poetry

young, gifted & black

2012-02-06T00:16:00.000+11:00

sixteen months old
with a lion’s roar
& right hook
that knocks her
six year old brother flat

the baby packs a whole new meaning
into young / gifted
& black

A Writer's Work is Never Done

2012-02-03T23:32:00.003+11:00

U.S. based poetry magazine Prairie Schooner have just released their Work issue. It's a collaboration with Cordite Poetry Review, and contains my poem Plantation Rumours. If you missed listening to it online at Cordite, you can now catch it here. As part of the Work issue, Cordite's editor David Prater asked me to describe my average day at 'work', which features next to my audio poem. I'm hesitant to post the reality of writer-me here, because it's a little uh...shall we say unslamupish...in part because I was feeling particularly overworked when I wrote it. But here it is...Ahh, what a leisurely bohemian life it is I lead:

get up / undress baby / feed baby / dress baby /get boy up / feed boy / get boy back up / get boy to bath / get boy back up / bribe boy to dress / get boy back up / pack boy’s lunch / help boy find bag / help boy pack bag / find boy’s hat / dress self / eat cold toast
nice family time
something smells
change baby / walk boy to school / pick up rattle / keep walking / pick up bottle / keep walking / pick up hat / keep walking / pick up baby
boy is late
experience bad-mother-guilt
laugh
dismiss bad-mother-guilt

park with baby / play with baby / feed baby / baby sleeps / put wash on / pitch piece / put wash out / write blog / wash up / write poem / phone editor / write intro to new article / send invoice
baby awake
feed baby / read to baby / cook dinner / vacuum / get boy from school

pick up rattle / keep walking / pick up bottle / keep walking / pick up hat / keep walking / pick up baby
play with kids in park / homework with boy

dinner / clean food from baby’s hair/ kitchen/floor/walls/boy/ceiling/cupboards/carpet/clothes/light fittings/windows/skirting boards/soul/& self / undress baby / bathe baby / dress baby / put baby to bed / try to get boy to bed / feed boy dessert / try to get boy to bed / read boy book / try to get boy to bed / play six board games with boy

boy in bed

pick up self / undress self / shower / dress self / brush teeth / wash up / pay bills online /eat cold toast / ignore phone ringing / ignore text messages / turn off laptop / sleep.

get up at 2am

check unread text messages / check missed calls / check unread emails

swear a lot

email publisher / email editor / email sister / email boy's teacher / check kids are still alive and in bed / check fridge for chocolate / eat chocolate

smile
sleep

(So tell me, what's your average writing day?)

Seven Excuses for Not Blogging More

2012-01-18T13:24:00.000+11:00

1. Designing on a cover for issue #37 of Cordite Poetry Review;
2. Mentoring a young writer for a CAL/Overland project to help give writers fom marginalised backgrounds an opportunity to be published in a reputable literary magazine;
3. Gearing up for a upcoming reading at Melbourne's Black Dot Gallery on January 26th, and another performance at Brunswick's Hare and Hyenas on January 30th (book here);
4. Finally assembling poems for a new poetry book: Nothing Here Needs Fixing;
5. Working on a non-fiction book The Hate Race;
6. Life;
7. Avoiding life.

migrant workers smell

2012-01-13T11:42:00.000+11:00

the liberal spokesperson
for citizenship
on public record
explaining patiently
that migrant workers smell

quite clearly
this country
has no hope
in hell

ask yourself

2012-01-08T21:49:00.001+11:00

what thing
wd make her walk of there
not a penny to her name
the only two things she owns
strapped tight in the stroller
& skipping beside her

instead of gossiping
on how she could
ask yourself
why she had to

This poem is an extract from my forthcoming poetry book 'Nothing Here Needs Fixing'

santa claus was james earl jones

2011-12-26T22:31:00.000+11:00

if my saint nick fell
through the skylight
almost every aussie kid
wd scream

cz santa looked
like james earl jones
in all my childhood dreams:

with a soundtrack
by sir mix-a-lot
& a laugh / like chaka kahn
the agility / of muhammad ali
& the quirkiness of grace jones

his sack / it held black booty
his red pants did much the same
obeah men made the presents
& black panthers hauled the sleigh

santa claus wz james earl jones
in all my childhood dreams
& i waited / by the skylight
bt i always fell asleep

Cordite Poetry Review: Issue 36

2011-12-05T21:36:00.000+11:00

And in other news, Cordite Poetry Review has published my Poelectronica cover for their latest Electronica themed issue. Check the full artwork out here, or the cover banner here. Oh, and if you'd like to throw insane wads of money at me to visually funkify your site or publication, email me at Clarke.Maxine@gmail.com with the header: EXTREMELY LUCRATIVE ILLUSTRATION DEAL. Ta.

share a coke with condoleezza

2011-12-03T16:34:00.001+11:00

share a coke

share a coke with hitler
or share a coke with mugabe
or share a coke with pinochet
or share a coke with stalin

just grab a coke
go on / grab an ice cold coke
& share it

share a coke with thatcher
& share a coke with condoleezza
just share a coke
turn the cap
& share it
share a coke with saddam
share a coke with bush
& share an ice cold coke
with palin

grab an ice cold coke
pop the cap
& share it with bin laden

going viral

2011-11-25T13:40:00.000+11:00

athlete’s foot
in a public pool changing room

golden staph
on the operating tools

a rampant std
in a music festival port-a-loo

the itch you feel like scratching
until you bleed

a miley cyrus sex tape

only poetry

holy mary

2011-11-24T10:25:00.004+11:00

a pregnant kid
knocking doors on a donkey
with the real daddy
nowhere to be seen

today / mary wd be just another
irresponsible teen
shamed
disowned
& stigmatised
with all kinds of dirty jokes
about who else she had been riding

i know a mary
in fact
i know two
mary lives next door to me
& another serves fries at the local KFC
a swollen bellied brown girl
desperate to make ends meet

greasy fingered gossip
over faux mash & gravy:
wow / that chick is about to lay an egg
she must be about / what / fifteen
how the hell does that shit even happen

mary does a little table service then
for free

it just happens she says
that’s the thing about shit
isn’t it
& by the way
you're not getting no f*cking fries with that
you judgemental dick

these burbs aren’t bethehem
bt i hear herald angels sing
& when this mary’s babe is born
to her / he will also be a king:
a chance to make the world a better place
& who knows how many lives her child might save:
raised by a plucky kid
holy / in her own defiant way
to give righteousness
a different kind of face

raising the bowl

2011-11-05T20:08:00.000+11:00

for ramone hendry

you were just a little guy
past twelve months
maybe close to eighteen
& i said i'd look after you

you cried
for exactly sixty-seven seconds
then smiled
& turned to me
blonde eyebrow raised
as if to say:
well then brown lady
with the round baby face
i guess it’s just
you & me
dismantling every disliked toy
patting the ones that you agreed with
raising the bowl
when you wanted more
trying to scribble
on everything in reach

solid & stubborn
fair & funny
fierce beyond belief

even then we knew / ramone
what kind of boy you’d be

lip-sync

2011-11-05T10:21:00.001+11:00

like the term lip-sync
i mean
seriously
why does it even exist

if people were any good at it
we'd think they were singing
it wd be such an industry secret
there wouldn't even be
a term for it

This is What Democracy Looks Like: An Occupy Everywhere Poem

2011-11-02T10:33:00.002+11:00

they’re chanting: this is what
democracy looks like / this
is what democracy looks like
this / is what democracy looks like

apparently it’s megaphoned
& volatile
& white
it’s disorganised
& educated
& doesn’t stay the night

democracy sets up colonies
wherever it sees fit
speaks the language of occupation:
& democracy isn’t that big

it cd be a tad delusional
about what it might achieve
but it takes more than
batons / blood / & brawn
to force democracy to leave

democracy is righteous
it is angry
& it is rambling
democracy is earnest
bt sure needs help with chanting

Are You Kidding Me? NOBODY Types Anymore!

2011-10-29T22:23:00.000+11:00

So I've been away from this blog for a while. I had pretty bad Carpal Tunnel Syndrome in my right hand. I've had it for about 12 months or so, with no sign of it really getting any better, despite various therapies such as physiotherapy, acupuncture, shiatsu massage and many other probably slightly crackpot therapies that I don't really care to mention.

In any case, several weeks ago I was at the local supermarket and his kid behind the counter who couldn't have been more than about 17, asked me what was wrong with my hand. When I explained to him what Carpal Tunnel was, the kid said that he got sore thumbs often from playing computer games. Of course, I gave him a big ‘mum’ lecture about how he only has two hands and he should really reconsider his compulsive computer game playing.

The kid asked me what I did as a job, and I quite dismally answered I'm a writer so this is pretty much the worst thing that could ever happen. So the kid looks at me and he says “Are you kidding, I mean, nobody types anymore!' And I'm thinking ‘Nobody types anymore?” Are YOU kidding!? So then this kid tells me about this voice recognition software called Dragon.

He says all you have to do is turn on your computer and open Microsoft Word and start talking and the computer starts typing words for you. Now I’d already heard about this kind of software. In fact, my brother was investigating for me at the time. But to hear this young kid spout about it like it was the new ipad, really gave me hope.

Fast forward one month and here I am sitting at my computer with a headset on dictating this to you in my first use of the Dragon Software. I've got to admit it really is pretty amazing. It's going to take some getting used to and looking back on this document I can see a few mistakes and a few assumptions the programs made about my speech patterns and vernacular. But I'm here blogging and writing - not in the traditional way but hey, I'm all into folding. Oh - the program seems to have typed I'm into folding as opposed to evolving.

Well, you know what they say, practice makes perfect.

So what about you? Are you one of those plebs who still uses your hands to write? Because if that kid behind the supermarket checkout counter is right, spoken word is the new written word, and that just might be the kind of world that I'm prepared to live in.

Vacancy Sign

2011-10-24T19:19:00.000+11:00

Sanity

2011-10-13T13:43:00.000+11:00

Occupy: a sit-in peace-cry

2011-10-12T15:16:00.002+11:00

one percent of citizens
set the world agenda
dictate the wealth
our health / our salaries
the world / the way
the weather

we pit non-violent disobedience
against hardcore corporate greed:
the sit-in of the century
is taking back the streets
from banks
& bombs
& bullies
mismanagment
& unrest

from dishonesty
delusion
deceptiveness
& excess
from corporations / politicians
cops / locks / lies
& institutions

it’s stand-up of the century
OCCUPY / the revolution

OCCUPY will not be televised
it happens in real time
OCCUPY has no borders
& OCCUPY will not take lives
OCCUPY will not cost money
OCCUPY does not take sides
OCCUPY is for decency
& OCCUPY stands for life

OCCUPY is all agendas
OCCUPY is every faith
OCCUPY is every human
every history
every race

OCCUPY is for equality
& dignity
& change

OCCUPY has no logo
& OCCUPY is every face

OCCUPY is every chance
& opportunity
& day

it’s every voice
& vote
& victim:
jobs food
justice
education

OCCUPY is empowerment
solidarity
& choice

OCCUPY is a catalyst
OCCUPY is a voice

to the one percent of citizens
who set the world agenda
dictate the wealth
our health / our salaries
the world / the way
the weather

it’s non-violent disobedience
against hardcore corporate greed:
it's the sit-in of the century
& it’s taking back the streets

american as apple: a steve jobs tribute poem

2011-10-11T19:19:00.003+11:00

steve jobs died
& the world wide web
cried out their i’s

the genius illusion
is american as

pie:

a lonely wizard
behind a large velvet curtain
keeping
the legend
alive

The Case For & Against Gay Marriage in Australia

2011-10-10T10:26:00.002+11:00

The Case Against
1.
It will open the floodgates:
What if someone wants to marry a horse next?
Where will it end?

2.
It will be a massive victory
for socialists,
radical activists
& atheism.

3.
Baby jesus
will end up crying
very loudly,
& he doesn’t have a dummy.

4.
It will lead
to a massive carbon tax
on household goods.

5.
The mining sector
will be absolutely
screwed.

6.
Working families
will suffer
as the cost of living rises
exponentially

7.
Think
about
the children.

8.
Who will keep the cat
when they get divorced?

9.
What if
they both wear dresses
at the wedding?

10.
It will not help
stop the rising tide
of asylum seekers

11.
Julia Gillard
& Tim Mathieson.

12.
Penny
Wong

The Case For

1.
It will open the floodgates!
What if someone wants to marry a horse next!
Where will it end!

2.
It will be a massive victory
for socialists,
radical activists
& atheism!

3.
Baby jesus
will end up crying
very loudly,
& he doesn’t have a dummy!

4.
It will lead
to a massive carbon tax
on household goods!

5.
The mining sector
will be absolutely
screwed!

6.
Working families
will suffer
as the cost of living rises
exponentially!

7.
Think
about
the children!

8.
Who will keep the cat
when they get divorced?!!!

9.
What if
they both wear dresses
at the wedding!

10.
It will not help
stop the rising tide
of asylum seekers!

11.
Julia Gillard
& Tim Mathieson.

12.
Penny
Wong!

.

on blogging too much

2011-10-07T21:48:00.000+11:00

how to be a dapper melbourne chap

2011-10-06T03:36:00.001+11:00

wear skinny jeans
in navy / dark grey / or black
a tasseled winter scarf
or quirky handcrafted hat
a tousled bed head
asymmetrical cut
or an overgrown dylan fro
of so-hip-i-can’t-be-fucked

or be scalp-razored
on a zero blade or one
with not-that-kind-of-pretty
two day old stubble

read rolling stone
collect records
frequent secondhand book places
talk poetry / art
& politics
but detest the horse races

shop at farmers markets
chinese grocers
jewish bakeries
or russian deli’s
watch films at acmi
know where the state library is

be vague
or ironic
or funny
or erratic
& wear skinny fit jumpers:
either hoodies or knits

be heroically underpaid
or disgustingly overpaid

live on grants / or savings
a scholarship /or bar tips

hang at the espy
the tote / the toff
the food festival
film festival
or elsewhere art is

drink boutique beer / tea
or a specific grind of coffee

visit perth / adelaide
darwin / or
anywhere untouristy

dig reggae
folk or jazz
& play drums / deck
or guitar

live on the tram
but own a beat-up brown car

like tall auburn-haired girls
who wear lace-trimmed dresses
leather boots / funky brooches
& know which way the bar is

extreme poeranoia

2011-10-01T20:17:00.000+10:00

the break-up dictionary for baffled men

2011-09-30T20:19:00.002+10:00

it’s not you it’s me
means
i couldn’t be bothered
discussing what a complete
tool you’ve turned out to be

you’ve changed
means
i never knew
what a complete tool
you were before

i’ve changed
means
how could i
not have realized what
a complete tool you are
until now

i don’t know you anymore
means
you are such a tool
to have hidden
what an enormous tool you are
from me for so long

we’ve grown apart
means
i don’t want to be
anywhere near you
because you are such a tool

let’s take a break
means
i never want you to come
anywhere near me again
but i’m scared to tell you
what a tool you are

i still love you
but i’m not 'in love' with you
means
you’re a bit of a tool
but there’s no point in
making you feel bad
about yourself

i just think we’d be better
as friends
means
i’ve realized you’re not
the sharpest tool in the shed
& besides
there’s a newer model
i’ve got my eye on

Some Recent & soon-to-be Publications

2011-09-26T06:40:00.007+10:00

My short story The Butcher has been published in the current edition of Peril. Here's the opener:

Late one July morning, Mei Lin stood in the line inside the Harrington’s, the local butchers. Sen, brought along to push the second wheeled grocery cart required for the fortnight grocery run, clutched at her mother’s skirt, peering uncertainly at the whole lamb carcass and row of unplucked chickens hanging just behind the counter.

After waiting quietly for the better part of a half hour, Mei Lin raised her voice above the din of orders. “Haff poun of chickin mince and lamb back strap thank you, sir.” Her still-strong accent cut through the bustle of the busy shop like scythe splitting melon, dulled the cheery neighbourhood chatter to silence.

“Well Mr. Harrington, you gonna let that fuckin chink lady buy up a piece of England?”

