Helens read poetry on the coast this week

Helen H and Helen L and some other cool folks, and I've written about it over on the Seraph Press site and find I'm to lazy to write about it here: http://www.seraphpress.co.nz/1/post/2013/03/helens-on-the-coast-this-weekend.html.

Second occasional Twitter Poetry Night NZ on Sunday

The first one was a great success (I blogged about it here: http://wingedink.blogspot.co.nz/2012/12/twitter-poetry-night-nz-last-night.html), so I'm looking forward to the Second Twitter Poetry Night NZ on Sunday. Here's everything you need to know, probably: http://twitterpoetrynightnz.tumblr.com/.

Tuesday Poem: '4 March'

4 March

A man pulls bread out of his trouser pocket with a shaking hand
and throws it towards the pigeons

Sometimes I catch a glimpse
of all the sadness in the world



It's most unlike me to share just-written work, but sometimes I like to be unpredictable, even to myself. So, this is a poem I wrote earlier this evening.

More Tuesday Poems here: http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/

Tuesday Poem: 'Incident' by Fleur Adcock

Incident

When you were lying on the white sand,

A rock under your head, and smiling,

(Circled by dead shells), I came to you

And you said, reaching to take my hand,

‘Lie down.’ So for a time we lay

Warm on the sand, talking and smoking,

Easy; while the grovelling sea behind

Sucked at the rocks and measured the day.

Lightly I fell asleep then, and fell

Into a cavernous dream of falling.

It was all the cave-myths, it was all

The myths of tunnel or tower or well—

Alice’s rabbit-hole into the ground,

Or the path of Orpheus: a spiral suitcase 

To hell, furnished with danger and doubt.

Stumbling, I suddenly woke; and found

Water about me. My hair was wet,

And you were sitting on the grey sand,

Waiting for the lapping tide to take me:

Watching, and lighting a cigarette.

Fleur Adcock

I’m the editor of the Tuesday Poem blog this week, and I’m excited to have been able to share ‘Crayfish’, a new poem by Fleur Adcock – one of my poetic heroes. As I say over there, I was lucky enough to have read with her and Anna Jackson in London last year. Hearing her new poems sent me back to her old poems, and I recently re-read Tigers (Oxford University Press, 1967), which was Fleur’s second poetry collection.

I first discovered Fleur’s poetry in the later years of high school, and this was one of the collections I read and reread. Reading it again now, I can very much see why it appealed to me. I was a somewhat melancholy and romantic child, and I adored myth and surrealism (still do, though I’ve ditched most of the romanticism and quite a lot of the melancholy) and this book has those in spades, as does ‘Incident’, which is probably my favourite poem in this collection. In this, and in many of the other poems, there’s an underlying darkness. Other people aren’t to be trusted. Don’t close your eyes, or there’ll be nightmares, and when you wake someone might be watching you with mild interest, waiting for you to drown.

Do go check out the brand new poem by Fleur at the hub blog: http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/, and there you’ll also find lots more Tuesday Poems in the sidebar.

Wednesday Poem: 'The Summer Day' by Mary Oliver

I'm a bit late for the Tuesday poem, but never mind. And I'm not going to post the poem here (not having permission and all), but I am going to link to it: http://www.loc.gov/poetry/180/133.html. I recommend you go read it now, before popping back to read this.

I'm not really familiar with Mary Oliver's poetry, though her name keeps coming up. I discovered this poem yesterday via a post by Helen Lehndorf. Helen had 'written' words from the last line on an apple pie (it's really worth a look), and linked to the poem. It's quite short, so I thought I'd read it.

For me, it didn't start out all that promising. It reminds me at first of a children's prayer or something, and nature poetry - oh nature poetry, I must confess you almost always bore me. But I kept going - it's just a short poem - and then it started picking up for me here:

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields

And then it quietly and simply, with this kicker ending, becomes one of my favourite poems ever:

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

It's an end that could have very easily been a bit twee, and probably would be if it wasn't for that pairing of words from the top of the pie: 'wild and precious', which together in that context are a bit of a surprise, and delightful. They make me feel I could live wildly and preciously, just as she says (and I hope I do). I guess perhaps I should check out more of Mary Oliver's poetry then...

