Tag: summer

Swings and Roundabouts

a sliver of my libraryThe bad news is that my rejection notices increased by one.

The good news is that while I was trawling my poetry collection, I found two issues of mod_piece that I had work printed in!

The extra good news is that I seem to have come close to finishing three pieces in a week! I’m not sure that that has happened before, I’m rather thrilled. I dread the idea of not having something new to read, let alone something new to read at a feature. So three poems at once is excellent. I think one may not be a performance piece, but that’s fine.

I hope you are having a decent Australia Day (in whatever way you celebrate it, if applicable). I was traditional, I drank beer and got sunburned at a BBQ. The oldies, it would seem, are the goodies. Meanwhile it’s late here, and I’m close enough to the Showgrounds to hear the Prodigy closing the Big Day Out. It’s also hot enough that sleep isn’t going to happen for a while to come, so it’s not like the noise levels are going to be a problem.

Thirteen Hours Into Summer

Went to Passionate Tongues last night and had a marvellous old time catching up with people and enjoying the work of the features Ian McBryde and Amelia Walker. The open stage was also a good opportunity to hear the work of poets I know from around the scene, but had yet to hear properly. Ben “I.Q.” Saunders and Jo Mundy spring to mind here.

This was written last week and is currently in the mid-polish state.

Thirteen Hours Into Summer
 
Melbourne. We are
thirteen hours into summer
and I have not seen the sun.
Have you lost it? Did you look?
 
The clouds rolling overhead are
too busy, too majestic to help find
what you are looking for.
Did you ask them? Did they respond?
 
We are running out of time.
We have only ninety days, eleven hours
but you seem unconcerned.
Aren’t you worried? Do you care?
 
Unemployed shadows are
jammed into cracks and corners.
Wait nervously for their cue
how long their wait? when can they breathe out?
 
Put your name on the sun, Melbourne,
when you find it. This time put it down
in the first place you would look,
not the last.
 

Reading: “Penguin Modern Poets 17: Gascoyne, Graham, Raine”
Listening: “Don’t Send Me Onions” – Miles Hunt