the end of the semester, I was invited to their classroom to do a poetry reading, which was surreal and scary and awesome. It was great having a chat with the students afterwards – my ‘message’ essentially was: I was really crap at poetry for a really long time. If you genuinely love the art form, push through and keep going. (Subtext: you too could be a financially crippled 33 year old with chronic anxiety, yeah!)

Completing a Long Poem

‘Golden Repair’ is a long poem that began life back in June 2015, when I went to Berkeley. In its current form, it’s ten A4 pages (and around 3,500 words) – which just goes to show how painstaking poetry can be – it takes a long damn time to get it right.

It was only ever an experiment, really – I didn’t know if I was capable of writing a long poem – but I had something enormous inside me that demanded expression, and an ‘epic’ seemed the only solution.

After some hardcore editing, and some blows to my fragile little ego (I didn’t so much have to ‘murder my darlings’ as I had to perform a kind of poetic genocide), I seem to have achieved something… at least, that’s what my co-supervisor reckons.

Whether or not you will see it in book form sometime before the next decade… well. We shall see.

Other Stuff That Happened in My Life

I’m running out of room to go into detail about everything else that happened last year, so let’s summarise:

Started Working at Sappho Books, Glebe

After getting made redundant from my last copywriting job, I idly decided to send my resume to every bookshop in Sydney. I ended up working at the coolest (and most appropriate) bookshop in town – Sappho Books – named after the first female poet. This deserves its own blog post, but just quickly, it’s perfect and it’s changed my life.

Realising that Tutoring and Writing a Thesis are Basically Incompatible

It’s good money! But it’s utterly draining. For this reason, I will not be teaching this year.

Moving House

Another bloody move, ye gods. Not far – only from Marrickville to Dulwich Hill. But although the move was almost lethally exhausting, I am happier for it.

Summer Lovin’

I had been a doctoral candidate for three years, and I was feeling weary. Then in strolled an Englishman – a bartending poet, no less, and life became very, very lovely. He’s off travelling again now – with my blessing – I need to sit down and write this bloody thing, after all. But he’s given me hope, energy, happiness.

He knows who he is. I am grateful.

What Next?

My sister asked me what my New Year’s Resolution for 2017 was. My answer: “Write my exegesis”.

February is when it starts in earnest.

It’s really hard! I don’t think I’m smart enough, and I’m still struggling to balance work stuff with social stuff with family stuff with study. If anyone thinks that a humanities PhD is a walk in the park – a ‘phoney qualification’ – think again. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and if I ever manage to graduate, I’ll be wearing that goddamned puffy hat for a month.

But, to (potentially inappropriately) quote Nelson Mandela: “It always seems impossible until it’s done.”

Onward.