Head on over to the Tuesday Poem blog, where this week's editor Catherine Fitchett shares 'Fault' a poem by Christchurch poet Joanna Preston. It's a really restrained, powerful and very very good poem about the Canterbury Earthquakes: http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/2013/02/fault-by-joanna-preston.html.

Tuesday Poem: 'Partying with Katherine Mansfield'

You can listen to me read it by clicking the play button above, and you can follow along with the text below...

Partying with Katherine Mansfield

‘Don’t be a bore,’ says Katie
as she pulls me up by my arm
to the dance floor

She was proud to be the first woman
in the whole of London to wear purple stockings
She shows them off as she shimmies
her skirt above her knees

I teach her the twist and she spirals off
towards D H who has found
an ironing board from somewhere and
they take turns at sliding down, shrieking with laughter

She’s smiling and kissing
everyone in the room, sipping punch
now joining me at the open window
breathing in the cool night air

‘Today is a new day, a new year, a new age
It’s a new world,’ she says
‘We mustn’t live as if it isn’t’


I've shared this poem by me previously (though quite a while ago), but it seemed appropriate to share it again as this weekend there was a big Katherine Mansfield conference in Wellington. I didn't go along, but several of my friends did and it gave me a good opportunity to meet another of our Tuesday Poets Kathleen Jones and her husband. Kathleen is the author of the the most recent (and, in my opinion) best biography of KM.

I recorded the poem in the very high-tech studio of my bedroom with my phone. If you listen hard around the 40-second mark and a couple of times after, you'll hear a screeching which was one of the neighbour kaka screaming around nearby. It was a bit of an experiment, but I'd first done this fairly successfully when we had Twitter Poetry Night a few months ago.

There are lots more Tuesday Poems, which you can reach from the hub blog, and at the hub blog you'll find a poem by C. K. Stead from his new book, with an introduction (or postroduction?) from by Mary McCallum: http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz.

Ballroom Poetry becomes Meow Poetry

And Helen Heath and Lynn Davidson are the first guest readers. There's a Facebook event for it here, if you like that sort of thing: http://www.facebook.com/events/208400982636949/

Here's what they say: 

Poetry at Meow Cafe
 

Yes, we're back - Poetry at The Ballroom Cafe has found a new home at Meow
Cafe. New surroundings, but same wonderful mix of poetry and music, open
mic and guest performances.

Our first programme at Meow Cafe will include a special tribute to Kathy
and The Ballroom Cafe, so I hope you can join us.

Guest Poets: Helen Heath & Lynn Davidson
Guest Musicians: Ramon Oza & Susie Colien-Reid of Black Eyed Susie
Plus open mic, starting at 4pm
Time: Sunday 17 February, 4 - 6pm
Place: Meow Café, 9 Edward Street, Wellington City

Tuesday Poem: 'Afternoon with Jane' by Ashleigh Young

Afternoon with Jane

Being a friend, Jane said, ‘You’re
the whole package!’
No one had ever
called me a package
before. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m a package,
of sorts.’ Or I hoped to be one,
one day – bundled together, on
my way.

Jane said, ‘Don’t be silly,’ and was beautiful
in the high-backed chair, wearing her enormous black skirt
and crinkly leather boots (like dead balloons, but beautiful
on her particular feet), a thick clot of hematite
beaded round her neck, and her blown-glass hair

in a plait.
It is possible to stare and stare at Jane
who is beautiful in such a way
that one never grows bored
but some do grow sad, in her company.
I stared, and felt myself go

sad – there would be no surprises –
as my resolve opened,
dispatched itself in pieces.
‘Stop,’ Jane said, ‘stop writing
your lists and go out and do
something. Ask out Nose Boy – ask him his name.
Go diving.’

‘It’s hopeless,’ I said, and echoed
‘It’s hopeless,’ because that is the nature
of hopelessness; echoing itself, bending in on itself
through an infinity of selves, like a room
full of mirrors: every surface
mounting another to breed millions more.

‘It is not,’ Jane said, ‘It is not,’ because that is the nature
of hope, she said: it refracts
hopelessness, and fills you –
as a mailroom, piled high with mail –
with many more hopes, all waiting to be posted
into the present tense: it's

a room fat with letters
many wrongly addressed but all destined
to travel –
she said this, my friend Jane,
her explanation gorgeously wrought
but ultimately unwrappable;
she narrowed her cut-glass eyes
as if she thought she could see
the names and addresses
of all the mail bundled in me.