Click here for the full piece. You can also check out my 12 minute patois audio poem Some Dream Was Brewing in the latest cd of the latest issue of Going Down Swinging. Also stay tuned for the publication of my illustration Poelectronica in the upcoming issue of Cordite Poetry Review. I'll give it a shout out once it's up.

helpful tips for becoming a trendy melbourne chick

2011-09-25T11:13:00.001+10:00

go vegan
buy yourself a vintage dress

get an expensive whispy hair cut
& a rental in northcote
or brunswick west

subscribe to 3CR
or RRR

get a show on SYNfm

read frankie
yen / or peppermint
while riding the 86 tram

drink a free-trade
bonsoi / but fully
caffeinated / latte`

own a car
but bike everywhere
in a retro helmet
& whinge like f*ck
about the trains

dig spoken word
women’s circus
fringe politics
bikram yoga
documentary making
or knit graffiti

become an editor
open a craft shop
or write flash fiction

screenprint

start a zine
or freelance
in just about anything

rave about footscray
flemington / springvale
or elsewhere
you’d never live

visit daylesford
upwey / or eltham
on the weekends

shop at savers
or lark
or meet me at mike’s

wear hand-crafted goods
or expensive one-offs
from indie designers

date a writer
filmmaker
i.t. guy
social commentator
or a public servant

be decidedly heterosexual
but with heaps of
queer friends

be a serial monogamist
long time defacto
or marry barefoot
in a temple
or grungy backyard setting

hang at ceres
trades hall
rose street markets
or the wheeler centre

apply for some kind of grant
at least once a quarter

drop out of university
or emerge with three degrees
a decade later

squat
protest
or suddenly quit a job you always hated

temporarily move
to amsterdam
belgium / berlin
or spain

vote green
vote socialist
donkey vote
or don’t turn up at all

work with ethnics
artists / the homeless
or the poor

write a cookbook
a memoir / a twitter stream
or a blog

black people white people don't like

2011-09-24T07:35:00.001+10:00

black people on welfare
unemployed black people
black people who have a better job than they do
black people with no education
black people with a better education than they have

aboriginal people
original people
black refugees
black tourists
black economic migrants
black people who think this is their country
just because they were born here
or have been here for generations
black people who aren’t grateful
that they are allowed to live here

black people with a funny accent
black people whose english is so good
you can’t tell they’re black people

black militants
black rioters
jesse jackson

black people who dress like black people
black people who try to look like white people

black people with funny hairdos
like corn rows or braids or afros
very black people
black people so light you could mistake them for white people
black people who lighten their skin
so you won’t be able to tell they are black people one day

black people who whinge about being black all the time
black people who act like being black is the bomb
black people with bombs

black preachers
black politiclians
black single mothers
black mothers
black muslims

black kids who hang around on street corners
really well behaved black kids
black kids who are smarter than their kids
black men

black people who have children with white people
black people who only stick to their own kind
black people who live in poor neighbourhoods
black people who live in the suburbs
wealthy black people
black people with a white picket fence

black people who are too politically active
black people who just couldn’t be arsed
about trying to make things better for themselves

black people who hate white people
black people who suck up to white people too much
black people who hate on other black people
black people who are totally down with black love

black teachers
black policemen
black women
black leaders
black poets

& black people
who write
black blogs

white people black people don't like

2011-09-22T06:21:00.001+10:00

white people who hate black people
white people who like black people too much
white people who think they’re black
white people who are glad they’re white
white people who want to be black
white people who don’t want to be black
white people who adopt black babies
white people who refuse to adopt black babies
white women who date black men
white women who won’t date black men
white men who marry black women
white men who won’t marry black women
white people who won’t hire black people
white people who are the boss of black people
white people who fire black people
white people who refuse to fire people cause they’re black

white people who love jazz, soul, hip-hop, funk, rap or blues
white people who don’t understand jazz, soul, hip-hop, funk, rap or blues
white musicians who don’t play jazz, soul, hip-hop, funk, rap or blues
white musicians who only play jazz, soul, hip-hop, funk, rap or blues
white people who think they can dance
white people who think all black people can dance
white people who can’t dance
dancing white people

white presidents of the united states of america
black presidents of the united states of america who act like
white presidents of the united states of america

white people who think africa is a country
white people who’ve never been to a black country
white tourists in black countries

white people with black best friends
white people who only have white friends
white people who don’t know any black people
white people with too many black friends

white people who just don’t want to know about black people
white people who are all up in black people’s business

white people who won’t vote for black people
white people who vote for someone just because they’re black

white people who don’t feel guilty about being white
white people who feel guilty just because they’re white

white people who think all black people can sing
white people who think they can sing even though they’re white

white people who are afraid of black people
white people who aren’t afraid of black people
white people who think black people are afraid of them
scary white people
white people who are too nice
white people who think black people don’t like white people
white people who think black people love all other black people
white people who think black people hate each other
white people who only love other white people
white people who just love black people
white people who hate on each other all the time

white christians
white people who try to make black people into christians
white people who don’t care enough about black people to try to make them into christians
white people who dig non-white religions

white people who think black people don’t talk proper english
white people who use black ghetto slang
like ‘sup, boo and brother

white people who think black people are all funny
white people who think black people are too serious
serious white people

white people
without a seriously black
sense of humour

Blogging Overload

2011-09-21T13:38:00.002+10:00

A Note in Your Coat Pocket at the Beginning of Winter - The Class of '99 Remembers Sandon McCleod

2011-09-19T22:47:00.002+10:00

Overload Poetry Festival’s Class of ’99 gig on Wednesday night was, without a doubt one of the best evenings of poetry I’ve been privileged to encounter anywhere. No ego, no pretention, no stumbles, no heckling. Class of ’99 was an honest, sincere, heartbreaking, spontaneously narrated many-tongued trip back through Melbourne spoken word memory. Oh, and with some absolutely unbelievable poetry from Melbourne’s finest wordsmiths thrown into the mix.

Every poet in Class of ’99 spoke of Sandon McCleod – the mother of Overload, a poet I never knew, but by the end of the evening, felt almost as if I had. The most poignant moment of the achingly nostalgic evening was when the last poet of the night, Steve Smart, spoke of Sandon in hospital with lung cancer after being given a month to live. Still wickedly witty and sharp-tongued but slipping away a little more each day, Sandon told the endless parade of Melbourne poets keeping her company at the end that they must look after each other. Whatever they did, they must really make sure they took care of each other.

They have.

Poet and MC Maurice McNamara opens Class of ‘99 with true class, explaining that he’s worked hard to secure the upstairs gig room in the Palookaville Hotel for the Class of ’99 Overload gig so please, no Shelton Lea moments or vomits in the corner. But in all seriousness, despite such grubby asides, and the occasional was-that-a-deliberately-offensive-joke-or-a-genuine-miscommunication moments, McNamara is a warm, engaging and egoless tour guide through the last decade of Melbourne poetry history.

First up for the evening is Melbourne poet and poetry scene photographer Michael Reynolds. McNamara explains that before Reynolds came on the scene, poet photographs on the backs of published collections all look like pictures your little sister took when she was five and had a bad flu. Reynolds begins by explaining how stumbling across a poetry reading at the Dan O’Connell Hotel in ’99 brought him to the Melbourne poetry scene. The title poem from his chapbook On Finding A Chair In the Forest, seems to mirror this happenstance – a walker discovers a lone chair in the forest, nobody else in sight. The chair is yours, the narrator offers, but only if you feel comfortable. And Reynolds is indeed comfortable cloaked in words: eloquent, witty and intriguing at his best. The poem Denise, one of Sandon’s favourites, he recalls, tugged at the heartstrings. In it, the poet’s young boy self astutely observes the melancholy and loneliness of his aunt Denise across the family Christmas dinner table. Longing to leave the table and dodge the swipe of his father’s hand, the child resists, only to find the regret of the moment echoing back at him as an adult. It’s a poem about family, love, and inclusiveness which fits well with the nostalgia of the evening.

After strongly recommending that any standing audience member go downstairs to the restaurant and take a chair off a steak eater, McNamara introduces Angela Costi, lamenting that a lot of the Melbourne poetry old guard have gone off and had bloody children, so he’s been obliged to put them on early in case the little tikes end up in emergency or something. Indeed, as many of the Class of ’99 spontaneously narrate their stories in between poems, explaining how, when, why and if they left the poetry scene, the common theme is family responsibility. As a poet in the present Melbourne spoken word scene with two young children waiting for me at home, I sympathise whole-heartedly. Both the beauty and the bother of the spoken word scene in Melbourne is that it’s a little all-or-nothing. It’s so involving, there’s so much going on, there’s so many extraordinary people asking you to read, or collaborate, or publish, or contribute, that if you can’t be on it one hundred percent, it often feels like it would be far saner to take a break altogether.

Sandon told me to be brave, poet Angela Costi remembers, and I haven’t always been, but tonight, I am going to be brave. And with that, she performs a pulsing, rocking, sweaty, flashing eight minute poem which she performed at the first Overload Poetry festival a decade ago. The poem’s narrator is in a bar. The music is thumping. The place is packed with vivid, curious characters. The woman with the Gertrude Stein face, a clubber with hair petrified in wax. Throughout the piece, a refrain: A song for everyone comes on...my mouth wants to know the words as the narrator struggles to play the part she feels she should. I wish I could recall more of Costi’s electric imagery, but suffice it to say I was so mesmerised I barely took down a note.

Next, McNamara introduces himself. Unsurprisingly, he says he’s pretty incredible. A random audience member offers to do the honours, but McNamara quickly hits that nail on the head. McNamara’s poetry observes people and relationships so sharply you wonder if all those he loves live constantly on guard. His first two poems are about ended relationships, but not in that sad, longing, regretful way of some such poems. In the first poem, an ex calls for help to write a poem. In the second he breaks bread, or at least coffee, with another ex and they exchange loaded banter. Her boyfriend’s computer, he thinks, it’s a stupid computer, not an Apple like my girlfriend’s computer. McNamara’s relationship poems are an odd, but utterly contagious, mixture of aged wisdom and juvenile quip. He extends this approach to his hilarious observation of Fitzroy yuppies, observing their habits in list-form: the bootleg jeans, clever haircuts, boutique beer, ability to eat chilli without breaking a sweat. But in the morning... he finishes, they still...shit like you and I do.

Next up, Melissa Petrakis. McNamara introduces her by talking about an idea the old guard had a decade ago of a Poets Club, where a nominated poet would read only one poem then talk about themselves for the evening, The idea, he remembers, fizzled out after Petrakis took the mic at the first Poet’s club. You forget, we did so much. There was so much going on back then, but who cares? He asks, Where’s the money?
Petrakis too, reads work from back in the day. She’s only written one poem this year, she says, but back then she was writing four poems a week. The first poems are two of the first she ever had published - in now defunct poetry publications. Petrakis’ work is not my kind of poetry: formal, traditional, wordy. But I’m interested because I’ve never heard her read before, and though she professes herself not to be a performance poet, she reads her work as well as any of the class of ’99. Her words have weight, depth, great consideration. My favourite of the evening was a poem about seeking solace in the flesh of another – burrowing to find comfort. Reading from her second poetry book, Petrakis remembers a conversation with Sandy in which she confessed she didn’t feel her second publication was as good as her first. Sandy told her she would grow to love it. And as with all the anecdotes about McCleod this evening, it seems she was right.

McNamara returns to spruik the second half. There’s lots more great stuff coming up. That sounds like I’m talking about the lollies at the bottom of the jar. The purple ones that no-one wants to eat.

First poet in the second half is Matt Hetherington. His poem Middle Aged Poet to Middle Aged poet is both devastating and hilarious. Start when the kids are asleep / and the wife isn’t interested, he suggests, try to write something without nature in it and if you think your stuff is getting good, think of Frank Sinatra’s wig. Then there is that love poem, read only from memory. As a general rule, I'm not a fan of love poems, but this one leaves me speechless. Speechless. That laboured, yet somehow so sincere refrain which starts every line...when I am not with her, there, where she is... The whole room falls silent – you can practically hear collective eyelashes beating.

Next, Luis Gonzalez Serrano, current artistic director of Overload, takes to the stage. He speaks of Melbourne back in the day and of Saltlick, the now defunct poetry magazine he and Clint Greagan, who’s reading later in the evening, started. Luis’ Prayer For My Sister ably articulates the way in which his family’s migration to Australia from El Slavador plays tug of war with the home heartstrings. Once again though, the poem which impacts me most deals with the craft of writing...A poet is an idea we forgot to say...a poem is a single light on inside a house....the reason that keeps a prisoner living...a note you find in a coat pocket at the beginning of winter...

Next, Meg Dunn storms the stage. The most performative of the Class of ’99, and with a theatre background, she reads in a shimmering metallic skirt, arms gesticulating. She too, spoke of the state of the spoken word scene in ’99 – the fact that if one wanted to, they could read every single night. Dunn’s best poem was a rhythmic beat journey down the Pacific Highway through truck-stops, past motorcyclists, changing lanes toward a crash-collision finish.

Next up is Clint Greagan who promptly puts a stake through the nostalgic remembrance of he and Luis as co-editors of Saltlick by confessing that, actually, he took off after a few years and Gonzalez Serrano did most of the work: It’s just that I was a bit of a nut-bar, which made the whole thing more newsworthy. Greagan speaks candidly about how Sandon’s death affected him at a time when he was fortunate enough that no-one close to him had died before their time. Getting teary, he squares his shoulders, asks: Can I shake that off? Back to being a psycho! He proceeds to fill his set with poems about the ducks in his backyard. It takes me a few minutes to get with Greagan’s program. Halfway through his set, I realise that his observations of his ducks are not, actually, about his ducks. I mean they are, but they are also about, well, humanity. Quack is pre defeat / and means it’s late, the race is over, reads the poem about harbouring in his duck-filled yard from the rat race of the city. In another amusingly disturbing poem, he ponders the defencelessness of the ducks: I could tear your heads off / it would be easy...

The evening better be nearing an end, because McNamara’s MCing is on a downhill slide: there were jokes about the lack of women on the program between the last two sets, and now he asks someone in the audience to stand up. The man obligingly stands, and Maurice points, guffaws and says He is from Belgium! Look how tall he is everyone! At all the good parties there’s either a dwarf or a giant!

Oh dear. Put the drink down Maurice. Put it down.

Lucky Andy Jackson’s up next. Jackson starts in’ 99, and reads one poem for every two years since. It’s a brilliant idea, and we can certainly chart the artistic development of this formidable wordsmith. In Jackson’s first poem, his younger writer self tries to make sense of his craft. There are some brilliant associations and metaphors coming at us: the poet as a tailor of second hand words, poetry as a name written on a toilet wall and no-one ever calls your number... In another of his poems, Jackson explores the Melbourne night city-scape so familiar to all of us spoken word night owls. My eyes are closed. My head is back. I’m stepping into the cold streets of Melbourne, making the city mine. I’ve stopped note-taking again: a slip-up I’ll regret when I pore through my notebook the next morning frantically trying to recall the wonder I know was Jackson’s set. Jackson is softly spoken, eloquent, not at all a performance poet. And yet somehow he is. And he’s the most mesmerising of the evening. The audience, despite the late hour, are settled and attentive, and he draws practically a standing ovation when he leaves the mic.

McNamara re-renters, lauds Jackson’s idea of reading a poem for each couple years since Overload began, reprimands the other poets for not thinking of this, calls them a bunch of stupids. It’s getting late, and a Steve Smart set is what we’re all waiting for.

Suddenly there Smart is at the mic, his usual wild mane of black hair shaven to the scalp, dressed in black, teary-eyed and speaking of Sandon. At the end, Smart says, there was a queue of people going in to see Sandon and get their little bit of wisdom. And, he smiles, some of them really needed it. Smart talks about discovering the Melbourne poetry scene, and the relief to find a bunch of people so supportive of this strange creature I needed to be somehow.

Smart reads a poem from way back when: Are You Chasin? and talks about how he never used to edit back in the day, but has worked on this poem and is reading that re-worked version tonight. The witty, clever wordplay is followed by a political poem from, he confesses, prime ministers ago. I’ll tell you how we can make him say sorry, Smart starts, detailing various torture techniques which might be used on Prime Minister Howard. Like McNamara’s poem about the Melbourne 'pretty people', Costi’s Melbourne club scene and Jackson’s Melbourne streetscape, Smart’s last poem is about our city...a winter soul...a plot you have to follow closely or you might miss something...

And then it’s Sandon McCleod’s Poet’s Holiday to finish. Sandon, the mother of Overload. Sandon, this extraordinary character who I never had the privilege to know, but now know through these extraordinary poets. Sandon who held, still holds, these wordsmiths together. Sandon, the match that lit the fire.

It’s the great escape from poetry
just one day off
we’re not going out to any readings
and we’ll get: where were you?
but that’s probably better than late again
and we’re not visiting any poets
and we’re not going to talk about poetry,
or poets,
or places where poetry is read
or festivals we might organise,
or readings we might run.

We’re having a day off from poetry
and poets bitching about other poets
and poets getting pissed with other poets
and giving each other bad advice
and boasting and bullshitting
as poets do.

We’re having a day off from poetry.
We’re catching a train as far as one will go –
to Cairns or maybe Perth
or anywhere you don’t need so many clothes
and the rain, if there is any, is warm
and like a next morning shower
rather than that cold rain that sits in your shoes
and fucks your cigarette papers.

We’re having a day off from poetry
and we’re not going to sit by the sea
and write wave poems about sex
or skin poems about love.
We’re not going to write poems about poetry.
We’re not going to write poems at all –
not poems or prose or even words.
We’re not taking pens or books or any paper
and we’re going to rip our train tickets
so we can’t write on the back of those.

We’re having a day off from poetry
and we’re going to lie by a river
with crocodiles in it
and you’re going to lie on one bank
and I’ll lie on the other
‘cos you’re a fucking poet!

