By surprise, could that also be lightness, a kind of mobility, shape-changing, dancing, freedom (if that's a word one can ever use, apart from that Kristofferson song), rather than all this gravitas that I know, at times, I heavy myself with?
The city’s memories in bullet holes, wreathes and chisel marks
A half moon, again
A tiredness between sleep
Those beliefs in old landscapes
This is a little something from a sequence I'm working on; some parts of it are based around my recent meanderings around the world.
The above extract was worked up from notes written while in Paris (hence references to white dust, cemeteries and bullet holes etc) in September/October during the northern hemisphere's autumn (as in, they do seasons differently up there).
And just some bits and pieces before the year ends, mainly a bit of skiting.
4W 18, which was published in November, featured the winner of the Booranga Prize for best poem in the issue, which was none other than me, myself, I. To read the winning poem, The Beautiful Anxiety, you'll have to buy the mag for the moment.
But here's a taste:
... and distinguish the cold of it, dropt on sun shadows within the petrochemical hum it’s erotic scent, a ghost of ash passing stars, and a kind of subliminal speech among legends of flowers and birds, roses ...
- from 'The Beautiful Anxiety', Jill Jones
Also, the annual Newcastle Poetry Prize was announced in December. No, I did not win that one - the winner was Mark Treddinick for his poem Eclogues - but two of my poems were included in the anthology. Again, you should get the anthology for the whole nine metres, but here's a line or nine from mine:
... The birds do not care which is why we watch them.
My wild field catalogue of flowers Grows in my rhymes as thick as showers Tedious and long as they may be To some, they never weary me The wood and mead and field of grain I coud hunt oer and oer again And talk to every blossom wild Fond as a parent to a child And cull them in my childish joy