Ashleigh Young's debut poetry collection, Magnificent Moon, was published late last year by VUP. She grew up in Te Kuiti, and has not long been back in Wellington after a couple of years living in London, where she worked as an editor at the Institute of Ismaili Studies. Her poetry and essays have been published all around the place, and she won the 2009 Adam Foundation Prise for her essay manuscript Can You Tolerate This. She blogs at eyelashroaming.com. For more about her, there are a couple of fabulous interviews online at The Pantographic Punch and Three Islands Magazine.

For my first Tuesday Poem of 2013 I wanted to share something from Magnificent Moon, which I finished reading over the Christmas break. I'd been sneaking a poem here and a poem there, but when I had the time I just devoured the rest in the space of an afternoon. And then I was a bit sorry to have finished it, because the poems had been such lovely companions. (I also found that the poems sent me spinning in my own poetic directions - I wrote three or four poems - or drafts of poems anyway - the afternoon I finished this book). Never mind, there are many re-readings to come. What makes this book and these poems so charming an appealing is its voice - lively, contemporary, quirky, funny and just when you're disarmed, it'll turn out to be really incisive and meaningful as well.

I chose to share 'Afternoon with Jane' because, as well as being my favourite poem in the collection (and I guess because it's my favourite poem in the collection), it epitomises those qualities. It starts off really chatty and specific, with someone called Jane, who I have no doubt is an actual friend of the poet (though whether that’s true or not really doesn’t matter, it feels true). Quite possibly this poem begins with a conversation they actually had (again, not that important), but it spins so beautifully off in little eddies, to finally it follows its extended postal metaphor, which begins with the common phrase 'You're the whole package', so far that we end up in a surreal image of hope (and the poet) as mailroom full of mail. It's a gorgeous blend of very specific with universal, or perhaps rather specific leading to universal. I find the images of hopelessness as 'bending in on itself/through an infinity of selves, like a room/full of mirrors', and of the nature of hope: 'it refracts/hopelessness, and fills you -/like a mailroom, piling high with mail' exquisite and quite haunting. I also love how it's full of little questions: Why does looking at Jane sometimes make people sad? Why is the narrator feeling hopeless? And who is Nose Boy? (Thanks to Tim Upperton for reminding me of the importance of that question.) There's so much in this poem - minimalist it isn't, and I love it for that.

I hope you'll check out more of Ashleigh's work, if you haven't already. And you can check out a whole new bunch of Tuesday Poems from the hub blog over here: http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/

Happy new year, and stuff

Happy new year everyone! I hope you're all having a good 2013 so far. I think I am.

I had a lovely Christmas break, and I did manage to write the average of one poem a day I said I was going to try to do in my last post. My rules were that they didn't have to be long and they didn't have to be good, which is just as well. I haven't reread any of them yet, but I know some of them are very short and I'm sure many of them won't be very good. But it felt good to write them, and to have written them (which seem to me to be slightly different things).

I was also very heartened that when I read over some poems and notes and fragments I'd written for a poetry project I'd started a couple of years ago, I found that there was some salvageable stuff in there, and in fact some things I love. I think it can definitely form the basis of my next 'thing', so yay!

The thing I should be working on right at this very moment is The Baker's Thumbprint, the new poetry collection from Paula Green, which I'm very proud to be publishing with Seraph Press this year. The other book I have scheduled is The Rope Walk by Maria McMillan. I wrote a post about them over on the Seraph Press site this week. I hope you'll go and have a read: http://www.seraphpress.co.nz/1/post/2013/01/1.html.

I've also just signed Seraph Press up to Twitter, so if you're on Twitter, it would be lovely if you would follow it/us/me: https://twitter.com/SeraphPress.

Merry Christmas and JAAM call for submissions and some other stuff

I've been a terrible blogger this year. It's been a great year though. Different. There's a big chunk in the middle where I got transported out of my ordinary life and into Europe. It was very cool. I keep on thinking I'll write about it, but I haven't yet. I did blog a bit while I was away, on a secret Tumblr blog, because I got a bit funny about the idea of any old person knowing where I was. But, if you want to follow my trip through Europe backwards, it's here: http://hcatatplay.tumblr.com/.