- Sandon McCleod

Dodgy Haiku & Coffee with Saul

2011-09-19T22:13:00.002+10:00

Okay, so during Overload Poetry Festival last week we held a competition for the WORST haiku on the subject 'Death By Poetry'.
"We are giving away coffee with African-American hip hop poetry god Saul Williams to one lucky Slam Up Overloaded reader... Of course, we’re poets, and ‘coffee with Saul Williams’ might not ummm...carry it’s literal meaning. So what we ACTUALLY have to give away is a brand spanking new copy of Saul Williams poetry book Said the Shotgun to the Head, paired with a posh bag of authentic Turkish coffee. I know. Sorry ladies...and gentlemen. Sly. But amusing also, right?"

Well, it seems a lot of readers were put off by our sense of humour. Seriously, get over it people. If I had a date with Saul, you really think I'd raffle it off to a really BAD haiku-writer.

But there still has to be a winner, right. And our judge, Melbourne writer Alec Patric picked one. Patric said: 'And the award goes to....
Words exploding in head
like bullets
by Koraly Dimitriadis.
For the expert deployment of cliche and the cheesy reference to Saul's head and shotgun.'

Sadly, I vetoed the prize for Koraly as she is one of Slam Up Overloaded's reviewers. so next in line was M.R.Vavala for:
no effort needed
Haiku isn't poetry
rather be slammin'

Congratulations M.R. Vavala, for writing crap haiku! Email your postal details to clarke.maxine@gmail.com for coffee with Saul.

Check the comment stream here to see how bad things got. Not nearly bad enough it seems, cause all our readers were off having a sook.

Overload is Still Alive Online

2011-09-18T07:46:00.001+10:00

Overload Poetry Festival might have officially ended last night, but it'll linger on a little longer online over the next few days. Read back on our reviews and interviews as we chat a bit more about Mills & Boon Swoon and (finally) review Class of '99, and we might even go into that bizarre Ian McBryde heckling incident at the Dan last weekend. We'll have a muse on what went wrong, right and magically for Overload 2011. Then it'll be a little blog-holiday for this tired Slam Up publishing goon.

A Bottomless Bag of Metaphors: Benjamin Solah Reviews Tell it Like it Is

2011-09-17T19:19:00.003+10:00

Melbourne writer and blogger Benjamin Solah encountered poetry slam superstars Ken Arkind, Jive Poetic and Shane Koyczan at Overload Poetry Festival's Tell it Like it Is last night and left bursting with inspiration. Solah shares his experience here at Slam Up Overloaded. If you enjoy his post, head over to his blog where it was first published. If you like what you see there, which you undoubtedly will, please donate to help crowd-fund Solah's writing. Here's Solah, on encountering slam royalty:

Perhaps it was the night, the vibe or the crowd that made me excited, but after tonight’s taste of North American slam superstars, I have a ripple of inspiration and a desire to write. That’s perhaps a pretty self-centred outcome from seeing others tear up the stage but Luka urged it himself and for a writer, this is a top endorsement.

The crowd was the first thing I noticed. Poetry gigs especially in Melbourne can be hard to fill up, especially with non-poets, and this year one of the drawbacks of the Overload Poetry festival has been the attendance. So, it was a real surprise to see the Footscray Community Arts Centre full, with people I didn’t know and an energetic crowd.

I really hope we can catch onto at least some of those people and perhaps see them at other events all year round. It’s encouraging for the future of Melbourne poetry and the kind of culture that Luka and the Centre of Poetics and Justice are breathing into the scene.

Tell It Like It Is, the slam at Footscray that Luka Lesson and Alia Gabres curate, pulled out the big guns on tonight, warming us with the finest of Melbourne’s spoken word artists including Luka and Alia themselves, Joel McKerrow and Mel Hughes. And after seeing the international guests, I could see the direction in style our local poets were coming from. There really is something different about ‘slam’ poetry and it’s not competition, it’s not because it’s like hip-hop either.

The three guests, Ken Arkind, Jive Poetic and Shane Koyczan are really nothing like I’ve seen before, especially in the level of talent. Impassioned, delicate, forceful, detailed and full of a bottomless bag of metaphors, they really put the performance element of performance poetry on display, that weave stories and paint pictures that do something in my chest cavity that they managed to describe in a million ways.

The best bet is to Google those names and check them out for yourselves, but seeing it live, feeling the electricity in the room is something else. They pulled a response from the crowd, a kind of interaction that begs you to try and pull that off yourself somewhere else. We were not just listening passively. We were responding.

I called them superstars at the start, but they’re not god-like people held up on a pedestal, bigger than us. They’re humble and just glad to be able to share their words with us.

And out of that, I hope I’m not the only poet that listened to that, felt something new and amazing send shivers up my spine and make me want to write, break some new rules, use their energy and write something that breaks new boundaries and at least tries to bring something of what we saw tonight into the tradition of Melbourne poetry.

Get Badger Happy - Maxine Clarke on Badgers Dozen #7

2011-09-16T22:37:00.001+10:00

The very Dadaesque Badger’s Dozen, a small oddball zine edited and compiled by Melbourne poet Timothy Train isn’t poetry. There’s poetry in it, sure, but not enough for it to warrant sneaking into the Overload Poetry Festival program to be launched at the Dan O’Connell Hotel tomorrow afternoon. Or, come to think of it, for me to really be reviewing on this blog. But then that in itself is somehow very apt, in a Badgers Dozen kind of way.

On the second page, after the usual badgertorial (so named), is an advertisement for Mal’s Mail Order Sexists. For $100, you can order Simon, who likes long walks on the beach and objectifying women or Jack, whose favourite pastime is muttering about how things were better when women stayed home. On page four is an important mock-Orwellian notice from the government: Do you exist? If so, you could possibly be infringing the regulations and rules of the Reality Department. The centrefold, headed A Page Suitable To Be Used As A Coffee Cup Placemat contains a circular dotted line, the dotted outline of a spoon, the dotted outline of a miscellaneous, splodge and the words (respectively) Place cup here, Place spoon here and place coffee stain here.

Issue 7 of Badger’s Dozen has various contributors, including Timothy Train, Eddy Burger, Elizabeth Tan, Emily Manger and Bronwyn Manger. The work is the zine is almost consistently bizarre, though there are some departures from the general absurdity. While Melbourne poet Emily Manger’s digital cartoon of a fairy stuck in a jam jar, headed Pickled Tink is very Badgers Dozen, the accompanying poem Valentine’s Cliche` by Bronwyn Manger, doesn’t quite hit the corny off-kilter factor needed to work with the rest of the zine’s mix. The poem itself works, but there are some lines, images, and associations that, dare I say it, are just too spot on for this publication:

...together neither of us are going to
be replete without the other
you hold me like a heatwave
holds a city still & when
you touch my hand I get a poem...

Scene from a future dystopia, written under the name of Georgus Huxwell, in the year 2084 is snort-out-loud-on-a-suburban-bus funny. For real, as I found out whilst snorting out loud on a suburban bus. How’s that for product placement? As future dystopia citizens gather for the compulsory Two Minutes of Masturbation, subliminal messages such as it’s okay to be that way and keep your room tidy flash between state sponsored politically correct non sexist porn.

That a zine such as Badger’s Dozen exists at all is poetry. Train’s wife Lexy reportedly illustrates the publication with trademark dodgy line drawings, and the $3 cover price funds gingerbread. That’s what the contributors are paid with. Literally.
Get down to the Dan O’Connell Hotel tomorrow to bask in the last few hours of Overload Poetry Festival 2011, read a pirate-themed poem on the open mic & get badger happy with Issue #8 of Badger's Dozen. If it sucks, you can always use it for a coaster. In fact, the editor so advises.

Heartstrings That Play Like Harps - Bronwyn Lovell on Mills & Boon Swoon

2011-09-16T20:47:00.001+10:00

On Wednesday the 14th of September, Bronwyn Lovell headed to LongPlay in North Fitzroy to catch the 8.30pm showing of Eleanor Jackson and Betsey Turquot's two women poetry show Mills & Boon Swoon as part of Overload Poetry Festival 2011. The queer twist on the 'traditional' ups & downs of a Mills & Boons romance delighted Lovell, and the poetry stayed with her long after the curtains had fallen:

I am so delighted to be writing this review. I mean, who wouldn’t swoon for these two lovely ladies? Ever since Wednesday night I have been dying to sit down and share with you the absolute wonder of Eleanor Jackson and Betsy Turcott’s A Mills & Boon Swoon. Wow. The performance is still reverberating through my bones and sinking into my skin. For those who have not yet seen it, for you I feel two parts pity and one part excitement, because I have the honour of imparting just a taste of the tremendous treat you are in for when you do see this show, and you will. It was featured in the Queensland Poetry Festival before it came to Melbourne for the Overload Poetry Festival, and it will no doubt go on to be welcomed in many more places, so eagerly await its return because damn, are you in for something special.

Needles skips a beat, eyes catch in saxophone silence

A Mills and Boon Swoon takes audience members through the full cycle of meeting, falling in love, making vows, trying for a baby, betrayal, and the aftermath of a break up – all in less than forty-minutes. Despite the incredible amount of ground covered, the show was brilliantly paced and spends due time exploring each emotion without ever feeling rushed. It’s years of memories entwined in a delicate string of words that will leave you breathless.

I don’t know enough about you, but if I don’t take this chance there will never ever be another you

Oh, and it would be remiss of me not to mention that this love story is a lesbian one. The show touches on some of the barriers that same sex couples encounter when it comes to parental acceptance and starting their own family.

One day your mummy and your mummy were so in love they made a whole other person and nobody cared how they did it

But lesbian or otherwise, a love story is a love story, and if you’ve ever spent years building a future with someone only to watch it crumble, you’ll relate to this love story no matter your sexual orientation.

You grew used to me, I grew used to you and we became the better halves of ourselves that we had longed to be

But don’t be misled by the title, this show is no sickly sweet romance novel. It is a performance that is achingly real, suburban, ordinary and free of any contrived or conventional happy ending. It’s an urban epic.

Our love is folded in the laundry, repeated and routine

It illustrates and celebrates the wonder in an everyday relationship, and exposes the inner turmoil that lurks within every lover. It explores the joy and tragedy of having loved and lost, and how we are forever altered as a result.

What you really lose when they leave

The romance starts in a record store and the whole show is a celebration of music and classic love songs with iconic lyrics interwoven through the performance like a medley.

Make me better than a one hit wonder, make me a greatest hits, kill me softer with your song, make me listen long, make me press repeat

The form of the show consisted of mostly turn taking between the two poets in a kind of call and response, but the strongest emotional heights were achieved in those moments when the two voices spoke at the same time, weaving under and over each other in the most sublime confluence, their voices a stunning symphony of sensuality and soul.

The distance driven elongates the heartstrings until they play like harps

My one and only disappointment as an audience member came at the very beginning, when it was obvious that Eleanor and Betsy weren’t going to dress up for us in the fabulous outfits they had been photographed in for their marketing campaign. Of course these wordsmiths do not need costumes or a set; testament to their talent, they need only their words to skilfully paint scenes around them. Still, those publicity shots were stylized and striking, and could easily lead the audience to expect a more theatrical show. As it was though, the street clothes, no set approach added to the sense of realism, emphasising the fact that this could be anyone’s story; it belongs to all of us, to the everyday and the street.

We all know the dance, so I try to choose a top that says I care, but not too; heels that say I’m up for it, but not too; for the bar you suggested that says you’re cool, but not too.… We all know the dance, so I try to dance with you

It was a familiar tale, but it was told with such delicate insight and tenderness that it transcended into the realms of the extraordinary. Eleanor and Betsy shared their love story with sparkling eyes, generous smiles, intimacy, warmth, heartbreaking honesty, hard-hitting truth and most of all, hope.

I have a heart on, a hope on, a happy on, a hold on, for you

There was a rawness and nakedness to their performance that suggested they had both lived this story, or another like it, at least once in their lives.

Babe we’ve been down this road before

Eleanor’s eyes were red at one point as she gave herself over completely to a poem and Betsy was so mesmerized by Eleanor’s stunning performance that she needed to take a moment to recall her own line before she could continue. That Eleanor could touch Betsy so profoundly with her words, even after countless rehearsals and previous performances, is testament to the degree to which both women were committed to living each and every word they said. That they performed a show of nearly 40-minutes of non-stop poetry without once referring to a piece of paper was also mindbogglingly impressive.

I’ve been searching for the right words to describe the first time ever I saw your face

I believe these two women have achieved the holy grail of poetry and performance with A Mills and Boon Swoon – they have expressed the unutterable and universalized the intensely personal, illustrating in increments what is all but incomprehensible, showing just how a love so good can go so wrong.

Love isn’t always flying, sometimes it’s drowning, like the time I threw your boots out the backdoor, told you to stop walking all over me. And you listened. You knew I could stop loving you, that I didn’t need you; I wanted you, wholeheartedly

There is a lot that is ultimately sad about this show, devastating even, but it still makes you want to fall in love all over again. It is an absolute delight from start to finish. I had a smile on my face the whole way through, even when witnessing the tremendous hurt of a fragile love falling apart.

Is this what love is about? No more infatuation, no more heat of the moment, just the space on your back where I lay my head

Why would I smile in the face of heartbreak, you may ask. Well, it was the recognition the show sparked in me that made me smile despite myself, the sense of ‘Oh, yes, I know this, I remember this feeling, I’ve lived this, too’.

Remember when we used to go dancing, back when we were in love?

Oh yes, how could I forget.

When the right side of the bed becomes yours

Eleanor and Betsy took the audience on a bittersweet trip that we have all travelled before, and we smiled and nodded along with a knowing sense of nostalgia. After all, this knowing is what it is to be human, knowing what it is to be alive and have a heart that can hurt.

Don’t give me warning in the morning when you finally go, but when decision dawns, gentle but resolute, make coffee in your ritual way, leave the lipsticked cup upon the sink, later I’ll wash away your farewell kiss.

After I had left the bar and caught the tram home to sit thoughtfully on my bed, I realized that in A Mills & Boon Swoon I had been made to feel intimately part of a universal human experience, and as a result, I felt less alone. Yes, we all know the dance, and a show like this is comforting for those of us who, when it comes to love, might often feel we have two left feet.

For all the love I loved misunderstood

Thank you so much, Eleanor and Betsy! The next time love surprises, delights or crucifies me, the next time I get that heart-soaring, soul-crushing, gut-wrenching feeling, I will remember that the two of you have known that feeling, too, that we all have, that we all do and we all will again, and that we are so wonderfully blessed by this, and that when it comes to love and loss, not one of us is ever really alone.

She smiles, lips tremble, my loneliness crumbles.

Bronwyn Lovell is an emerging poet and spoken word performer. Her poetry has been featured on RRR, SYN FM, 3CR Community Radio, and Melbourne Community Television Channel 31. Her work has been accepted for publication in Swamp, Antipodes, ZineWest, Positive Words Magazine, and Paradise Anthology. Bronwyn has a writing residency at Kinfolk Cafe as part of Australian Poetry's national Cafe Poets Program and she is a workshop facilitator for the Centre for Poetics and Justice. www.bronwynlovell.com

Mermaid in the Docks - Karen Andrews Reviews Chloe Wilson at the Eltham Courthouse

2011-09-16T19:10:00.000+10:00

Last night, Slam Up Overloaded reviewer Karen Andrews headed over to the Eltham Courthouse to hear poet Chloe Wilson feature as part of Overload Poetry Festival. She found herself beguiled by mermaid and myth, despite the dwindling end-of-Overload attendence:

The Courthouse Readings are held in Eltham’s historic courthouse, convened lovingly for over seven years now by Helen Lucas and made possible by the assistance of the Nillumbik Shire Council. As a result of this, feature poets are well paid (or so I’m told), and there is a loyal community following – up to 85% of the audience are from the district.

This audience was sadly lacking at The Courthouse Readings last night. Suggestions explaining this unusual occurrence centred mostly on other competing Overload Poetry Festival sessions on at other venues. A shame, really. These people missed out on a stand-out appearance by feature poet, Chloe Wilson.

Poised and beguiling, she read newer poems and others already collected in her work, The Mermaid Problem (Australian Poetry Centre*, 2010). It’s clear she draws a lot of inspiration from historical (and fictional) figures and events (Hypatia, Cleopatra, Ophelia, Les Tricoteuses, the destruction of Pompeii) as well as our animal world (she began and ended her first set with dog poems) and many of these carried a sensual evocativeness reminiscent of Dorothy Porter. Chloe is a young poet, in only a chronological sense, and I look forward to reading more of her work in the future.

For me, a lot of the pleasure of the evening comes from knowing that just down the road from my house, one night a month, most months of the year, I can come and enjoy a few hours of poetry; where I can see a glass of white wine perched up high on the judge’s bench, its surface tremoring slightly as someone walks past, and the poets can stand in the docks without fear of harsh sentencing.

This was only the second time I’ve been to a Courthouse Readings and I hope to be one of the more regular attendees in the future.

