I am delighted to introduce the poetry of Kate Deller-Evans. Kate is the last Guest Poet for 2006. Thank you to all the poets for their contributions, and the readers for their feedback and encouraging comments.

Kate Deller-Evans is acting coordinator of Professional Writing at the Adelaide Centre for the Arts (TAFE South) and a creative writing doctoral student at Flinders University. Her poems have been published in journals, magazines and two collections: Travelling with Bligh (in New Poets 7) and Coming into the World. With Steve Evans she edited Another Universe: FS Poets 28, (Wakefield Press) and their Best of Friends collection (soon for publication) is a 30-year retrospective of Friendly Street Poets. She has an affinity with the visual arts and a number of her poems have been illustrated – exhibited in South Australian Living Artists (SALA), as part of an artists’ book and on a canvas, currently hanging in a Stirling cafe. Her poems have been described by Jeff Guess as “surprising, moving, charged with emotion and beautifully wrought”.

At the Hospital Cafeteria

Overflowing, like the carpark
all coming-and-going
and gabble.

It’s an atmosphere
alien to counterparts
outside the health system.

Where else could you
be seated next to a man
wearing only a dressing gown?

The industrial-strength trolley girl
measures a smile
across our burdened table—

colouring-in books, textas, crayons
designed to allay frustrations
of little ones, impatient

for a grandmother’s return
—she’s upstairs, giving blood
ahead of the dose of chemo

never designed as a cure
but to calm the hacking cough,
companion for the coming months (not years).

You must choose whether you want your last days
to be busy with the regimen of such treatments,
the brochure says.

Air stirs as the mid-shift crowd leave
odd folk crowned with paper
shower caps, spider-spun.

At every table of those left
at least one of each pair
is nodding

there is talk of procedures, operations
outcomes, failures
—the word dead floats by.

It’s a one-stop-shop
heck, there’s even Keno
and an endless queue.

More happens here than in most malls
it’s a microcosm
all hopes and fears.

My mother arrives, resigned
another hour to wait for results
before the first infusion.

School Excursion

at first it doesn’t look too bad
she does a head count: is one of five parents
more than the usual to wrangle the little beggars

but on the train into town the other adults
are a gaggle down one end
and she’s lumped with the left-over boys
already plotting their fall

but they’re not hopeless, she tells herself
and commits their names to memory
so she can bawl them out, as she’ll inevitably do
sometime down the track

at the concert she has the misfortune
of sitting next to the mother-of-the-biggest-thug
who is preening her son, ignoring his fat elbow
as he winds the small boy beside him

they’re not a receptive audience
their upbringing unused to such occasions
more the sort to make good football crowds
not delicately clap hands when the singing’s done

when finally they spill out onto the scrap of lawn
and minimal shade under hot sun
she tears the metal wrap from two dispirin
dissolves them in her child’s drink-cup
awash with brown lime cordial

wishes she’d brought her own
laced it with brandy
medicine for the return journey
fighting all the way

Outside

the light is sulphur-yellow
dawn gone golden
ominous, with the birds berserk
screaming tree to tree.

I’m drawn to see what the fuss is
– apart from the odd-coloured sky –
away from my desk and the work
I don’t want, anyway.

Across the road it’s there –
massive arcs of a double rainbow,
vibrant hues of my five year-old’s palette;
she should be here.

I want to wake the entire family,
have them witness, too, this peculiar scene:
the rumble of thunder coming like airforce heavy transports
on a mission to our house.

Then the first fat splot of rain hits my head,
then another and another. Not warm, as they should be
– after days of heat –
but cold as bullets.

And I’m back inside the house,
unplugging the computer,
putting on the kettle, wondering how
I can face the ordinary day.

Copyright

Please note that all material appearing on this website is protected under Copyright laws and may not be reproduced, reprinted, transmitted or altered in any form without express written consent of the author.

This month I am very pleased to present the poetry of Deb Matthews-Zott.

Deb first read at Friendly Street in 1989. She was treasurer of Friendly Street Poets from 1997-1999, and co-edited the anthology # 23, Beating Time in a Gothic Space. Her collection Shadow Selves was published by Ginninderra Press in 2003. She is currently working on a new collection of poems ~ Learning Meditation.

Copies of Shadow Selves can be purchased directly from Ginninderra Press.

Guitar

I have the body of a guitar.
When I lie down to meditate
my neck is straight
I clear my mind
of things I’ve fretted about
let go my strings of attachment.

My soul is a sound box
it draws in the songs of birds,
the pulsation of insects,
the gentle movement of breezes,
transforms the vibrations of nature
into meditation music.

I breath in
breath out
repeat the cycle
creating chords of calm
to lift me above the physical
resonating with riffs of bliss
tuned to perfection.