The only publishing I've done this year is JAAM, which has come out, hurrah!: http://jaam.net.nz/2012/12/17/jaam-30-in-a-letterbox-or-bookshop-near-you/. It has a particularly attractive cover. I love when you get the perfect image (by photographer Ingrid Boberg) and the rest just falls into place.

In other JAAM news, we've just put out a call for submission for the next one: http://jaam.net.nz/2012/12/20/call-for-submissions-jaam-31-the-2013-issue/. It's going to be edited by by co-managing editor Clare Needham (prose) and fellow poet Harvey Molloy (poetry). The deadline isn't for ages though (end of March next year) so no hurry. It's an open issue, but they're posing the question of what is the/your 2013 issue.

Despite having published no Seraph Press books this year, the ones I published towards the end of last year – The Cheese and Onion Sandwich, by Vivienne Plumb, and The Comforter, by Helen Lehndorf – have been trucking along very nicely. Vivienne has just finished her Randall Cottage residency. We've had to reprint The Comforter, a poem from it was included in Best New Zealand Poems, it was one of the Listener's 100 Best Books, and Helen has just been awarded the Massey writing fellowship: http://www.seraphpress.co.nz/1/post/2012/12/helen-lehndorf-awarded-massey-visiting-literary-artist-residency.html. All in all, a great year.

Also, I have a couple of exciting projects underway for Seraph Press in 2013, which I'll be announcing soon.

My own writing, it has to be said, has suffered a bit this year, but I've finished my 'cinema' poems, once and for all (probably), and am starting on something else. I have rashly decided that I'm going to write a poem a day for the two weeks I'm on holiday (they don't have to be long, they don't have to be good) as a bit of a creative kickstarter. I'll see how I go...

I hope you've had a great year, hope you get to have a good holiday, and Merry Christmas and all that. x x

The return of Kilmog Press and Starch

I was very sad when earlier this year (I think, or maybe late last year?) Kilmog Press decided to stop publishing. Kilmog Press was run by Dean Harvard and was based in Dunedin. He made beautiful, beautiful books that I had admired since I first came across them, and I was very happy when he published my poetry sequence Heading North in 2010. (BTW, I still have a few copies for sale, if anyone wants to buy one.

So, I was delighted when a few days ago I got an email saying that Kilmog Press was getting back in the game, and was also going to publish the second issue of Starch, which had been close to publication. Hurrah. Here's the details: 

This might come as a surprise, indeed, also for some of the contributors themselves, but Kilmog Press has returned to publishing and has just this moment published STARCH: VOLUME TWO – 96 pages, hardback, hand sewn & stitched & bound, letterpress cover & titling, letterpress contents page : 18 contributors of poetry, short fiction, etc – Sarah Bainbridge, Iain Britton, Pauline Dawson, Bill Direen, Lynley Edmeades, Martin Edmond, David Eggleton, Henry Feltham, Roger Hickin, Mariana Isara, Hamish Keith, Jessica Le Bas, Maris O'Rourke, Bob Orr, Mark Pirie, Vaughan Rapatahana, Elizabeth Smither & Lani Wendt Young.

Normal RRP $50.00 - however, an early-bird-of-war-chest price of $35.00 + ($5.00) postage is available to until 31/12/2012 or stock lasts.

For copies: kilmogpress@hotmail.com or Kilmog Press PO BOX 1562, Dunedin.

I've put in my order. The first one was the most beautiful literary magazine ever, and this one sounds pretty spesh too.

Tuesday Poem: 'The News' by Saradha Koirala

The News

At the zoo café you can watch pocket monkeys
tiny hands clinging to twiggy branches
swift and feathery as birds.

It’s here my brother tells me about his poppy seed child,
the first four weeks passed
swelling, beaming into existence.

That night a woman’s scream wakes the street
we leap from our beds but are no use. Cops the next morning
the next morning’s paper.

Everyone has news: Mum falling off her bike
and then completing a triathlon,
my brother the poppy seed

and me, ah.
I'm like . . . an old window
slowly remembering
it's really a liquid.