*I went to the Australian Poetry Centre website to buy this book because I took no money with me to the event. But, alas, there is no ‘shop’ or a ‘buy here’ page on the APC website. Books may be ordered via email, yes, but that is an extra step a potential buyer needs to take and many might not be bothered taking. A clickable Paypal button would be so much easier. Only a suggestion…

The Writing on the Wall - Maxine Clarke Reviews Electric Text

2011-09-15T22:12:00.001+10:00

How do your curate a collection of short poems which will come to life as electric text scrolling down the walls of Melbourne’s Federation Square? Do you go for shock value – for that double-take when a weekend leisure-seeker heading to a screening at ACMI suddenly looks up and realises that there writing on the wall is not your normal Fed Square advertisement? Do you go for profundity in the hope of permeating someone’s subconscious, altering their day in the most spiritual of ways? Do you pick each poem separately, for their individual merits and end up with a potentially eclectic poem gallery, or do you aim for a more wholistic curation, with variations on a theme? Melbourne poet Matt Hetherington, the editor of Overload Poetry Festival’s Electric Text braved, and conquered this dilemma.

You’re sitting on the steps of Federation Square on a sunny Saturday morning, gazing into your loved one’s eyes after morning coffee. You clear your throat to speak then all of a sudden, you see S'hi D'Amour’s poem scroll quickly down the wall behind your lover, in a precise narration of the scene: The golden silence / is cut / by your diamond words.
It’s a rainy Sunday morning and you’re taking the family to a kid’s flick at ACMI. As you rush umbrella-less through the square, a child hanging off each arm, you a feeling there’s something you’ve forgotten. Early morning rain / sound on the roof / – wait, the washing! reads one of three electric text contributions from Melbourne poet Di Cousens.

Hetherington’s Electric Text collection is eclectic enough in subject matter to capture the imagination of the broad- cross-section of the public which moseys through Federation Square on any given day. Then too, the poems seem to hang well together, despite this diversity of theme. Komninos Zervos’ existential one-liner i am not the i you think i am somehow refers back to Steve Brock’s i am the window / of the day / the pure dawn. Ken Smeaton’s The trick is / To turn the wine / Into water runs into Vasa Radovanovic’s A drop of clear water / trembles on my palm / in the rhythm of my heart.

Having recently re-read Hetherington’s latest poetry collection I Think We Have (Small Change Press, 2009), and also heard the poet read in Overload Poetry Festival’s Class of ’99 last night, it’s clear that Hetherington himself is a true master of short poetic forms. With Electric Text, the Melbourne poet extends this talent to more than prove his editorial ear for the breathlessly precise and poetically succinct.

'The Wolf is Content' - Amy Bodossian Gets Her Overload Poetry Fix at Passionate Tongues

2011-09-15T21:07:00.001+10:00

This past full moon, Monday September 12th, Slam Up Overloaded's Amy Bodossian ventured out to Passionate Tongues at the Brunswick Hotel on Monday Night thirsting for a poetry fix. On stage, she encountered Koraly Dimitriades stalking the audience in a scarlet red dress, a confronting Mel Hughes, a brooding GM Walker and a no-frills Kerryn Tredea. Spent, but satisfied, Amy emerges to tell her tale:

A full moon in Pisces. Predicted by various astrologers to be one of the most romantic nights of my year. Hungry like the wolf, I venture out to Passionate Tongues to, hopefully, get f**ked (ahem…romanticised) by some exhilarating poetry. This had better be good. I got a big itch to scratch.

The first thing I notice is that the turn out is considerably lower than previous Overload years, the vibe less ‘crackly’. This could be due to a number of things, but I suspect the main culprit is lack of funding. Come on! Poetry is hot! Nonetheless the crowd is still big enough to generate a warm receptive atmosphere, and they are definitely in the mood to imbibe some serious wordage.

As always, the ever reverent Michael Reynolds, the Mother Theresa of Melbourne’s poetry scene, gives heartfelt, glowing introductions to the poets. He just BURSTS with genuine appreciation for this artform.

First up is Mel Hughes. Mel, who moved to Melbourne from Adelaide not so long ago, (like another poet I happen to know very well) has made quite a splash in the ol’ Melb scene, and it is easy to see why. Upon watching her, it quickly becomes apparent that this woman has seen her fair share of darkness. But she does not whinge. She is not bitter. She IS the light in the tunnel. There is a wonder and naivety to her stage presence that simply lights up the stage. And she manages to maintain this whilst delving into some very confronting and moving material- the recent death of her father, war, mental illness, sexual identity. She claims her ‘Melness‘ with defiance AND delight, hope and humour. Like Ophelia handing out the flowers in Hamlet – she lovingly holds up the mirror to our mistakes with brutal honesty and compassion. But the main thing with Mel is the poetry. Stunning imagery just seems to effortlessly tumble out of this woman. Each line more breathtaking than the last. Glorious.

A hard act to follow? Perhaps, but the next performer is not afraid. She takes that strong and sensual thread and keeps on weaving. The FORMIDABLE Koraly Dimitriadis, claims the stage in a scarlet dress., with Nick Tsiavos and his double bass beside her. The scene is set for some serious theatre, and Koraly does not disappoint. This woman transforms into a ten foot tall Greek goddess onstage, bravely reaching out and pulling the audience in to her candid and triumphant journey. Her struggle growing up as a Greek Cypriot Australian woman is presented with fire and angst and just enough irony to soften the message. Her fight to forge her own identity amidst the expectations of being ‘good Greek girl’ – the perfect daughter, mother, wife (‘it’s better to be dead than divorced.’ ) – is urgent and necessary.

I confess, Koraly is a good friend of mine, but all I have to do is look around at the magnetised faces to realise that I am not the only one under her spell. The raw emotion that comes out of this woman is truly something to behold. Perhaps the set is a little long. Koraly’s passionate onslaught can be a bit ‘one note’, and I wouldn’t mind some breathing space where the music cuts out entirely and it’s just the words. Having said this, the performance IS dynamic and tempered with some very tender moments. The brilliant Nick Tsiavos on double bass is right there with Koraly every step of the way, and this instrument is perfect for her- strong and feminine - with strings. All in all, Koraly’s voyage to self empowerment is deeply cathartic and everyone collectively exhales at its close., resounding applause filling the room after her last piece- ‘I am the queen, make no mistake.’ ‘Yes Koraly! We believe you! You ARE the queen…and…um…so…are…we! We are ALL the Queen!’, think the women. Mission accomplished.

So, am I getting my full moon f**k …ah…romance? Yes, I guess you could say I am. Those astrologers may be onto something.

But wait. There are two poets to go. Hmmm…it would appear that the audience are spent, because during the break the crowd severely depletes, and my heart goes out to the two Adelaide performers who have come over to close the night. I stick around because, frankly, I have to.

The first of my hometown poets is GM Walker. GM valiantly tackles the flaccid remains of the evening, but alas her work falls a little flat after the theatrical extravaganza that has proceeded her. Her set is a more traditional reading. Nothing wrong that, but for me, GM’s work fails to capture my attention. He poems are short, dark, a little acidic, and lack the beauty and imagery I so desire. There are some powerful lines however, and her work has a macabre charm. I find her depiction of the female experience to be slightly hackneyed at times, but I enjoy her courage, and there is real wit and insight there.

The second Adelaide poet to bring home this distinctly feminine evening is Kerryn Tredrea. Kerryn’s direct, no frills approach is refreshing and easy to digest.. Her poetry is simple, strong and effective/affecting. It contains a pragmatic beauty and a wry irony and it holds its own despite the bedraggled atmosphere. Her delivery is stark, unpretentious, and satisfying.

And NOW for the open mic! Unusually, many of the poets who have put their names down have left. Unusual because poets are filthy egotists who cannot wait for their turn to speak. I am among these leavers. I simply cannot take anymore. I am JISMLESS! The proverbial post coital cigarette has been had…and had…and had… A quick word of advice to Overload organisers. CUT DOWN THE NUMBER OF FEATURES. The human brain simply cannot absorb that much poetry!

Nonetheless, it has been a bloody worthwhile experience, and I reenter the night like a used condom, filled with the seed of some very powerful women. I may not have met the lover of my dreams, but I have been wooed and moved by some rather extraordinary ladies. Better? Possibly. Yes. The wolf is content.

Eleanor Jackson on The Melbourne Poetry Map & Getting Lost Instead of Found

2011-09-15T20:40:00.000+10:00

Thanks for waiting while Slam Up Overloaded got their tech shit together. Trust technology to, well, Overload in the middle of our coverage of Overload Poetry Festival. In any case, we're back. If you haven't been able to make it out tonight to the launch of the Melbourne Poetry Map's latest additions, then check out Map's curator Eleanor Jackson as she vox pops here with us on working with poets, getting lost instead of found, and Melbourne as a first love. Then head over to the Melbourne Poetry Map website to check out what all the fuss is about.

The Melbourne Poetry Map. WTF?
Yep. That's right - A Map. In Poetry. Of Melbourne. Consider it the most inefficient, but beautiful, way to get around the CBD. See you later City Circle Tram - there's a new slow game in town.

Seriously... a poetry map? You’ve got to be joking: the Melways is hard enough to read in plain English...
Like the website says - these are maps for getting lost as well as found. Hopefully, most people will be able to navigate around the town (we're using hand-drawn maps so fingers crossed), but somehow I love the idea that, if you get a little bit lost, you might actually have to stop some Melbourne local (that's the person hurrying past you in black) saying, "um, sorry I'm looking for this poem, can you help me?"

Map was reviewed by the Age last year. Poetry in the paper! How’d you swing that?
I didn't have to swing anything, they managed to hook up with one of the poets, Nathan Curnow, and get themselves a grand tour! So, pretty lucky...

No, how did you really swing that?
Okay, I had to perform a lot of sexual favours. I read nothing but smoking Urdu ghazals for a week, then I tried to enact them on some poor journalist.

No, I mean REALLY.
Fine. You're right. No one is convinced by my sexy poetry. I paid them.

What’s been the most surprising thing about producing the Melbourne Poetry Map?
That people don't laugh. Can you imagine how silly I felt trying to explain to people that I wanted to map the city in poetry? Surprisingly enough, most people get it and don't think - um, isn't that going to be a bit unhelpful? So far, I've found that people love the idea of orienteering with stories rather than directions!

Are poets easy to co-ordinate?
No. But in a good way.

Are you just saying that so the map poets don't slap you down?
Heheh. Nope. They're all really nice to work with, so I hope that they won't be slapping me at all!

And you’re back this year for Overload with ten new commissions. Will the map keep expanding as Melbourne grows?
I don't think we can keep up exactly with population growth seeing as it feels like half of Sydney moved here recently, but we can add a couple more walks as time goes on and then build it slowly! Poetry's not in a hurry as an art form, that's what I love about it. The city just keeps layering its stories on, as people live and engage with it, so does the map. This year Overload has commissioned 10 new poems so we're adding two new walks, which have a range of voices. This year we're taking Melbourne by its spine - starting with the river and then heading right up the guts through Swanston St.

When will Map storm the Overload stage, and which poets are gonna be giving us the directions?
We are launching these new works at the Overload Poetry Festival, Thursday 15 September, 6.00pm at Loop Bar (23 Meyers Place) in the City! And it's free... We have an amazing line up of poets at the launch, strong fierce women and men like: Alia Gabres, Amy Bodossion, Betsy Turcot, Bronwyn Lovell, Jessica Alice, Joel McKerrow, Luka Lesson, Tariro Mavondo and we'll have some audio appearances from Geoff Lemon and Omar Musa who can't be with us on the night. So a pretty hot mix.

If you love Melbourne enough to map it out in poetry, why’d you move to Brisbane?
The weather sucks.

That’s no f*cking excuse. You basically ABANDONED us. Are Melbourne poets better than Brisbane poets?
BUT I MISS YOU!!! Nah, Melbourne poets aren't better than Brisbane poets, but the cities do have distinct cultures - I like both, and I'm super stimulated by all the fresh voices that I've encountered in Brisbane. Come visit! The water's warm...

Fuck diplomacy. Say we’re better. We’re better than them. We are, aren’t we? Just quietly...
In this era of wikileaks and freedom of information requests, I can only say that you were my first love.

Will you ever poetry map Brisbane?
Yes. I have started by leaving one word haiku everywhere I go in the city, but someone from the council keeps removing my stickers saying "tundra". Look out Brisbane.

Break it down I've been working on another show with the amazing Betsy Turcot from Brisbane, a two woman poetic dialogue of love called A Mills & Boon Swoon. It's 38 poems coming at you in 35 mins so it's been a roller coaster! Check it out on http://www.mbswoon.com/ We're doing two shows at Long Play in Fitzroy on Wednesday 14 September (that's your Valentines in September). Come and fall in love. Then go drown your heartbreak with the city, knowing Melbourne will always have you, even if your crushes won't!

Shopgirl
She stole my every rock and roll, my hymns,
In that she took the ipod when she left,
So I untied my ropes – let sirens sing.

So empty now of jazz or evening swing
I let the house hum silent and bereft -
She stole my every rock and roll, my hymns.

Eventually the winter tuned to spring
I forgot the violation of the theft
So I untied my ropes – let sirens sing

And stalked that record store, “the king of spin”
A shopgirl so deluxe that I forget
She stole my every rock and roll, my hymns

Each week another momentary fling
Transactional, yet sending me to sweat,
So I untied my ropes – let sirens sing

Dancing like a boxer in the ring
I swung out wildly for the hot brunette
She stole my every rock and roll, my hymns

So I untied my ropes, let sirens sing.

Let Your Eyes Sneak Peek 'Your Looking Eyes' by Emilie Collyer

2011-09-13T21:37:00.001+10:00

What reader, accomplished writer, aspiring writer or general lover of words doesn't love a good book launch? Poets, even those for whom spoken word is their primary stock in trade, aren't such different beasts: where there's red wine and words being born, you're bound to find a few. Tomorrow night from 5pm, Chris Flynn will launch poet Emilie Collyer's new book Your Looking Eyes as part of Overload Poetry Festival, 2011. Your Looking Eyes is an illustrated collection of poems. It was written by Emilie Collyer during her residency at c3 contemporary art space (through the Australian Poetry Café Poet Program). The book is illustrated and designed by Eirian Chapman, and is a response to the world of visual arts, the act of observing and is designed to be a beautiful art object as well as a piece of literary work. The launch, at c3 (details here) will also include a special performance by the delectable spoken word artist Amy Bodossian.

The chapbook will be available for sale via the author’s website from early September: http://www.betweenthecracks.net/, but Emilie has generously allowed Slam Up Overloaded a sneak peek of the poetry within:

Frames of childhood
There are no films of us as children
just photos and stories
how fast did my brother
sprint into that stone wall?
what expression on my sister’s face
as she plaited my hair?
our bumpy slide down the wooden staircase
the flooding water on the back steps

we run
our skin smells
chasing hot tracks in the sun
suck on icy poles sticky lemonade
white rings around red eyes
Radian B dabbed on bites
thick green curtains
hang still
at night

children don’t grieve change
we crave it
throw soft things away
learn to laugh loudly with our friends
when we fall over
even though it hurts
falling down
again and again

when does rear vision begin?
the trawl through albums and drawers and boxes
polaroids blown out images
orange and yellow tinged
sepia photos from the 70s
they look romantic but it’s all chemical

spread out on the carpet
afternoon sunlight
collecting evidence of the time
before we started falling
this thing we call childhood
belongs to adults

In this series the artist is attempting

     In this work the artist captures
     In this photograph the artist explores
     In this interactive installation the artist inserts
     In this opening the artist places
     In this place the artist sweats
     In this piece the artist struggles
     In this bathroom the artist slits
     In this bedroom the artist fiddles
      In this corridor the artist cries
      In this car park the artist steams up a window with a person who is not an artist but likes telling her friends she is going out with an artist, it makes her life more interesting, she marvels at his blackened fingertips and taste for fortified wine, the way he pushes at her with a violent prodding and then turns to let himself be cradled in her arms, at first she is coy with him, whispering her hopes of love and then together they laugh at fat children and barrelling birds and before too long everything she says makes him spit and he will break her heart but not before she has slashed a couple of rips in him, after all his skin is paper thin, so thin she can see the world through his fine chest hair, a cart of apples in a European town, careening down a path, mourners at a funeral, adult mourners drained of hope because the person in the ground was too young to die, her friend in a wedding dress, drunk, smudged mascara, all of this she can see in him and it is beautiful but it is no good because every day they eat each other with their disappointment, and while she moves into her own apartment and fills her car with matching cushions from Ikea, he tries to break his habits, stops using charcoal and investigates the way that light travels through glass prisms, dust particles, brick walls, space out into endless time.