Red

The day her boyfriend came home from gaol
She spilled out onto the quiet street
In a sheer red dress which showed
Her flattened breasts, her bones.
And the mad edge of her laughter
Held itself to the neighbour’s throats.

٭

They all wished she would go back inside
And lie on her bed with a bottle of gin,
Or sit in a haze on the lounge-room floor
Flicking her lighter at a pack of burning cards.

٭

The street could not contain
The riot of her voice;
Her stumbling red shape;
Her bare white feet on their bitumen road.

They preferred the hysteric of her scream
Bouncing off inner walls
Of crushed and shattered plasterboard.
There a fist or two,
There the crater of a skull.
A whole panel gone
Where he pushed her body through.

٭

Her ecstasy lasted a day or two.
Then, in the middle of a night,
They screeched in the yard
Like a pair of ill-matched cats
Tearing at cloth; at hair and skin,
Drawing each other’s animal blood.

previously published in Cordite, Friendly St. and Shadow Selves

Lava and Rain

the lava sun burns and runs
concrete is volcanic ash

there’s a fire
and the sprinklers
are on heat

in the shade house, out back,
green corrugations distil light
to feeble shadow

a honey-eater drips
from the shade cloth sky
to steal a drink

I lie naked on a sofa
that’s drawn its own heat
and compete with silent monstera leaves

to catch the drift of liquid mist
the fragile cool
of fine green rain.

previously published in Shadow Selves

Copyright

Please note that all material appearing on this website is protected under Copyright laws and may not be reproduced, reprinted, transmitted or altered in any form without express written consent of the author.

This month I’m pleased to introduce the poetry of Jill Gower.

Jill has published in Friendly St anthologies #27, #28, #29 and #30, ArtState Issue 21-02, 02 and 03 2004, The Mozzie (2006) and Positive Words (2006). She is a regular reader at Friendly St and is the Convenor of Hills Poets in the Adelaide Hills. Jill has been a Friendly St committee member and in 2004 she was one of the judges for the Spring Poetry Festival.

Red Geraniums

brilliant red geraniums
lie bleeding in the sun
against the white skin
of a Mediterranean wall

the wounded sit
in terra cotta beds
being tended carefully
by silver-haired matriarchs
in black dresses

from Blue: Friendly Street 27 and Artstate 21

Pomegranates of Kandahar

Afghan girl
takes her children
takes her few belongings
all that she can carry
always running
to a better place

runs and runs
comes full circle
back to Kandahar
city of pomegranates
shiny blushing skins
encasing countless red cells

she recalls the taste of the
sweet and sour love fruit
each bead unique
each red and crunchy
with juices that ooze
between teeth
and run down chins

colouring lips red
like blood running
from the mouth
the blood of afghans
injured in wars
the blood of afghans
running over minefields
the blood of afghan women
stoned to death for
someone else’s crimes

love apple
hate apple

all this she remembers
from her childhood
nothing has changed

from Blur: Friendly Street 29 and Artstate Issue 3 2004

Birdsong

when the little bird sang
outside my window
i thought it was because it liked
listening to my poetry
so i pulled up the blind
and spouted freely

for breakfast
bacon and five lines
for lunch a sandwich
filled with a sonnet
in the evening
a four verse dinner.

but the bird’s tune was
so sweet it made its own poetry

miniature rainbows
arced from its beak and landed
in sparkling dew

and its song was a haiku

from Positive Words August 2006

Copyright

Please note that all material appearing on this website is protected under Copyright laws and may not be reproduced, reprinted, transmitted or altered in any form without express written consent of the author.

This month I am very pleased to introduce K*m Mann – a good friend and wonderful writer.

K*m grew up in Alice Springs. She has traveled around the world and lived in America and England. Her poetry has won several prizes and been published in journals, newspapers, online and in books. She has performed, and taught workshops, at schools and festivals around Australia. In 2002 K*m completed a Master of Arts in Creative Writing at the University of Adelaide and began to get her short stories published.

Next she co-wrote opera lyrics for a concert with the Adelaide Symphony Orchestra and the script for a new play. 2004 saw her create and direct Skin of the Text; a live installation with text and body. During 2005 she worked with Tutti Ensemble on a project called MOUTH MUSIC. She lives at Henley Beach with a beautiful green-eyed black cat. In addition to working as a counsellor, she is currently writing her first novel.