Saradha Koirala


From Tearwater Tea, forthcoming 2013, Steele Roberts.

Saradha Koirala is a poet and sometimes-teacher from Wellington. Her first collection, Wit of the Staircase, was published by Steele Roberts in 2009.

A month or so ago I got to read at Meow with Harvey Molloy and Saradha Koirala. I don't think I'd ever heard Saradha read her poetry before, and it was lovely especially to hear her read new work that will be in her second poetry collection, which will be published next year. I asked her if I could post this poem because it is the one that stayed with me the most afterwards. I was especially struck by the phrase 'an old window/slowly remembering/it's really a liquid.' Gorgeous and evocative. And, living in a 100-year-old house, I have windows like that, that you can see the lines in where the glass has slowly, slowly slipped down, or slumped down? Another thing I love about that image is that it's ambiguous, to me at least. Is it a positive or negative image? A liquid which moves so sluggishly it appears solid, a solid that still has some ability to change.

People are already putting up their Tuesday Poems, and you can find some more here, at the hub blog: http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/.

Twitter Poetry Night NZ last night

Yesterday I posted about Twitter Poetry Night NZ, which went ahead last night and was a success, with lots of participants. At least one person joined Twitter especially to be part of it, and at least one person (me) joined SoundCloud so they could record their poems. Thanks to Ashleigh Young for organising such a cool thing. 

I missed it live, as I was busy hosting a barbeque/reunion of friends, but I caught up with some of it later last night, and will listen to more tonight. If you missed it to, you can still follow its progress and listen to some of the wonderful poems people recorded. And just to make it even simpler to follow, Ashleigh has storified it here: http://storify.com/ashleigh_young/poetry-night-nz.

And I managed, with surprisingly little fuss, to record a couple of poems using a SoundCloud app on my phone sitting in my bedroom, which were included in Poetry Night:

• Anna's life, as directed by Michael Winterbottom: http://soundcloud.com/helen-rickerby/annas-life-as-directed-by
• Chris's life, as directed by Ken Russell: http://soundcloud.com/helen-rickerby/chriss-life-as-directed-by-ken

Twitter poetry night tonight

Tonight, from around 8 pm, Twitter is going to turn into a Bohemian coffee house where you can have poetry read to you. You will want to click this link: http://twitterpoetrynightnz.tumblr.com/ to find out more.

And I'm about to go experiment with my new SoundCloud app to see if I can record a poem.

Tuesday Poem: 'Delph, Whit Friday' by Harvey Molloy

Delph, Whit Friday

A clear sky hails arcs
of dry split peas and rice
from the silver shooters we blow
like flutes from candied lips.

It’s just gone three
and our kid’s kaylied already
from the Party Four
and how could it be that she
let my lips brush her cheek in the graveyard
just after she asked ‘Which church are you’?
As if I even knew.

This Friday the whole village is dressed in their finest
and nobody works. Look!
The red faced trombonist has lost his rag
and rushes towards a lippy scrag of a lad
who gives him the fingers and a face full of grain
and who just happens to be me.

Harvey Molloy



Harvey says of this poem:

I spent four of the happiest years of my childhood living in Markwood, Delph, Saddleworth, Oldham. I had no desire to move to New Zealand – though we had moved from Delph to the less than idyllic Sholver housing estate for the last year before boarding the boat at Southhampton. If you’ve seen the fine movie Brassed Off or the TV show The Last of the Summer Wine then you get an idea of where I used to live. I remember that we’d stock up on lentils and dried peas so we could pelt the brass bands with our peashooters. There was lots of drinking, laughing, merriment – it was Breughel on the Pennines. ‘Party Four’ was a four pint single can of beer sold by Tetley’s. They even had a Party Seven. This poem first appeared in Lancashire Life. 

A couple of weeks ago I was fortunate enough to do a reading at with Harvey and Saradha Koirala at Meow. This was one of the poems Harvey read that struck me the most. I don't know why, but I find I'm very drawn to Harvey's poems about where he's from - the north of England. Actually, I'm exaggerating – I think I'm basing that on only two poems, this one and 'Closer', which is really worth a read too: http://harveymolloy.blogspot.co.nz/2011/06/tuesday-poem-closer.html. For the full effect though you need to hear Harvey read it, in that northern accent.