Emilie Collyer lives in Melbourne. She writes plays, fiction and poetry. Her writing has appeared in Blue Dog, Kill your Darlings, The Green Fuse, Page Seventeen, Torpedo, Cottonmouth, Voiceworks, Trouble, The Australian Book Review and Viewpoint. Emilie’s plays have been produced by ABC Radio National, La Mama, The Victorian Arts Centre and St Martins among others

I Couldn't Help It, I Cried - Bronwyn Lovell on Overload's Takeaway Poetry

2011-09-13T14:39:00.000+10:00

The Slam Up Overloaded team has been fortunate to be joined by reviewer and poet Bronwyn Lovell for our coverage of Overload Poetry Festival 2011. On Sunday, Bronwyn reviewed a surprise addition to the Overload program, the Takeaway Poems stall at the Fitzroy Sunday markets. Punters could request poems on any subject from Overload wordsmiths, giving new meaning to poetry under pressure. Think poets are precious with, and protective about, their words? Well as Lovell found out, true twenty minute wordsmithery (ironic, isn't it, that that's not actually a word) is alive and well in Melbourne:

Fitzroy. Sunday. Sun. Does life get any better than this? Add poetry and art to the mix and forgive me for mistaking the Rose St Markets for paradise. The poets were the amazing Tim Clare and Luke Wright all the way from the Norwich, UK, and local superstar Ezra Bix, and they were writing free poems for whoever was wise enough to order one at the Take Away Poetry Stall.
I approached the desk and was promptly greeted by Laura, who was very warmly taking the orders. Luke was sitting beside her in front of a typewriter. ‘What’s your name?’ asked Laura. ‘Bronwyn,’ I answered. ‘And what kind of poem would you like today?’ she asked. Hmmm. Good question. I decide I would like something inspiring, to encourage me as an emerging poet. ‘What do you want to achieve with your poetry?’ Luke asks, ‘What are your dreams?’ And just like that I am suddenly teary eyed and spilling out my entire life story faster than poor Laura can take notes.
I told them that I most of all want to move people with my poetry and remind people of the beauty around them they don’t normally see. I told them how I used to write poems when I was a kid but then I did some crazy misguided things like join the Navy straight out of school, then tried acting, then went back to uni to study writing, have settled in Melbourne, but I miss nature and dream of a quieter existence one day. ‘Okay, I think we’ve got enough material to work from’ says Laura. She gives the notes to Luke and I’m instructed to return in 20 minutes.

I took a seat and ordered a fresh juice from the café. It was so good I ordered another one. 20 minutes passed pretty quickly but I was shy to return to the table because I didn’t want to bother them; what if they needed a little extra time? Eventually Luke called me over, saying he’d finished ages ago. He then proceeded to read me the following piece:
Bronwyn, may all your life be stories
from distant port holes on peace-time seas
through the electric grid of city streets
to a cottage somewhere in your dreams.

And may your stories tell us who we really are;
pin us to our seats
stop us mid pint
spin around our hum-drum lives.
For Bronwyn, when you’re gone
these stories will survive
these stories are what keep us all alive.

All the nearby customers and storeholders were listening in, looking at me, and I still couldn’t help it; I cried. Ezra was quickly on hand for emotional support with a hearty hug. Luke had perfectly captured exactly what I wanted to hear, and I was very moved. I asked a few other poetry customers about their experiences and it seems I was not the only one with wet eyes at this event. Amelia cried too when she received a poem for her 5-month-old son, also from Luke. Some lovely lines included:

There will be scraped knees and sad days
but this world is for the taking
and there will be sunrises and funparks,
first kisses and perfect days.

Amelia said, ‘the fact it can elicit such an emotional response is beautiful’, and it’s ‘such a great way of connecting with the community and taking poetry out of bars into the daylight’. I totally agreed. Not to mention the fact that alcohol is the usual beverage at such events. It was so much nicer to be enjoying poetry out in the open in the sun with a fresh juice rather than in a dingy old pub getting drunk. Amelia pointed out that this way, ‘you’re not just listening either, you’re getting something too’. Amelia planned to frame Mateo’s poem and put it in the nursery.
Sarah got the first poem of the day and it was from Tim. She asked for a poem to thank her friend for the strawberries she had given her. Tim asked her to tell him some anecdotes about her friend so he could get a feel for the kind of person she was. This was a particularly pretty bit:

Souvenir me another secret clutch of strawberries
like a nest of quail eggs

Sarah was delighted with the poem and loved the fact that it was so personal and that all the metaphors were real and recognizable to her and her friend, even if they wouldn’t make sense to others.

Ashley decided to request a break-up poem from Tim since she had recently split from her partner. When she was asked what sort of poem she was after, the brief she gave was frank and direct, ‘Fuck you and die, or a love poem’, she said. What resulted was something very special indeed. I liked this stanza a lot:

And maybe we weren’t fair,
maybe after the champagne and the inked contracts
you sat in your quiet workshop with your half page of notes
and felt we’d built you into something you’re not

Ashley was very happy with the piece Tim wrote for her. ‘It’s an astute interpretation of my raw emotions’, she said.

Alan, who is studying medicine, asked Luke for a poem about the difficulties of trying to be a doctor and a poet at the same time. These were some of the words he received:

And between your success and tragedies
Your brave new world of doing good,
You will always have your words

Ezra wrote a poem for a lady called Catherine and stood up on his chair and shared it in his phenomenal theatrical voice that echoed all the way along Rose St. And the poets weren’t the only ones sharing poems that day. At least two customers were inspired to write and read poems of their own. A sense of community quickly built around the table as the typewriter clicked away and people were read their poems. Customers wore expressions of captive joy on their faces and mild disbelief at this extraordinary gift they were being given. The speed with which these gems were composed was quite astounding. I wondered if the poets were ever sad to let their poems go off into the ether like that, when some of them were definitely good enough to keep and put in a collection one day, but this was not about the poets, their writing these poems for others was an act of pure generosity. Tim says it’s easy work for the poets, since it’s the customer who provides the topic and inspiration; the poet simply articulates each customer’s own unique expression.

Tim first came up with the concept of Take Away poetry when he couldn’t afford to pay for an actual stall at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival and needed a roving talent. He set himself up next to a bin with a sign ‘free poems – any subject’. He says he has been asked to write everything from wedding vows to eulogies. Even when the topic chosen seems mundane, like a person’s favourite food, when Tim asks for more information he usually finds that the associations and anecdotes around it reveal a lot about the person’s personality. He says that the Take Away Poetry project has made him feel more positive about people in general, because the vast majority of people who approach him are nice and interesting, and they all have fascinating sides to their lives that you might never have suspected.

Bronwyn Lovell is an emerging poet and spoken word performer. Her poetry has been featured on RRR, SYN FM, 3CR Community Radio, and Melbourne Community Television Channel 31. Her work has been accepted for publication in Swamp, Antipodes, ZineWest, Positive Words Magazine, and Paradise Anthology. Bronwyn has a writing residency at Kinfolk Cafe as part of Australian Poetry's national Cafe Poets Program and she is a workshop facilitator for the Centre for Poetics and Justice. www.bronwynlovell.com

Lament of the Spoken Word Poet

2011-09-13T10:26:00.000+10:00

Koraly Dimitriadis - The Doris Leadbetter Cup Was Rigged...Wasn't It?

2011-09-12T22:15:00.003+10:00

The 15th Annual Overload Poetry Festival Doris Leadbetter Poetry Cup was held on the evening of the 10th of September at Bella Union in Carlton. Forty registered poets had sixty seconds each to wow the three judges and secure one of ten coveted places in the final and a chance at the whopping $2000 first prize. Slam Up Overloaded's Koraly Dimitriadis is miffed that she didn't scoop the loot, and with those stakes, what poet wouldn't be? Here's her take on the evening:

Unfortunately, the 2011 cup was rigged. How do I know? I was the best performer there. Hands down. And I didn’t win. Not even a place in the final. See. Rigged.

Seriously though - three judges, forty poets – these things are so subjective. Aren't they? Before writing this review I was gathering my thoughts, trying to make some kind of sense out of the top ten finalists, pondering the criteria the judges may have adapted.

The order in which the poets performed was by surname, which meant if your surname started with ‘A’ you were probably not going to be in the top ten. Every poet knows about the concept of score creep – the scores creep higher as the judges wade through the poets.
It’s fairer that the order is drawn randomly as it was last year. Lucky for the few poets who registered on the night, they got placed closer to the end of the list. The top ten poets are listed below with the order in which they performed on the night (apologies for spelling mistakes):

Initially No (registered on the night, 6th poet)
Kerry Loughrey (14th poet, winner)
Ian Mcnally (21th poet)
Anton Machevsky (22th poet)
Chris Noonan (23rd poet)
Nelson Oliver (24th poet)
Gavin Sanderson (29th poet, runner up)
Mel Hughes (registered on the night, 30th poet, encouragement award)
Steve Smart (31st poet)
Gaylleen Cabris (40th poet, registered on the night)
Rachelle DeSilva (11th poet, didn’t make top ten, encouragement award)

80% of the poets were chosen from 20th place onward with two evident clumps. No doubt it would have been difficult for judges Peter Bakowski, Claire Gaskin and Lisa Gorton to make a decision. I’ve never seen any of then perform and do believe their work to lean more towards page poetry rather than performance poetry. But since the objective of the cup is to find the best written and performed poem, I have to ask the question: where was the performance poet in the judging panel? Yet from the list chosen I couldn’t say distinctly that the judges preferred purely page poets. Kerry Loughrey, the winner, had a wonderful literary poem, performed in a persona of a bitter, volatile woman, yet with both her pieces I found the poems quiet abstract and I was unsure what they were really about. They required deep concentration (which I admit, I don’t have) but I believe her first to have been about the Yarra River, using it as a metaphor for a woman’s pain. She was, however, in my top twenty, and from the top ten selected, she was the only one who performed a poem that was strong both as a literary poem and as a performance.

For all my gripes, I do sympathise with the judges task. I tried to pick my top ten and could only narrow it down to twenty. Initially No’s ‘They tell me to be quiet’ was one on my list. I wanted to get up there and shout with her ‘Yeah! You tell them, Initially No! We are not going to fucking be quiet!’ Initially No’s second poem ‘Push Button Woman’ was even more brilliant, and I see it as a feminist poem, even though it is one of the funniest spoken word pieces I’ve ever heard. But if I were to place her poems on a poetry spectrum, I’d say they were more spoken word rather than poetry. Mel Hughes, one of the encouragement award winners, was also on my list, as was Steve Smart, Gayleen Cabris, Chris Noonan, Gavin Sanderson(runner up). Steve Smart’s ‘I was born with a black-eye’ was one of my favourite pieces of the night, and I do think Steve’s second poem which only went for one minute, let him down. Had he chosen a two minute piece he may have even won.

It seemed also that time limits were irrelevant. Gayleen Cabris who performed a poem about weight issues for women, went overtime but still made it through. Although she was in my top twenty I do believe pots that go over should be disqualified because they have an unfair advantage over the extra words they have conveyed to the judges. Ian McNally performed a brilliantly hilarious poem ‘If Hitler was on facebook’, but I had no idea what his second poem was about. It seems to me that if you have a funny poem in these kinds of competitions, your chances are higher. Poets that I believe should have made the cut: Amy Bodossian (although she went overtime but that didn’t seem to matter for the judges). Bronwyn Lovell, Ezra Bix, Brigid Hunter, Joel McKerrow, me (of course), G M Walker and Amanda Anastasi.

After Kerry was announced as the winner she said ‘bring on poetry, bring on assonance, bring on alliteration!’ And later, when I spoke to her she had this to say: ‘I want more poetry, there might be spoken word but within that is the poem. It’s about listening and hearing a good line. I don’t want only spoken word, I want poetry’. With these words of Kerry’s I agree with emphatically. A good performance piece has to be both great poetry and great performance, a complete meshing of emotion and language. Congratulations, Kerry!

Given all the above, maybe the 2011 Doris Leadbetter cup wasn’t rigged. Maybe in order to win these things you need the talent, but you also need a little bit of luck. It was a great night, with host Michael Nolan providing comic factual one-liners that kept the audience laughing and on their toes. A fun night,and one which begs the question: what happened to the Overload slam, and will it be back next year?

Poetry Grows the Lilies of the World* - Karen Andrews Reviews the Overload Dan O'Connell Readings

2011-09-12T20:02:00.001+10:00

Melbourne's iconic Dan O'Connell Hotel in inner city Carlton is the home of our longest running poetry reading. On a lazy Saturday afternoon, punters and poets can sip on a schooner as they listen to hand-picked feature poets and cheer on regulars and first timers at the open mic. Slam Up Overloaded's Karen Andrews ventured in to review an afternoon at the Dan for Overload Poetry Festival:

This past Saturday, I ventured into town with a girlfriend to watch the Dan Poets as part of Overload Poetry Festival 2011 and the three hours passed in a blink. We didn’t get to see everyone who wanted to participate in the open microphone – but that was simply because there wasn’t enough time in the program to fit everyone in!

An event like the Dan Poets showcases for me just what it is that I like about poetry events when they work: the talents of the practised and the still-practising poet are equally applauded. There was the usual fumbling of papers in plastic sleeves as newer performers stepped up; a clanging of glassware, the gurgle of a washing machine, a ringing telephone: these almost domestic familiarities made a cosy, convivial atmosphere. Gentle ribbing among friends between microphone and audience doesn’t threaten to alienate the newer viewer, and the bending-of-the-elbow takes a lesser priority to a lending-of-the-ear to the words and language.

The featured poets were Steve Brock, Kristin Henry and Ian McBryde, each with their distinctive styles and tone. The only tense part of the afternoon came early in Ian’s first set when a female audience member objected to what she perceived as the themes of violence and abuse in his work: an unpopular opinion, at least to the audience, who made their own displeasure known. She left voluntarily (“I’m a blow-in; I’ll blow out again”) and the questioning began. Who was she? Was this an artistic or a personal gripe? With poetry, there is often little difference.
Overall, I enjoyed Kristin the best, I think because I appreciated the subject-matter of her poems best (“Where do cracks begin/ and why?”). I also liked the more experimental work, like Kerryn from Adelaide and her suite of poems based on Edward de Bono’s Six Thinking Caps.

On a sadder note, it was barman Toby’s final shift after almost four years at the Dan. He was given a fitting farewell: a signed photograph of the Dan poet regulars and a poem composed in his honour. Lucky man.
* Phrase from a poem by Patrick McAuley.

Better Late than Never: Steve Smart's Overload Opening Vlog

2011-09-11T22:30:00.000+10:00

Okay so we're uhhh, a tad late posting founder Steve Smart's Overload Poetry Festival Opening Vlog. Cause he posted it late. That's right, it's a veritable chain of tardiness. Forgive us all - this whole festival-reviewing thing....and the festival itself is being run by a bunch of, well, poets.

Stay tuned past Steve's charmingly dishevelled ranting and the sly (sarcasm alert, it's not sly at all - Smart actually pauses to look up this blog while he's vlogging!) cross-promotional plug for this blog until you get to the poem, which was published last week on this blog during our vox pop with Steve. It's a Beauty. Yes, with a capital and bold printed B.

Your can read the text of the poem and our chat with Steve here. And you can check him out at Overload Poetry Festival tomorrow night reading at La Femme Erotica or Wednesday night in Class of 99. Or even sandwiched between the two on Tuesday in Speak Me Deadly. There's no escaping Overload Poetry Festival's baby-daddy this festival - you can try and run, but you'll only end up finding him on the mic round the very next corner, like in some kind of C Grade horror flick. Only in a good way - cause even though there might be blood he's brandishing words, and they're good.

What I Thought Poetry Was - Koraly Dimitriadis on Overload Opening Night

2011-09-11T21:37:00.002+10:00

If I was your average Joe Blow who knew nothing of poetry other than what it is perceived to be in society – abstract concepts about birds and trees, a man standing in a library reading verse from a dusty old book to a bunch of grandmothers – and I walked into the Fitzroy town hall on Friday night at 7pm I would have nodded my head and said ‘yep, thought that’s what I thought poetry was’ and walked straight back out. As a poet being represented by Overload Poetry Festival, as a poet part of a community, I was heart broken. The four-hour long opening festival, staged in a brightly lit town hall, with many ducking in and out for a ciggie and drink a bit too often, had me wishing I was at home in bed. After a certain amount of poetry, after a certain amount of words, you stop absorbing. My brain was overloaded with poetry. The average Joe Blow would have glanced at the photocopied program of 30 events, and based on what was being staged, would not have been enticed to go to any of the events.

Scanning the list of fourteen (fourteen!) performers selected with the intention of giving the audience a taste of what was to come in the festival, a taste of the best, I was perplexed. The selection lacked diversity and I didn’t feel it represented the spoken word scene in Melbourne or the amazing talent taking part in the festival. For a start there were too many newbies, and I was utterly bemused at the decision to put some of the best acts, which I feel represent the range of poetry and spoken word being performed in Melbourne, acts like Sean M Whelan and Emilie Zoe Baker, performing at the closing ceremony rather than opening ceremony.
If I was your average Joe Blow and I saw Sean M Whelan and the Interim Lovers as the opening act I would have been thinking ‘RAD! I didn’t know this was poetry!’ I wanted to stand up, midway through the night and shout ‘This isn’t our best! Don’t walk out! This isn’t out best!’ And where were the older poets like Ania Walwitz, Santo Cazzati or even TT.O? What about Maxine Clarke*, she’s one of our best and she isn’t even on the program! Which begs the question what is the purpose of this festival and who is it for? For poets or for the public? There are eighty poets performing at this festival. Eighty! Are we trying to break down the barrier between poetry and the general public by showcasing our best, our diversity, or are we just jamming as many poets as we can into a festival so we can all pat ourselves on the back and say ‘yeah, we’re poets, and we’re cool’.