My live-in mistake

Rain stuttering down
your pencil rattles on the outside table
as the wind picks up again

In the microfiche of my mind,
I’ve located a memory; a watercolour version
of a time we were together; a Sydney of bright colours and champagne

I am not sitting in a garden, not in a park, not by a river
not with you on the Harbour Bridge
I am standing on a balcony with plants in pots, a weather beaten table
a few bottles for recycling and one ashtray
attempting to think out our tangled hair and minds; untangle us.
All the times I tried to ask you what you thought, wanted
When, you didn’t want to say a thing
Words, too much of a commitment to meaning
I had to guess at what you might want
We lived, silently side-by-side, bodies close but our minds’ distance holy

3 months ago I saw you driving on Grange road
– your face looked bleached in the morning sun

On the balcony, the wind picks up corners of paper
an old shopping list, pen on scrap of envelope
from all those months ago, memento of our dailiness
Held down by one small stone from the sea

If you lived, now, by all the rules we broke – I’d not be surprised.
Rain and wind het up off the sea.
My tiny white memory flies up into the air like a helium balloon.

all the pretty colours

she used to love
all the pretty colours
all the maddest shapes
but now
when she looks up
feels strange about the sky

anyway hauls the basket of smelly clothes towards the laundry
loads it up, pushes buttons… sighs
pads back along the hall

turns the toaster upside down
bangs and scrapes, then pushes the crumbs
down the plug hole with her sore fingers
scratches her chin
brings the washing in
all his socks, the red checked swimming shorts…

blinking into the cupboards
can’t find any teabags
won’t look in the afternoon mirror
stares out the window

she doesn’t know whether
he is due back at 6
or if he left a year ago

…she used to love all the pretty colours
all the maddest shapes
and the T shirts and socks
and red and white and blue
but he left
and America bastardised the star
and now

she can’t hang out the washing
and she can’t
look up

previously published Social Alternatives, October 2003

Swimming

in my dreams
I have no freckles
& my neck is elegantly long

I have written & published & sold
my first book
& my parents are 30 again

I can whistle too
and quirky girls and boys the world over
find me attractive

I visit concentration camps and suffer on boats
I see history

in my dreams I can kiss for 3 or 4 years
with the same person
not needing other sustenance
nor eyes, nor hands, nor head

I dive into the town pool and swim deep under
When I swim to the surface
and there is a thick glass wall
I discover that I can breathe under water

I never fly – I don’t need to
eat sandwiches and chocolate towards morning
float to the surface
& find that I can breathe too, above water

Copyright

Please note that all material appearing on this website is protected under Copyright laws and may not be reproduced, reprinted, transmitted or altered in any form without express written consent of the author.

This month I am delighted to introduce the strange and wonderful poetry of Michael Kingsbury.

Michael’s writing has been published in the Friendly Street Readers, Vernacular and other publications. He performed at Onkaparinga’s Poetry Unhinged Festival in 2005, as well as other venues and events in South Australia. Michael is currently involved with the Tutti Ensemble, a theatre group of variously abled actors, which has provided him an ideal platform for the idiosyncratic nature of his poetry, which is meant to be spoken, embodied, performed, growled, crooned, and chanted.

The Minotaur takes a
cigarette break

And the Minotaur takes a cigarette break
And all christs get down from their crosses
And the prophets take five
And sit around playing dominoes
And stare
Slightly puzzled
At the indigo Hills
And remember they were supposed to be doing
Something
But can’t quite remember what
And after that they chew olives
And drink Chianti till sunset
Whereupon they all get laid in the orchard.

And after that you know what
things got really messed up
And the crusades never even got started
And they wrote a book about that
And there wasn’t much to say
And they stuck it in the Baghdad library
Because the crusades never destroyed it in 1095
And the end of all that
Was the museum of natural history
Was a history of all the things
The Christians didn’t do
And the twin towers never even got built.

* The title references a work of fantasy fiction by Steven Sherill

Published in Friendly Street Poets 30


Adelaide

In the shopping mall
A businessman
is riding
A fat brass pig

A pigeon eats steak off the pavement

everyone has forgotten what to do

A woman in a suit wails to be fed

The mayor skewers
five cent cans into a hessian bag
with the spoke from a bicycle

Anti peace protestors march to
the steps of parliament house

All white people live in the park

Parking inspectors give themselves tickets
everytime they step in a crack

Pensioners are paid to play poker machines

The Premier lives in a tree

Published Friendly Street Poets 29

Burning man Project

My hands are a bundle of sticks tied up with rags.
My feet are made of old tires.
My face burns ceaselessly,
One hundred years.
My tendons crack and ping,
Piano wire from the wings of a World War Two Spitfire
My voice creaks and roars
I frighten crows and starlings, wet myself with fuel oil
And Kerosene, weep field mice and human blood
As I am crucified with the
string and sealing wax of governments
I call out to mama
I am Lazarus with a plan
I will walk my cross to the sea
With the electric impression of Mahatma Gandhi
And make salt from a thousand tears.

Performed as part of The Tutti Ensemble’s
Musical Theatre project “Mouth Music”
Higher Ground, Adelaide 2006


Copyright

Please note that all material appearing on this website is protected under Copyright laws and may not be reproduced, reprinted, transmitted or altered in any form without express written consent of the author.