My grandmother died this morning, just after 1 am. Peacefully, with my eldest cousin and aunt there. She was 104 years old, and so frail you could almost see the sunrise through her. I've written about her quite a bit – she's the one who taught me to read, who made me a poet. Cowarral …
Tuesday Poem – “The Messenger”
Not a postcard, or a tease of lace. In my absence I send a strange messenger, my love but true – I send a spoon. Its haft slips into your hand gladly, like mine, returns the faint warmth of fingers and thumb helpful as a wife. The curve of its bowl against your lips – …
Tuesday Poem – “The Hare” by Gillian Clarke
i.m. Frances Horovitz 1938-1983 That March night I remember how we heard a baby crying in a neighbouring room but found him sleeping quietly in his cot. The others went to bed and we sat late talking of children and the men we loved. You thought you’d like another child. ‘Too late.’ you said. And …
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Cinquains – for pleasure and profit
Ok, maybe not the profit part. But Wednesday was the first session of the POET105: Jump-Starting the Muse poetry workshop at CPIT, and one of the challenges I gave them was the cinquain. Like haiku, it's a form that most people get taught a fairly dodgey version of while at school. (Personally I blame maths: …
Tuesday Friday Poem – “Visit to Nicky’s House”
It’s a North East Valley specialty – attenuated streets, filaments extruded steeply up from North Road, streets you could hardly turn a dog around in – not a large dog anyway – and scarfie flats with names and legends passed round from pissup to pissup ... and where an early morning piddle ended with a …
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A Dark Feathered Art 