Enough ranting. On a more positive note, there were stand outs on the opening night, but these were scarce, and the best performance, a poem for poem performance by Luka Haralampou and Omar Musa, was so late in the game that if I was the average Joe Blow I wouldn’t have survived that long. I would have been out of there. One poem in particular by Luka named ‘Athena’, which I have seen him perform in the past and thought it was an average poem, took on a completely different life. Why? He performed with such emotion and gusto and conviction, similar to his performances when he first came to Melbourne. The performance was so brilliant I felt as if Athena was right there in front of me, and in his poem ‘Scar’ I felt as if scars were being cut into my very own flesh, and ‘Confluence’, which I had never heard before, had my eyes teary. This highlighted for me, how important emotion is to a performance, how important it is to embody the language, which is exactly what Omar Musa did also. It was as if they were wearing the language like a suit, his body language mimicking the language and emotion in his voice.

Alia Gabres was also another stand out, her spoken word about war and ethnicity delivered with elegance and large, dark brown eyes of gentle sorrow. But again I felt myself disengaging after a while – although Alia does spoken word very well, and her stories are heart-felt, her pieces follow the same predictable rhythm, and her pieces tend to be a little wordy at times lacking poetic substance. Yet from the long list of poets appearing at the festival, she is definitely one of my top 20. She has only come to spoken word in the last year and I can see she is only just beginning.

The UK poets were interesting. Hannah Jane Walker had a great delivery, making you laugh when she’s dead serious, and then you’re dead serious, and it’s really, really serious, but once again, not enough poetry, too much spoken word. Luke Wright was funny, funny, funny, but it lacked any kind of rhyme or rhythm and I wasn’t sure if I was listening to spoken word or comedy. Still, his piece about caring for his son three days a week had me peeing my pants. Eddy Burger was hilarious as always and as always I have no idea what the hell he’s doing or saying and he’s making the strangest noises that I can’t help but laugh at. Steve Smart’s Cold Chisel cover ‘Flame Trees’ was one of the best poems of the night: He is definitely in my top ten of favourite poets in Melbourne. He combined the Cold Chisel cover with poets Meg Dunn and Jen Jewel Brown. Their performance was like a melancholy jazz song but I wondered still about its appropriateness for the opening ceremony. I think I would have appreciated it more if it was done as a standalone feature at, say The Dan O’Connell, because I felt it got a bit lost amongst all the other performances and probably wasn’t appreciated as well as it could have been.

I am sure with more funding some of the glitches I mentioned above could have been ironed out, and it is a credit to Luis Gonzales Serrano that the festival is still living and breathing after 10 years considering the shoe-string budget it has. Of course my opinions are subjective, and I am critiquing the night and poets with the best of intentions. We can only improve and learn if we are provided with honest opinions, instead of the pat-on-back approach poets tend to have with each other. Please, if you disagree, I encourage you to voice your opinion below.

reviewed by Koraly Dimitriadis

*Editor's note: Since this is Maxine's blog, she feels compelled to confess that she feels rather sheepish about this glowing praise and also, she didn't submit an expression of interest in time for performing in the 2011 Festival.

Overloaded: Lian Low on Overload's Opening Night

2011-09-11T20:38:00.001+10:00

It’s Overload Poetry Festival’s tenth anniversary this year and I’m hankering to be enthralled. I walk into a very big room with dizzyingly bright giant chandeliers and massive pillars. The venue seemed a bit formal and cold for a poetry gig. The program advertised a duration of 6-10pm. That’s a really long night to concentrate on poetry under these bright lights. I collect my media pass and choose a seat about four rows from the front. At 6:30pm, the Artistic Director, Luis Gonzalez Serrano apologises for the late start promising that the gig will start in five. 15 minutes later and the show begins.

My favourites were Luka Lesson, Omar Musa, Alan Pham and Alia Gabres. Luka Lesson and Omar Musa performed a set of three poems together. Their first set mythologically themed; the second a reflection about their generation; and the third love and heartbreak. Both Luka and Omar are seasoned and champion slam poets. Luka’s first poem was like an epic Greek myth with a postmodern twist of writers on writing; it sounded like a powerful prayer invoking his ancestors and ancient Greek gods and goddesses. Omar’s first poem was also a beautifully written piece where he is walking on a metaphysical landscape and meets twins – one of forgetfulness and one of memory. Their second set and third set also blew me away. Luka’s “Confluence” was an unsentimental, beautifully crafted and viscerally charged poem about falling in and out of love. Omar’s “My Generation” piece had airplay recently on Q&A, and he prefaced the set by saying that after his performance on TV, he received a mixture of love and hate mail. “My Generation” is a sharp and scalding attack on a generation Y of selfish young people obsessed with artifice, megalomania and copycat ideas.

I was very excited when I saw Alan Pham on Youtube on the Overload website as I always keep my eyes peeled for emerging Asian-Australian talent. A young Vietnamese-Australian man with a lot of spunk and attitude with words that moved me nearly to tears. Alan’s poems were inspired by the Australian film based on John Marsden’s book, Tomorrow When the War Began. His first poem sets a scene asking us to imagine our Australian cities under siege. What would you do if you knew that today was the last day of your life? Would you leave everything behind for a foreign land whose name is unpronounceable to your tongue? His next poem is a memoir of his father’s escape from Vietnam, leaving his grandmother behind with the promise of coming back. His grandmother’s parting gift is a US$20 bill. 20 years later, she arrives in the States and sees her smiling son who still has her US$20 in his pocket.

Lastly, Alia Gabres. Last year, I was in a spoken word workshop at Footscray Community Arts Centre when I first met Alia. She had never performed poetry in her life. This year, after being involved as a co-curator of “Tell It Like It Is” nights and as a workshop facilitator for the Center of Poetics and Justice, Alia has grown to be a confident and evocative poet. Her first poem left me bewitched. It moved from being in a landscape of horror, of people who were “refugees in their own land”, and switched focus to folks switching news channels, a privilege that those living the reality cannot afford. Her second poem was another powerful poem about being “different”. She dedicates the poem to her 11 year old “brown-eyed, dark-skinned, braided-hair” sister. A poem about strength, dignity and love, the poem cautions against turning into the hate and violence of bullies and racists. However, Alia’s third poem, a love poem, left me wanting something more.

I wonder about the choices made regarding the opening night program. The majority of poets were local Melburnites, some interstate and three international guests from the UK. Altogether 14 poets performed on the night, including a slightly awkward and under-rehearsed homage to Cold Chisel’s poetic works by Jen Jewel Brown, Steve Smart and Meg Dunn. It was great to hear Steve Smart, Overload’s co-originator, reveal anecdotes that he spun into comedic tales about the ongoing running of this volunteer-run festival, which has been supported by the City of Yarra for nine out of its ten years. I liked Ken Smeaton who opened the launch with his book of poetry, Love, Poet, Live and Ed Burger’s whacky booming performance. I also liked Lauren Williams’ ballad on the guitar. But where was П. O. on the night, let alone in the program? How can a Melbourne poetry festival not have in its program pages an important Australian poet whose work spans 37 years? I wonder about the process of programming opening night and this festival and I think it would have been great to see more people of colour and Indigenous poets on the program.

The three UK poets on the night were pros, and I expected nothing less, since they were the international guests. Tim Clare was a charming bard with a ukelele and Luke Wright was passionate with his poetry and performance. Luke’s poem about embracing fatherhood and his love for his toddler was a beautiful gem about men taking responsibility of “women’s work”, like child-rearing and caring, and not being patted on the back for it. Unfortunately I can’t remember Hannah Jane Walker’s poems because at this point, my brain began to switch off with the overload of Overload.

My experience overall was mixed because on the positive side, I saw some amazing poetry, but on the other hand, the structure of the night and the constant bright lights were too intense and wasn’t enjoyable. It would have been great if there was an informal and relaxed atmosphere, with a lighting techie who could operate the dimmer. The length of the night shouldn’t have been such a big deal; this really comes down to the event management and artistic direction of the night.

Reviewed by Lian Low.

Where Were You? - A Poem for the 10th Anniversary of September 11

2011-09-11T13:34:00.001+10:00

For the next week, this blog is covering Melbourne's Overload Poetry Festival. But ordinarily this is a personal political poetry blog, I couldn't let the anniversary of September 11 go by without posting a poem for my regular Slam Up readers. Overload coverage will resume this evening with reviews of our first three events.

i remember where i was
tell me
where were you

no window dressing
& however mundane
it might seem

no poetics needed
i only want the truth

my flatmate
that year
wz an engineer
obsessed with gaming

it wz 8.30
in the am
& already
the guy wz lounged out
playing WWIII

this a good day for you?
i said is there
not enough violence
in the world already
so you get up
& straight away
simulate it?
where were you

where were you
the day you -

did you hear?
new york
wz hit!

console dead in hand
eyes widening
pale gamer face
drained even whiter

he said
shit / it is like
one of those war games
only not
cz it is real life
& i’m thinking
don’t you ever have class
& how the fuck much
did you drink last night

i still remember
i still remember
where i was
& the looping number
of that one united flight

we sat together
over soggy weetbix
& best before gone lite white

we sat together

war gamer
& poet

in the heat
& the dust
& the blood
& the ash

where were you

as new york
fought
for life

Sean M Whelan Ticks a Banjo off His Bucket List for Overload Poetry Festival 2011

2011-09-11T12:02:00.000+10:00

Blogger and poet Sean M Whelan is Melbourne Spoken Word royalty...well, maybe he's the tatty down-on-his-luck Aladdin, which is about as close as we get to royalty in the poetic community of this here fine UNESCO City Of Literature. But once he finds that lamp, it'll all come good for all of us. Sean will be performing at Overload Poetry Festival's Notes on Sound this coming Tuesday, and will rock closing night next Saturday in a new poetry/music collaboration with The Interim Lovers. Slam Overloaded chatted to Whelan about ticking an item off his bucket list during Overload 2011.

If Overload Poetry Festival was alcoholic beverage, which one would it be, and why?
God, I hate these sort of questions. Do I have to answer this? I mean red wine would probably be the most obvious answer. Being the poets drink of choice, but that’s really boring. I’m boring myself right now. I’m just not gonna answer this.

Fair enough. Ever performed your work after a stiff drink?
As a general rule I do not perform under the influence. Just because I’m so terrified of forgetting my words. Alcohol is not a good friend to memory.

Really? Are you sure about that?
Yes, really.

Do you swear on the Overload Poetry Festival 2011 Program?
F*** yeah.

What are you doing at Overload?
I’m performing at two events. Notes on Sound and the Closing Night spectacular with my band The Interim Lovers.

Why should we come and watch?
At the Notes on Sound event at the Edinburgh Castle on Tuesday 13th September I'll be performing with a banjo player and an accordion player. It’s been my life long dream to perform my poetry to the sound of a banjo. That sound you hear is me ticking off one item from my bucket list. On the closing night I shall be debuting a whole butt load of new material with The Interim Lovers. This is big, we have not performed new material in quite a while.

No seriously, give a decent reason.
Did I mention I was performing my poetry with a BANJO PLAYER?

Do you have a poetry book to spruik? Yours or anyone elses?
I will have my latest collection of poetry available, Tattooing the Surface of the Moon and also my latest CD release with The Interim Lovers, Softly & Suddenly. Also I’m very excited about a brand new publication (being printed today!) called Love Don’t Live Here Anymore.

What's in it?
Love Don’t Live Here Anymore was a poem originally written for an event I help to run called Liner Notes. Liner Notes is a regularly held night of spoken word tributes to classic iconic albums. My poem was written in response to the Madonna cover of Love Don’t Live Here Anymore from her Like A Virgin album. With this publication I was very lucky to have the poem illustrated by artist Dyana Gray (you can see more of her work at dyanagray.com). By the way the next Liner Notes will be covering Fleetwood Mac's Rumours album, held on Nov 6th at The Toff.

Where can we get a hold of that?
I will personally be selling copies of all those things at the festival or you can buy directly from me online at seanmwhelan@gmail.com.

What are you wearing right now?
Black jeans and my t-shirt of my favourite TV show ever, The Wire.

Why?
Because it’s a f*#^ing amazing show. Just watch it if you haven’t already.

Should poets have a uniform?
God no.

Do these vox pop questions suck dogs balls?
They kinda do. But hey, that’s just me being a stick in the mud.

Show us yer poetry then...

They Don’t Love Blue

Tell me where to stand in the garden.
And I’ll mark the spot.
You’ll find me there every evening at dusk.
Watching the day transmogrify, just like we did.
Tell me where the light falls the best upon my face.
I want to be just as handsome as you are supernatural.
Just because I don’t believe in permanence,
doesn’t mean I want to forget this.
I want to build a theme park to us in the mountains of my mind,
travel there every lonely hour and take all the rides.
Tell me where to stand in the garden.
Where nobody will see us.
Not even those gossip leaking satellites.
Tell me this shit is real.
Or unreal.
That works too.

Show me a species of bird that migrates from Melbourne to Manhattan
every year and I’ll tie a love letter around its ankle.
Tell me, do birds even have ankles?
Tell me how somebody so old could still be learning about birds.

And by that I mean actual birds, but the other way works too.
Tell me how you know so much stuff.
I only want this love to have its own Wikipedia entry.
I only want the New York Times to tell me, we’re getting married.
I only want to be more famous than your dresses.
I only want to live long enough to know how to die right.

Let’s synchronise our watches so we break up at the same time.
Then let’s drown our watches in the kitchen sink, in sync, so that we never break up.
I know, we broke up, but for the purpose of this poem, let’s pretend that we didn’t.
Or let’s write up a postbreakup agreement with plenty of day passes.
Then let’s swap shadows, so I can watch your determined walk all the time.
Tell me where to stand in the garden.
Light has the highest concentration of magic at dusk.
Fact.
We can dig in here forever.
We can learn how to grow.
Tell me where the soil is the softest, where the underworld will receive
us the quickest.
I have the best of friends in low places.

I’m sorry.
I’m sorry the love letter I wrote you was eaten by the sky.
How could I know the future could eat so much?

Tarkovsky wrote poems with a camera.
He knew about us.
He knew we would break up.
He knew we didn’t need to worry about this.
And he was right.

When those doe-eyed bearded boy scouts come at you
with a pocket full of sadsong mixtapes,
as they surely will.
Wait and remember,
they don’t love blue
like I do.

Come play in the garden of the Evil Bunny.

Andy Jackson on Poetry Puppetry & Solitude as Kryptonite

2011-09-11T11:07:00.000+10:00

Melbourne Poet and blogger Andy Jackson (Among the Regulars, 2010)was there when Overload Poetry Festival all began. He'll be poeticising with many of the Melbourne Spoken Word old guard in Class of '99 on Wednesday evening as well as appearing in Tuesday night's Notes On Sound. Slam Up Overloaded caught up with Andy to talk telephone booths, poetry puppets and solitude as a poet's Kryptonite:

You're a poetry superhero. Is being a poet your Clark Kent life or your Superman life, and why?

A massive, arguably unfounded assumption. But... assuming that I am a poetry superhero, I would have to say being a poet is my Superman life (although I often have trouble finding a telephone booth, so I turn up the reading looking pretty much exactly like Clark Kent).

Who or what is your biggest arch nemesis?
Superman; ie. the Poetic Me. Poetry is Catch 22; gloriously self-defeating.
Your trusty sidekick?
He has no name, but he's about a foot tall and looks exactly like me (in the 2009 Overload Poetry Festival I performed a puppetry-poetry collaboration with Rachael Guy, who made an amazing portrait puppet of me). He probably won't turn up at Overload this year, but you never know...
Your Kryptonite?
Solitude - it's the substance of the place of my birth, but too much of it can be fatal...

What kind of undies do you wear over your suit?
They're really hard to find, but union-labour, fair-trade, organic boxer-shorts. Of course.

Your superpower?
To give the impression of being wise.
You're on stage at your event at Overload Poetry Festival, and it becomes clear the event is under threat from evil Drunken Hecklers from the far away planet of No Respect for Poetry. You can persevere with your set, or expose your secret identity in order to defeat them. Which path do you choose, and why?
They already know my not-so-secret identity (see 1.) - which leaves only "persevere". Which is what I always do, anyway. Drunken heckling happens off the stage too. No point trying to defeat them; eventually they fall over or asleep.

Why would a poetry superhero even need a secret identity?
I've never wanted one - it was thrust upon me...

Are these vox pop questions stark raving mad?
Neither stark, nor raving, but with a hint of madness, which is in itself very poetic.

Where and when can we come and see you at Overload 2011?
Tuesday 13th September 7pm at "Notes on Sound" at the Edinburgh Castle Hotel, Brunswick - with Sean M Whelan, Rebecca Clare Page, Jessica Alice & a roomfull of amazing musicians we'll be teaming up with.

Also, Wednesday 14th September 7.30pm at "Class of 99" at Palookaville, Fitzroy - with Angela Costi, Lish, Luis Gonzales Serrano, Melissa Petrakis, Matt Hetherington, Maurice McNamara & Steve Smart - yes, we survived the millenium bug!

Overload Reviewer: 'I Wish I Was at Home in Bed'

2011-09-10T07:24:00.000+10:00

Today, Slam Up is sending reviewers to the Dan O'Connel Hotel and the Doris Leadbetter Poetry Cup and we'll be reviewing the Electric Text scrolling down the walls of Federation Square. Watch out poets, the audience-lurking and eavesdropping has officially begun.

