Ruby Street

Patti Smith what punk rock goddess are you? brought to you by Quizilla

You are William Blake! Wow. I'm impressed. Not only are you a self-made artist and poet, but you've suddenly become a very trendy guy to like. It's not that we doubt that you have all your marbles, it's just that we're not quite sure what you did with them to come up with those terrifying theological visions. The people of your time were nowhere near as forgiving as that, and all your neighbors thought you were a grade-A nut job. But we love you, so rest happy. Which Major Romantic Poet Would You Be (if You Were a Major Romantic Poet)? brought to you by Quizilla

'... chase away your blues, for a while'. Yes, Tim Buckley. But it sounds so blue, anyway. A real blue pleasuring, from one Sin City to this other.

The sun is out today. Our heaters are also out. Winter finally here. And I am possibly falling victim to flu. In the mood for hiding inside amongst the warmth. With nothing to do, almost, this will be a rare bliss.

The previous post written after two of my friends were threatened by, it turns out, two rather under-prepared potential gay bashers near a pub in The Rocks. It seems these men couldn't cope with dialogue so gave up their enterprise. For which we were thankful but by which some of us, at least, were spooked as well as angered. Annette and I went home as quickly as possible. And it was cold.

Life goes on, I suppose. Friday night in the country of morons. You can't help reflect on the lack of reflection in this place. Perhaps it's something to do with being afraid of what you might see. I'm not interested any longer in mediocre entertainers, sports heroes and drug smugglers. Each to their own vocation, fine, but these do not interest me. Just as the poet interests no one else. One could maintain that notoriety or the fame game is the important thing. Or perhaps stupidity is the way. If that's the construction, I will not survive. Not on this island. If I had a home, which, as a colonial, I don't, it is not here. It is too late to discuss anything. The bars are closed, the minds are closed, the potential gay bashers are out and it is getting cold. Tomorrow is the same day as today. I had better make up the day after. But after what?

Just a reminder about my Sydney book launch - Friday May 27 9pm Sydney Writers' Festival Festival Club, Pier 4/5 Hickson Road, Walsh Bay Jill Jones, Peter Rose, John Kinsella Launch of two new collections of poetry: Broken/Open by Jill Jones and Rattus Rattus by Peter Rose, poet, author and editor of Australian Book Review - to be launched by John Kinsella, poet and Salt publisher. Also on Thursday, May 26 2005, from 1-2.30pm I'm taking part in a poetry reading at the Festival. Sydney Dance Company 2/3 Pier 4/5 Hickson Road, Walsh Bay Les Murray, John Kinsella, Lutz Seiler, Tony Frazer, Martin Harrison, Jill Jones, Kate Llewellyn Both are free events.

Listening to new Lucinda live, which sounds pretty good, dark, gravelly and punchy. Good band. Annette's birthday, lunch (oysters, fish pie, French rose etc), a walk, a little book by Octavio Paz - A Tale of Two Gardens - out of the specials bin. I should be doing things but I'm not. This is what I'm doing, then I'm going to do even less than this.

Sydney Poetry Seminar 2005 POETRY AND AUTHENTICITY Friday May 20 and Saturday May 21 2005 University of Technology, Sydney Bon Marche Building, Room 105 (entry on Harris Street) Friday May 20 19:00 – 21:00 Samuel Wagan Watson, Jaya Savige, Amanda Stewart Saturday May 21 Poetry Discussions 9:30 – 11:00 Judith Beveridge, SK Kelen, Cath Kenneally, Jaya Savige 11:30 – 1:00 Michael Farrell, Jill Jones, Samuel Wagan Watson, Amanda Stewart 14:00 – 15:30 Pam Brown, Ken Bolton, Kate Fagan, John Tranter 16:00 – 17:30 Chris Edwards, Geraldine McKenzie, Berndt Sellheim, Patrick Jones Saturday May 21 Book Launch and Readings 18:30 – 21:00 LAUNCH of ‘Let’s Get Lost’ a new Vagabond book by Laurie Duggan, Pam Brown, Ken Bolton to be launched by Alan Wearne All Welcome! Free Entry! The Sydney Poetry Seminar series is convened by Peter Minter for the Sydney Poetry Network. The seminar and the Sydney Poetry Network are supported by the Literature Board of the Australia Council.

Jacket 27 is now on-line. Pam Brown is Guest Editor of this issue. There's "Hundreds of pages of dazzling literature", including features on Anne Waldman and Jennifer Maiden, a heap of articles and interviews, and poems and prose from Adam Aitken, Rae Armantrout, Anselm Berrigan, Edmund Berrigan, Ken Bolton, Michael Brennan, Maxine Chernoff, Gillian Conoley, Laurie Duggan, Kate Fagan, Michael Farrell, Jane Gibian, Keri Glastonbury, Carla Harryman, Brian Henry, Friedrich Holderlin (trans by Maxine Chernoff & Paul Hoover), Paul Hoover, Jill Jones, Pierre Joris, Claudia Keelan, S.K.Kelen, John Kinsella, Noelle Kocot, Michele Leggott, Cassie Lewis, Kate Lilley, Geraldine McKenzie, Peter Minter, Jennifer Moxley, Eileen Myles, Ted Nielsen, Alice Notley, Ron Padgett, Lisa Robertson, Gig Ryan. Susan M. Schultz, Amanda Stewart, John Tranter, Karen Weiser, Susan Wheeler.

the song woke up upon the wide burn from under a cover of difficulty of you with me burning itself day sheds desire’s throat pages stained with open- ended nights the song dreamed movement where gravity is simple that the end of work breathes marking the air of changes difficulty blooms form fishes, nevertheless, in light that newspapers cloud in any key that one, the shutdowns we cut to doubtful who are we, codified the day in our ways the long movement its obvious traffic the song’s causes the flavor and game of that decrease or to break itself like paper paragraphs burn gold if we could be burned, flowers this art of layers makes, avails the song a refinery lucky, fair, green shadings awake above, in us parts to the edge

OK, it's been the week from hell, but I won't go into details. A 4am phone call didn't help. Farewells of various kinds. Stuff that needed completing. So, just one poem. Looking at you Space runs over space stuck up with paste Brown paste and through it the silver Lines grate with gear, circumstances Us all crowd, us all not know but Space between the yellow line As too soon and too far before Dawn the house creaks out of slack Sleep as if what is that? Still Question of corners last night How could I ever? Coming home And on this very morn, tired, vapour Cragging down mournful old steps Tagging to work, grumble, coffay Space that is grit, that is turned Where would I land? Not space Here where street crowd gander gait Between, that small space The only quieting space Silver sleep circumstance awake.

Grot among root Still thaw But the chill Crawls a glimmer Dawn dark’s cold Hasten and haze Hill line’s blurr Ground brown Seed furred Branch flare Splay to orange Ochre and flange Year’s fit Now for fire Marrickville, 8am, 4 May