Harvey Molloy is a poet and teacher. His first collection of poems, Moonshot, was published by Steele Roberts in 2009. He blogs at http://harveymolloy.blogspot.co.nz/.

Check out some of the other Tuesday Poems at the hub blog: http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/.

Tuesday poem: 'Sylvia fights off the boys'

Sylvia fights off the boys

Every time, it comes around
to this
I know when to expect it

He will caress my face with
his forefinger, his floppy
fringe hanging over
his eyes
He will trace
the scar on my cheek
back and forth
erasing it, and he will say
‘How did you get this?’

and each time
I tell another story

But the truth of it is
it was a rollerskating accident

and the truth of it is
a pirate with his rapier

and the truth of it is
I am a rotting apple
and it is my worm

and the truth of it is
it was the sharp bite of death

and the truth of it is
I hit my face climbing out
of my grave

but the truth of it is
good girls don’t have scars




A couple of days ago it was Sylvia Plath's 80th birthday, or, rather, it would have been if she had lived.

I'm glad she's remembered, though I often feel she's remembered for all the wrong reasons. She was a gifted poet – I can't believe she died at age 30. Who writes poetry that good before they're 30? How good would she have got if she'd lived longer? It's that death that gets in the way, that gets between us and her poetry. I guess that's just how it is.

When I was studying her, one thing that really struck me is what an all-American girl she had been. There was more to her than that, of course. This poem is my take on her at that stage of her life, when she was an all-American girl, going out with all-American boys. Though probably it's really about me. I have a scar on my face too, hence my obsession with hers. (Mine was acquired at a younger age, at primary school, when the boy playing cricket said 'Don't touch the ball', which had just flown past me. I, being contrary, immediately picked it up and ran away with it. He caught me and pushed me off a bank (it wasn't very high) and I cut my face.) 'Sylvia fights off the boys' is in My Iron Spine. Just to prove my obsession, there's another poem in there about Sylvia (and Ted) and her scar (and his scar).

I haven't blogged in ages, partly because I've been slack, and partly because I've been away. I might blog about that sometime. It was awesome.

For more Tuesday Poems, visit the hub blog over here: http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.com.

Reading poetry at Meow

I'm lucky enough to be doing a poetry reading at Meow on Tuesday 23 October (just after Labour Weekend) with Harvey Molloy and Saradha Koirala, MCed by Tim Jones.

Here's the deets:

Meow Café • 9 Edward Street • 7pm • Tuesday 23 October

Saradha is the author of Wit of the Staircase, published in 2009 and will be reading from her forthcoming collection, Tearwater Tea.

Harvey’s debut poetry book Moonshot was published in 2008. He’ll be reading poems from current work in progress.

Helen Rickerby is a poet, publisher and public servant. Her most recent poetry book was Heading North, published in 2010.

Here's the Facebook event thingy:
http://www.facebook.com/events/352272994864935/

Here's the flyer:

 
 

Tuesday poem: 'My mother and the projectionist', by Jenny Powell

My mother and the projectionist

She always missed
the beginnings, too busy
tidying minties and jubes,
stacking the chocolate,
cleaning her silver scoop.

If it was Mario Lanza
she wore her smock
with the smouldering
flair of a leading lady,
her hair plaited and coiled
in case he turned his gaze
to her seat in the circle,
close to the exit.

When she fell in love
with the projectionist
her life became a film.
Climbing the steps slow
and sultry she slid
into his room. They were
reel to reel, breath
to breath, body to body.

In the third drawer down
She hid his photo for 40 years
under a pile of jerseys.
A black and white flicker
of time on a silent screen.



This poem comes from Jenny Powell's latest book Ticket Home, a lovely hand-made chapbook from Cold Hub Press, who are busy over in Governor's Bay creating new New Zealand publications.

Jenny was the guest reader at the Poetry Society last night. It's been quite a few years since I've seen her read, and I really enjoyed hearing her again. This time I really noticed how she plays with rhyme and alliteration in her work - it's so much clearer when you hear it out loud. I have to confess I was a bit sleepy after the AGM, but she woke me up with her energetic reading style - especially with her first poem 'Southern woman' from Four French Horns.