Melbourne's Overload Poetry Festival opened last night and two of Slam Up's reviewers were there. What was the verdict? Were they blown off their feet? Moved to tears? Wowed with words? Steady on, you'll have to wait a little.Their verdicts will be published on this blog within 48 hours. What this house-bound editorial monkey can reveal though, is that she received a text from one of the reviewers revealing she was hankering to be home in bed. Why? Did she discover a new poet she fancied? Was she tired after a hard day's work? Had she had too much opening night red wine? Or did the unthinkable happen and she was absolutely bored out of her mind? Stay tuned (when you're not out at today's awesome Overload events) to find out. Were you at Opening Night? What was your verdict?

Real Poets are Phds, Bushmen or Working Class Heroes

2011-09-09T07:15:00.002+10:00

he says real poets don’t wrestle for silence
in beer packed bars echo words from
temple walls & scream down
the pews of churches he says real poets
don’t force you to listen howl
it out on a street corner mic slam
around the tennis above the orders
before the band he says get
the fuck out of here who
do you think you are now
piss off before I—
real poets aren’t in your face aren’t big
aren’t black aren’t women aren’t young
& sure don’t look like
that real poets are phds bush
men or working class heroes would
a real poet rock that boat march this
street wield a gun mother
fuck hecklers like that he says
nah uh I don’t think so
you ain’t a poet wrong way sister
go back shut the hell up
get off turn the thing down go
home & wait near the letterbox slot
real poets go all angst over that
editorial knock back
hang out in libraries sleep
in squats & starve for their
art real poets don’t have white collar jobs
stay up writing all night cut their wrists
twice yearly and eventually they
get it right
he says
poet my arse
don’t try to fool me
real poets don’t believe in anything
except poetry
& they certainly don’t stand
on the corner of gertrude & smith
giving their work
away for free

Overload Critic Lian Low Battles the Demon Poetess of Death

2011-09-08T20:33:00.002+10:00

I am soooooo excited to introduce Lian Low, the final reviewer for Slam Up's coverage of the Overload Poetry Festival 2011. Lian is Prose Editor at Peril Asian-Australian arts and cultural online journal. She is a published writer who has reviewed and freelanced for ArtsHub, Vibewire and Melbourne queer street press. Lian rocks* (*not in her bio: my own editorial interference). Slam Up Overloaded's vox-pop questions have been getting more and more incoherent as we get buried under the weight of a poetry Overload. Poor Lian is our latest victim. Here, the spoken word critic finishes off my babbling sentences on Poetopia, secret identities and the Demon Poetess of Death:

I live in the Third Life Universe of Poetopia ...as the storyteller-warrior with a gentle voice.

The Demon Poetess of Death rules the land here. She wants me dead because... I keep fucking up her neo-colonial white powers, but she will never defeat me.
What she doesn't know is that...I have the power of true love.
I have a Poetopia alterego. She's called...Jaded Lily.
When she wants to break out and kick some poetry shit, I tear off my clothes and she stands there in her uniform. Her uniform is... a vest made out of shimmering golden dragon scales embroidered with a lotus flower emerging from mud in the middle, pleated leather skirt and snakeskin boots
Her superpower is... to read hearts.
But she must use it sparingly because... she will start a spiral of self-doubt.
The only problem with having a secret identity is... she has to live separate lives.
And as an Overload Poetry Festival critic, this will be very problematic because... she doesn't have the superpower to be at all places at the same time.

photo credit: Owen Leong

What Do You Call Gatherings of Poets?

2011-09-08T10:41:00.001+10:00

Jen Jewel Brown on Overload Poetry Festival, Furry Pants & Kryptonite

2011-09-07T17:21:00.001+10:00

Melbourne poet Jen Jewel Brown, will be amongst the who's who of Australian Spoken Word performing at this friday's Overload Poetry Opening Night in Melbourne. We caught up with her pre-show to talk poetry, poetic arch nemeses, purring evilly like Eartha Kitt, and Rupert Murdoch publications as Kryptonite. If you haven't yet bought your tickets for Opening Night, you're a damn fool anti-poet. Overseas? Out of state? No excuse. Even if you can't make the show, just buying a ticket makes you supercool. Scramble over here to get one. Here's Jen Jewel Brown:

You're a poetry superhero. Is being a poet your Clark Kent life or your Superman life, and why?
My Catwoman life, in which I have no unwelcome bumps, purr evilly like Eartha Kitt, eat bad guys for breakfast and am superrrpowerrrrrful.

Who or what is your biggest arch nemesis?
Mr Tony Rabbott. RRRAAAAAWWWWERRR!!!!

Your trusty sidekick?
Mish 'Needles' Leber

Your Kryptonite?
Rupert Murdoch publications

What kind of undies do you wear over your suit?
Furry

Your superpower?
Raising the dead

You're on stage at your event at Overload Poetry Festival, and it becomes clear the event is under threat from evil Drunken Hecklers from the far away planet of No Respect for Poetry. You can persevere with your set, or expose your secret identity in order to defeat them. Which path do you choose, and why?
Use their words to spin into an adlib-itious attack on their simple-minded cries for help. No need to reveal.

Why would a poetry superhero even need a secret identity?
Strictly for fun actually

Are these vox pop questions stark raving mad?
No, they are thoughtful and sweet

Where and when can we come and see you at Overload 2011?
Opening night, yeah! Calvalcade of blahs from UK, Sydney and local legends! Friday 9 Sept Fitzroy Town Hall, 201 Napier St Fitzroy, 6 - 9pm, $15 / $12

Shelton Lea film doco premiere @ Long Play (ex Glitch) 318 St Georges Rd North Fitzroy - JJB, Ian McBryde, as well as a Q & A session with the director Robert Price. Mon 12 Sept 6.30 - 10. Free, I think ...

Melbourne Poets Union at Overload. MC Fee Sievers, with JJB, Tina Giannoukos, Ian McBryde and Angela Smith. Friday 16 Sept, North Melbourne Library, 66 Errol St North Melbourne 6.30 - 9pm. $7/ $6

Eddy Burger on Goats Balls, Schnapps & Overload Opening Night

2011-09-07T11:21:00.001+10:00

Wow, Overload Poetry Festival opening night is two days away. The Slam Up Overloaded team is looking forward to reviewing Luka Lesson, Omar Musa, Jen Jewel Brown and more. We're champing at the bit to bite at the champs, but before all the poetry gets itself on, we're asking a few local poetic legends to waste their time with us by responding to some bizarre and irrelevent questions about, well, nothing in particular really. Here's the amazing Eddy Burger on how to spell schnapps, eating goats balls and poets in sailor suits:

If Overload Poetry Festival was alcoholic beverage, which one would it be, and why?
Butterscotch Schnapps because I can afford it, it's sweet and indulgent, and can never remember how to spell schnapps.

Ever performed your work after a beverage of this kind?
Not often enough.

Really?
I can't remember.

Do you swear on the Overload Poetry Festival 2011 Program?
Eventually...but I'm sure I will. I will a great deal. I'll be an absolute potty mouth.

What are you doing at Overload?
I am one of the features in the Overload opening night event, and I am one of the organisers and features in Speak Me Deadly.

Why should people come and watch?
They're both gonna be awesome events.

No seriously, give a decent reason.Well, because the Overload opening night is the opening night and features lots of hot talent. Speak Me Deadly will be different from most other gigs in that it is a multi genre night, with lots of really interesting stuff happening, and features lots of hot talent.

Do you have a poetry book to spruik? Yours or anyone elses?
"Eddy Burger's Kent St Zine Collection of poetry & art" which i put together fairly recently. It's a compilation of all ten small zines i produced during the course of my residency as Kent St cafe poet.

What's in it?
Poetry & art by me. It also includes some visual poetry.

No seriously, what's in it? It's pretty much a collection of my best published poetry, coz that's what I put in the zines - poetry that has been previously published, plus some that hasn't, and plenty of art that hasn't, plus some that has.

Oh. Where can we get a hold of it?
And you can't get hold of it anywhere yet, except from me. I'm easy to find on facebook. And I'll make a point of bringing some to the events I'm in.

What are you wearing right now?
Black jeans, black jumper, green & white flannelette shirt, black Batman t-shirt, grey slippers and a tattered green scarf.

Why?
Because it's cold, thier comfortable, Batman's cool, and black looks ok and is versatile.

Should poets have a uniform?
A little sailor's outfit maybe. But poets should not look boring. I don't expect them to have to go to any effort but they should naturally just not look so boring.

Do these vox pop questions suck dogs balls?
I wouldn't know. I've tried goats balls. They're nice.

Overload Blog Slam #1 - Post a Terrible Haiku on 'Death by Poetry' to Win Coffee With Saul Williams

2011-09-06T10:06:00.000+10:00

So, it’s National Poetry Week in Australia. Regular readers of Slam Up will already know what short work I made of hating on that concept last week. But with the Slam Up Overloaded team, we’re all about spreading the poetry love in the lead up to Overload Poetry Festival 2011.

So as our first National Poetry Week prize, we are giving away coffee with African-American hip hop poetry god Saul Williams to one lucky Slam Up Overloaded reader.
Of course, we’re poets, and ‘coffee with Saul Williams’ might not ummm...carry it’s literal meaning. So what we ACTUALLY have to give away is a brand spanking new copy of Saul Williams poetry book Said the Shotgun to the Head, paired with a posh bag of authentic Turkish coffee. I know. Sorry ladies...and gentlemen. Sly. But amusing also, right?

Still wanna win? Then enter our haiku blog slam:

1: In the comments section of this post, post a haiku or rooku on the subject Death By Poetry;
2: You can enter up to three times;
3: Include your name and city of residence on the haiku comment;
4: Entry is open to all, but the prize can only be awarded to the top Australian entry, so if you’re o/s, Haiku away and you can still technically win. We’ll let you know if you do, but you just won’t get anything. Do it though, for the love of poetry;
5: The prize will be posted to the author of the worst, yes WORST haiku entry;
6: Entries close exactly 72 hours after this post goes public;
7: The judge will be Melbourne poet, writer and editor Alec Patric. His decision will be final. No correspondence will be entered into...who are we trying to kid? This is a blog, that’s what the comment section is for. If you think you should have won and didn’t, whine away...

Now GO – Haiku for your Saul!

Overload Critic Amy Bodossian - 'Poets Are Vulnerable Egotists'

2011-09-05T20:10:00.005+10:00

Slam Up Overloaded's next critic for coverage of Overload Poetry Festival is Melbourne poet Amy Bodossian. Her work has been nominated for a prestigious Green Room Award and in 2008 she won the SA Young Women Writers’ Award.Since moving to Melbourne from Adelaide two years ago, she has appeared on Spicks and Specks, performed at the Woodford Folk Festival, and headlined at all of Melbourne’s major poetry evenings. Her spoken word/cabaret show, Phlegm Fatale sold out this year in both the Adelaide Fringe Festival and the Adelaide Cabaret Fringe, and received rave reviews.

What's that you protest? Another Overload poet as a reviewer? She might review herself? That isn't ethical? What kind of festival coverage is this? Whooooa, settle down, the whole deck of cards is on the table, and they're all facing up. And if you know Amy at all, Melbourne-co-poet-wrath is not enough to stop her trashing a set where required...in fact, just quietly, I reckon she'd relish it. Here, Amy talks fear, dressing gowns and poets streaked in blood:

So, it's your first time reviewing the festival. Are you afraid? Tis my first time.
Should I be afraid?

Of course you should be! Are you insane?
Yes.

Which events are you planning on reviewing at Overload?
The formidable Koraly Dimitriadis at Passionate Tongues. And whatever bones I am thrown.

What kind of reviewer are you going to be? Should the poets be afraid... very afraid?
I am gently brutal. Lovingly viscous. If the poets are authentic and have conviction, and if they love the beauty of stringing words together, they have nothing to fear.

What will be the worst thing about reviewing the festival?
I know most of the poets. Poets are vulnerable egotists. How do i know? I am one.

The best?
I love analysing art.

Can you be bought?
Depends on the bidder.

Are you dressed like a poet?
Yes. I am in a dressing gown.

If poets had a uniform, what would it look like?Oh there are so many options. Naked, streaked in blood, is one that springs to mind.

Wax lyrical:I'mma gonna criticise ya, analyse ya...won't disguise ma...opinions either...just surrender to the splendour of my not so well concealed agenda...if ya not afraid to show it, then you i don't see how you'll blow it...open up and let us in...take us every place you've been...show us what's beneath your skin...may the most authentic win

Overload Critic Karen Andrews: 'Pass Me a Cigar, for The Blog of My Enemy is Failing'

2011-09-05T08:36:00.000+10:00

This year for Slam Up Overloaded, reviewer Karen Andrews is back to review Overload Poetry Festival 2011. Karen is an award winning Melbourne writer, blogger and publisher. She is the publisher behind the successful anthology of blog writing: Miscellaneous Voices, Australian Blog Writing #1 (2009). Karen was a reviewer for the coverage of Overload Poetry Festival in 2009, and was also the author behind one of the most talked-about poems to appear online during the festival coverage: The Blog of My Enemy is Failing. What better way to introduce Karen as an Overload blogger this year, than with a re-post of this poem, which resonates with bloggers far and wide, even if we'll never admit it out loud:

The Blog of My Enemy is Failing

The blog of my enemy is failing
and I celebrate.
Gone is the fizz and dapper swagger
of awards won and rankings claimed.
Your Fitzgeraldean party is over.
What good is precocious verve,
or the generosity of ‘linky-loving’ be
when even the trolls,
sniffing the wounds, have left you alone
for gamer prey, for other bombs,
the Gigli’s of Moveable Type,
whose writers’ no amount of self-promotion could surpass
their own self-interest.

My enemy’s blog, its clean lines and symmetry,
now reposes uncomfortably in the reflective rays of Perez’s pink.
His undeniable precocity
is to be found among
‘Project 365 of cow udders’.
His bravery, declared by others when first known himself,
his devotion to community,
is there amongst “Celebrating Monkfish —
They can’t help being ugly”.
And (oh, yes) his talent,
his talent no amount of photoshopping
could ever hope to boost is now
a nice match to @Fake_Seth_Godin
who promises,
“You (only wish you) can be as successful as me.”
Now, soon my own blog could fail,
though not to the catastrophic extent
the failure of my enemy’s blog has managed to achieve,
since in my blog’s particular case it will be due
to an alexa glitch, or borked Technorati - -
merely a temporary error.
The quality is irrefutable.
But in case such an anomaly were to occur
and spoil my mirth, it will be countered nicely
by the documentation of this occasion.

Open the box and pass me a cigar!
For the blog of my enemy is failing
and I am dancing.

Overload Critic Koraly Dimitriadis: 'Will Review Own Poetry & Open to Bribes'

2011-09-04T20:51:00.001+10:00

Koraly Dimitriadis will be one of five critics squatting at Slam Up for the next fortnight to cover the Overload Poetry Festival. Dimitriadis is a Cypriot-Australian performance poet and published writer. She is the author of the controversial poetry chap book Love and Fuck Poems (2011) She blogs for Overland Literary Magazine and presents monthly on 3CR's Spoken Word program. Koraly hopes to carry the momentum of her no-holds-barred approach to poetry over to her reviews. Slam Up caught up with her to talk bribery, red dresses, the Melbourne Spoken Word scene and the ethics of reviewing herself.

So, you were part of the reviewing team when Overland Literary Journal covered the festival in 2009, and now you’re back on board to review Overload again at Slam Up. Why?
Because I want to be mean! No, no, I really enjoyed the conversation that took place for Overland Overload and when Maxine asked me, I couldn't say no even though I am leaving for overseas the day after the closing ceremony.

Are you insane?
Yes, many people have told me that I am, especially the men I date/chase...

Which events are you planning on reviewing at Overload?
I don't really want to say that publicly, I would rather hide in a dark corner so people don't ambush me. But I will say this: I plan to go to as many as I can and I will be at the opening ceremony, and may even review myself at Passionate Tongues(what better person to review me than myself)

What kind of reviewer are you going to be? Should the poets be afraid... very afraid?
Many in the poetry scene know me for my honesty, so people should be afraid, very afraid, but if you buy me chocolates then I may be nicer.

What will be the worst this about reviewing the festival?
I know too many people and I don't want to offend people! But I hope they take my review as constructive criticism - we all want to work on our craft and improve ourselves as artists, and that's the really good thing about reviews: you can see your art through someone else's eyes, but at the same time it's all subjective too!
The best?
Well, of course the celebrity treatment and that people will know me as an Overload reviewer and buy me chocolates.

Can you be bought?
Cash is preferred, paypal or credit card but also chocolates, wine, biscuits (choc chip preferred), dinner, music CDs, books, theatre or film tickets will also do.

Fast-forward two years from your last reviewing experience and you’re now ON at Overload. How’d you make such short work of that?
I worked bloody hard! When I was reviewing for Overload back in 2009 I thought the poets were so cool and I never thought for a minute I'd be an Overload poet two years on. I would write poetry but I never showed anyone and then one day I performed by first poem in Maxine's living room and she said - 'that's awesome' and I said 'really?' and she said 'yeah' and that's all I needed, a pat on the back from good old Maxine and I was off on my performance poet journey.