She read quite a bit from this latest book, including 'My mother and the projectionist', which had struck me when I read the collection. As someone who has been obsessively writing about cinema for the last 5 or so years, it was right up my alley. But also such a romantic and tragic story. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

I noticed that Harvey Molloy has posted a video of Jenny reading another of my favourites from Ticket Home: http://harveymolloy.blogspot.co.nz/2012/07/tuesday-poem-double-blow-by-jenny.html. It's called 'Double blow' here, but is 'Isabella Blow' in the collection.

And then, you'll find more Tuesday poems via the hub blog: http://tuesdaypoem.blogspot.co.nz/.

Tuesday Poem: 'The Sewing Room' by Vana Manasiadis

T h e  S e w i n g  R o o m .  T h e  d a u g h t e r s  a r e 
s u r r o u n d e d   b y  o p e n  b o x e s  a n d  c r a t e s . 
T h e  w i n d o w s  a r e  o p e n  a n d  t h e  w i n d ’ s 
p i c k e d  u p

What will we do with it then?

The dozens of boxes labelled Little Girls’ for a start?

You’ve heard her: don’t dare sell an inch for nothing to idiots

who’ll use woolblends for blankets and crushed silk for sheets

St Vinnie’s won’t do then

nor will ads in The Post

definitely not Trade Me

or friends who’ll frown and say: more trouble than worth, sad to say

We could keep it all

But where would we put it?

And I don’t sew

and I don’t have the time

What if we didn’t take it from her?

What do you mean?

I mean it’s all hers after all

But can she do anything with it now?

Maybe it could do something for her: whisk her away, lead her off

A trip?

Yes, now you’re getting it

She did love the sea

(although she never learnt to swim)

and she loved ships

she went on that cruise around the world

and she made us drink holy water

and sprinkled it into every room

We need to make a sail

Yes. A mighty patchwork

I’ve got the tartan over here, the red cord is next to you

and there’s this box: Special Occasions

and when we’re done we’ll fly it from the mast up on the roof

This’ll be big

Monumental

It’ll be big enough to set the house adrift

turn the lawn blue

draw southerly sea-winds

flap seagulls out her way

Can you see her sailing up Akatea Street? Down The Parade?

Looks like she is heading towards The Strait

the Pacific

the Atlantic oceans

and now?

She’s caught the wind, she’s sailing alongside Poseidon’s very arm

Give me your binoculars: she’s floating

on the white organza

way above the sea spray.


Vana Manasiadis, from Ithaca Island Bay Leaves: A Mythistorima.

This poem is for Lela, for Matt, for Wiremu and for Iris, sailing above the sea spray.

I haven't blogged for ages. I hope this will be the beginning of a bit more.

Poetry reading: Anne Kennedy, Anna Jackson, Helen Rickerby

Ok, so this is late notice, but at least it means you won't have time to forget! Hope you can come. I'm really looking forward to hearing Anne read myself, and Anna is a fabulous reader who doesn't read her poetry nearly enough as far as I'm concerned. Here's the details:

Come along for a rare opportunity to hear Auckland/Hawai’i-based poet Anne Kennedy read in Wellington, along with Anna Jackson and Helen Rickerby.

At Blondini’s Café, Embassy Theatre, 10 Kent Terrace, Wellington, on Monday 11th June at 7 p.m.

Anne Kennedy is an award-winning writer of poetry, fiction and film scripts. Her latest poetry book, The Darling North, has just been published by Auckland University Press. Originally from Wellington, she is normally resident in Auckland and Hawai’i, where she teaches creative writing at the University of Hawai’i at Mānoa. She is a co-editor of Trout: an online journal of arts and literature.

Anna Jackson has published five collections of poems, most recently Thicket (Auckland University Press, 2011), which has just been announced as a finalist in the New Zealand Post Book Awards. Originally from Auckland, she now lives in Island Bay and teaches English literature at Victoria University.

Helen Rickerby has published two collections of poetry, most recently My Iron Spine (HeadworX, 2008), and Heading North, a hand-bound poetry sequence. She’s co-managing editor of JAAM literary magazine, and runs Seraph Press, a boutique poetry publisher. Originally from the Hutt, she has managed to move as far as Wellington.