You didn’t bribe anyone?
Yes, I did bribe Luis, the head of Overload and Michael Reynolds, the convener of Passionate Tongues, because, as many of my poet friends know, all year I've been saying 'Man, I don't think Michael Reynolds likes my poetry because he never asks me to do a feature at Passionate Tongues' and then, a few weeks ago I performed a poem on the open mic at Passionate Tongues and when I finished, Michael announced that I would be featuring for Overload and my jaw dropped...but that was all an act because the week before I wired over some money to him and Luis. I knew it was a done deal.

You sure?
Yes, that's how it happened.

Are you dressed like a poet?
Well what does a poet dress like? I saw a dress in a shop window and I knew it was my 'Love and Fuck Poems' dress. It's the same colour as my chap book and I'll wear the dress for my feature and also for a photo shoot I am doing with Ben John Smith to promo our gig at Polyester bookshop in November.

If poets had a uniform, what would it look like?
Where do you come up with these questions? I don't know!

Wax lyrical
Poetry, poetry, you keep coming back for me
I try to tear away, but you just want me to stay
All I want to do is finish my novel
but you tempt me with all your sorrow
your rhyming versus, your traps and curses
Poetry, poetry, you keep coming back for me
Man, seriously, when are you gonna just let me be?

Review: 'Tattooing the Surface of the Moon' - Sean M Whelan

2011-09-04T10:29:00.004+10:00

This year, Overload Poetry Festival is bringing out some amazing international poets, but for me one of the best things about Overload Poetry Festival is the ability to see local poets hit the stages the love the best in their very own UNESCO City of Literature. This morning, Slam Up reviews Melbournite Sean M Whelan's latest book offering Tattooing the Surface of the Moon (Small Change Press, 2008):

Sean M. Whelan is a Heavyweight poet, with a capital H. Whelan has been published in just about every literary magazine in the country, and his performance work is nothing short of revolutionary in contemporary Australian poetry. His on-stage collaborations with musical acts The Mime Set and The Interim Lovers blur the oft-imagined boundary between poetry and lyric and are guaranteed to pack smoky bars, sell out festival seasons and overflow grungy back rooms.

Whelan, on stage and in person, getting his poetry on, is nothing short of charming, but we expect charm from Tattooing the Surface of the Moon even if we’ve never seen Whelan perform in the flesh. In the short preface, New York City Poetry Slam champion Cristin O’Keefe promises the book will have you ...grabbing your chest and swooning with equal parts empathy and delight. On the back cover, Aural Text’s Alicia Sometimes claims: ...You want to paint kettledrums or pinch plums or slumber near wisteria simply out of joy. His poetry makes you feel that good...

And there’s Whelan on the back cover, bathed majestically in aquamarine aquarium light, wearing what appears to be a spacesuit, giant stingray floating surreally above head.

That’s a lot of puff for a slim volume of thirty one pages.

Only, as it turns out, it isn’t.

The opening poem of Tattooing the Surface of the Moon, is The Night Grabs, On the Way to You. The poet pulled up beside me, grinning wildly and I entered the car, somewhat apprehensively.

...I’m not driving...(Whelan assured me cheekily, though it was clearly his hand guiding the wheel)
...I wouldn’t drive like this
really I wouldn’t

As Whelan rapidly accelerated, attacking street corners like a certified psychopath, streetlights scattered behind us like electric breadcrumbs, I knew I was in for one hell of a joy-ride.

The car almost sweating
bending every corner
using every means possible
to influence the air...

Whelan’s poetry is everyday mundane turned surreal Wonderland. the poet starts us off on familiar territory, then veers so casually into the absurd that we lose ourselves completely down the rabbit hole almost without realising it. We find ourselves disorientated, inebriated, shrunk, then supersized again. We are never quite sure where we are, but strangely enough, we don’t really care. All we know is: this is surely somewhere we want to be. From the most measured of voices and the most ordinary of circumstances, Whelan sling-shots his reader into the surreal: a gamble for even the most seasoned of poets, but Whelan does it criminally well:

Out on the beach at night she looks different.
Sitting beside her on the beach at night he looks different.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the year 1987.
He goes to pass it to her , but she shakes her head and says
“I don’t want it yet”
He throws it on the sand and says, “that’s okay, let’s wait.”
1987 sits there on the beach, tempting them in the moonlight
like a clean pair of underwear...

For all the surreal flights in Whelan’s work, the literal, real-world narrative, seems hidden just beneath the surface, accessible if one cares to grab a coin and scratch.

Then too, Whelan’s poems are driven by character. His preference for omniscient/third person narration allowing dialogue which takes some works into the prose-poetry realm:

Last week she decided
to become a democratically elected president of her own self-control.
She made out a how to vote card
nominating herself in all the preferences
and constructed a voting booth out of old egg cartons.
When he tried to vote, she pointed to her heard and said
‘I’m sorry, you’re not enrolled in this district’...

Whelan’s characters are funny, desperate, passionate, volatile and cheeky. All are endearing in some way, with an odd air of familiarity about them. Like Dorothy, returning from to Kansas to find her four Oz travelling companions on the faces of close friends and family in Kansas, we seem to know these people.

If I have one criticism of Tattooing it’s an odd gripe, and one based on personal preference alone: Whelan’s work is so consistent, so delightful, so on-song. I yearned to see one of the best poets in Australia dedicate his pen to something slightly more uncomfortable in subject and/or form. But given the volume constraints of the collection, this is doubtless down to editorial choice, rather than poetic ability.

The slick production values of Small Change Press’s chapbook series is to be lauded, and adds significant weight to a slim collection. In the same way a to-die-for entree` prepared by a seasoned chef leaves you wondering what on earth will be realised for main, I sincerely hope to review more 'page' Whelan in the not too distant future.

Tattooing the Surface of the Moon is available here from Small Change Press

'Even Monsters are Allowed to Dance' - Steve Smart on Overload Poetry Festival 2011

2011-09-03T19:04:00.003+10:00

Overload Poetry Festival started ten years ago as a TAFE project of Melbourne poet Steve Smart. and look at it now: interstate Heavyweights, Nu Yorican slammers, poetry scrolling live down the walls of Federation Square. To me, Overload is the worm that aspired to become a dinosaur, though according to it's maker, it would prefer to be an echidna, on the evolutionary scale.

Slam Up Overloaded starts festival coverage this evening with our vox-pop with the festival's very own no-good baby daddy. Here's the always amusing Steve Smart, on avoiding child support, taking the little sh*t to the park some weekends, permitting monsters to dance, and what's new for Overload 2011.

Surely Overload isn’t still running. Is it the Frankenstein that outgrew it’s maker?Running, no, Overload is dancing! Even monsters are allowed to dance. If they try to run they tend to get shot or taken to with torches by frightened villagers. Overload is a totally all dancing poetry festival. We throw the best parties you know.

They say every worm wants to be a dinosaur...where will Overload end up?
An echidna. 'Cause poets have to get tough to survive this harsh Australian climate and all the dangerous beasties that have no respect for our delicate hides.

How do you feel, as Overload’s no-good baby-daddy, when each birthday swings around?
Long as it doesn't ask for child support I'm prepared to shell out for birthday and Christmas presents. I take the little fucker to the park sometimes on weekends too. Kick the Sherrin.

What’s new this year?
Everything. It's like a whole new festival. One that is happily similar to the old one in all the ways that made it good, but nothing like it in the ways that made it a wretched phalanx of doom.

If there’s one thing we should come and hear, what would it be?
NYC crew on the Global Poetics tour - Jive Poetic and Ken Arkind with Canadian legend Shane Koyczan at Footscray Community Art Centre. Bam! http://www.overloadpoetry.org/event/tell-it-like-it-is/

Are you featuring this year, and where?
I am indeed. I'm MC'ing three gigs and performing at about three gigs. Somewhere.

That’s not a plug
Yeah that was a bit crap actually.

Surely you can do better than that.
I can! The events I'm participating in will be stupendous, sublime, ridiculous, not in the least facetious, full of reckless poetic abandon and carefully drawn phrases, with music and painting and theatre and oh boy I'm getting excited just thinking about it all…

I shall be performing with crowds of stars at:

Opening Night and Film Noir poetry evening 'Speak Me Deadly' at Bar Nancy. I'm also MC'ing 'La Femme Erotica' as one of the two token males at Dog's Bar.

I'm on other stuff as well, so youse should best keep checking the website for updates as they appear.

Are you ready? Break it down.
Oh I'm ready…

In the belly of the best we ride our ponies
like metaphors mixing
symbols signals syntax
we ride dirty and free - beats or no beats
Danger to the masses, poets on the streets
techno savvy savages facebooking retweets
my melancholy melting
pot smoking Dorothy Porter and Shelton Lea
Ten years of Overload flamboyant hieroglyphics
begins at the Fitzroy Mothership
get a grip on this poetic trip
come lose your shit
and flip your lip on the mic like you like it...

Overload Poetry Festival 2011: Let the Blogging Begin

2011-09-03T13:53:00.001+10:00

This evening, Slam Up will start coverage of Melbourne's Annual Overload Poetry Festival 2011.

In the lead-up to the Overload opening night next Friday, we'll be meeting our reviewers. Writer, publisher and blogger extraordinaire Karen Andrews is back, along with poet and writer Koraly Dimitriadis, who vows she's open to bribes, but otherwise will perhaps be this year's most cutting critic.

You'll have to stay tuned to meet the other three brand new critics for Slam Up Overloaded, who will bring brand new eyes, ears and efforts to the Overload Poetry Festival 2011 coverage.

Over the next few days we'll shoot the breeze with festival founder Steve Smart, we'll review Sean M Whelan's latest book, we'll hold several blog slam competitions and we'll give away a coffee date with hip hop poet Saul Williams*...and that's just for starters.

Stay Tuned, while Slam Up gets Overloaded.
* Note: Slam Up's version of a 'coffee date' may differ markedly from the assumed meaning. But the prize will involve coffee, and some Saul.

What Will Change in National Poetry Week

2011-08-31T11:02:00.001+10:00

every fifty two weeks

there is a national week
of poetry / which
really only exists
in our alternate
litreality
& in no way
actuality

as if we cd stand & say
my name is such & such
& I’m a poet
without fear
that someone backed away
or rolled eyes in mockery
(as if national veggie week / wd
make all three year olds
love broccoli )

if it really was a week / for us
we/d wouldn’t celebrate
we/d be celebrated

national poetry week

pfffft

i for one
am not placated

will the storyteller
at children/s library time
stand on her plastic chair
& scream the revolution
will not be televised

will commercial breaks
be slammed by poets
cn i feed my children
this week
on writing alone

what will change
in national week of poetry
tell me

they humour us
with tourist trickery
bt every day / we
fight / the poetic illiteracy
of the good citizens
of this fine literacity

what will change
in national week of poetry
will the flinders street
shoe shine man
de-scuff me for free
like he does for presidents
& famous people
if i commit a crime / will
there be poetic immunity
instead of tour de france
will people prop their eyes past
midnight / for marathons of poetry
tell me / what will change
in the national week of poetry
will people recognise us on the street
& beg for autographs by way of
rhyming couplets / will
we book out gigs
crash our blog servers
& sell out books
cn we stand & say
my name is such & such
& I’m a poet
without the fear
that someone backs away
or rolls eyes in mockery

would national veggie week
make all three year olds
scream for broccoli

Best Before

2011-08-29T21:53:00.000+10:00

Slam Up Overloaded

2011-08-28T21:24:00.000+10:00

In September 2009, I assembled a team of six poetry reviewers to cover Australia's only Spoken Word Poetry Festival: Overload Poetry Festival. Overland Literary Magazine lent us their blog for ten days and we quietly observed (and not so quietly commentated) Overload in all its delightfully poetic mayhem. Some of the results can be read here, here and here. For many spoken wordsters, Overland Overloaded was the first time they had the opportunity to have their sets reviewed.

This year, Overload is coming to SlamUp.

From September 7, 2011, six reviewers will descend on Slam Up and blog-squat for ten days to bring you the best, and worst, of Overload 2011. We will be reviewing local spoken wordsters such as Steve Smart, Emilie Zoey Baker and Sean M Whelan in addition to visiting international heavyweights such as New York's Mahogany L. Browne and Jive Poetic and Canada's Shane Koyczan.

Hear it at Overload, then talk about it here.

'You may need to wear rubber pants...' : Geoff Lemon for Going Down Swinging #32

2011-08-27T11:22:00.007+10:00

Melbourne poet Geoff Lemon (Sunblind, Picaro Press 2009), is one of the poetry editors for Going Down Swinging, quite possibly the hippest literary journal in Australia. He's been locked away at desk and in studio, madly compiling the next issue of GDS, but here he pops his snout above ground for a sunny moment to talk boxer shorts, rubber pants, Felix Nobis, Mahogany Browne, Jive Poetic, mugging Japanese dock workers, nakedness as a crowd pleaser and the upcoming launch of GDS#32 at the Melbourne Writers Festival:

Poetry editor of Going Down Swinging. Are you fricken insane? Why would anyone want to do that vicious beast of a job?

Oh, it's not just poetry. I'm...the editor. One of the two, along with the inestimable Jessica Friedmann. Which means we pretty much do everything between us. It is a vicious beast of a job, but we're coming up to the point in the year where all the 18-hour days and RSI and eyestrain will be worthwhile, when we get to put on a brilliant show for a huge crowd at the Toff, and to send this collection of just truly amazing artists out into the world. It's a privilege to be curating their work.

And GDS is continuing its ongoing love affair with the Melbourne Writer’s Festival. This year it’s the launch of GDS #32. Spruik it.

This may be the most ambitious show GDS has ever done. It's called 'New York vs. Australia.' Three fine United States slammers representing the Nuyorican Poetry Cafe in New York, paired with three of the most brilliant talents our country has to offer, two by two. We have a great hip-hop MC in Mantra, and a great actor in Felix Nobis, who have written brand new commissioned pieces which will get their world-first premieres at this show. Zoe Norton Lodge has got rave reviews for her stories and theatrical productions. The Americans are repped by Jive Poetic, Mahogany L. Browne, and Ken Arkind. Even their names are cool.

You can do better than that.
We've been working up to this for a year. It's the culmination of all that work. One of our heroes, Nathan Curnow, will launch the anthology. Some of our heroes like Neil Gaiman and Leanne Hall are on the CD or in the book. Ken Arkind is on the CD too. It's such a good collection. And we're so relieved to be here. This is going to be a real party, a real celebration, not some awkward stand-around-drink-bad-wine-make-small-talk kind of a launch. We plan to tear up. Heads may well asplode.

Better
It's a beautiful venue, great bar, and soul tunes from Good Buddha mainstay A.N.D. Seriously, this line-up will be so good you may need to wear rubber pants.

Who is the most amazing person who will rock the stage at the launch?

Felix Nobis, for me, is the best storyteller and performer in the country. (I hesitate to even say spoken word because he works in so much more than that.) Big call, sure, but I've seen a lot of poets, and I'm stand by it.

Anyone else?

Mantra is just about the hottest rapper in the local game right now, his second album is about to drop and has already been getting pounded on radio. His rhyme sequences are tighter than your old jeans

Anyone else?

Did I mention that Ken Arkind is the US National Poetry Slam champ? No? Ken Arkind is the US National Poetry Slam champ. I mean, FFS.

Anyone else?

Zoe Norton Lodge runs Sydney's famous Story Club. She's also one of the funniest and most brutal women I've ever had the pleasure of meeting.

Well then...okay I suppose that’s a bit of alright. Anyone else?

I'll be hosting, and relishing the chance to see Jive Poetic and Mahogany Browne smash that stage with the rest of them.

Well quill me up and call me fucking Shakespeare. Only black. And female. And not so obsessed with revenge and debauchery....but back to this launch. Will there be beer?

The Toff has one of the prettier bars going around, and is one of the prettier venues going around. Everything there kind of feels like a Great Gatsby party. Love that place.

How awesome will the poetry be?

I've organised a lot of shows in my time, and I don't recall having this level of anticipation to hit the lights. It's just going to be an intense, funny, beautiful, heart-stirring night of stories, and then you can take home all the other stories with you on paper and in recorded sound.

What are you wearing?

Japanese dock worker's pants. They're soft denim, jeans-like, but strap in tight at the ankles so the legs flare out like ninja clothes. I'm not a Japanese dock worker. I mugged a Japanese dock worker.

What kind of underwear do you have on?

Ice hockey merchandise boxer shorts. Toronto Maple Leafs.

Why?

Because I'm a cultural paradox

Will there be any nakedness at the GDS#32 launch?

When I'm hosting a show, I'll do whatever I need to to keep the crowd focused.

Where can we get tickets?

From the Melbourne Writers Festival website. Search for Going Down Swinging, or just use this link.

Where can we buy GDS #32?

From our website, where you can also find any other info you might want. Or, you can skip straight to the shop page.

Before Sleeping with a Poet

2011-08-24T15:31:00.002+10:00

thin air

2011-08-23T19:55:00.005+10:00

it is three thirty pm
primary school pick-up time
& you
have looked all over the schoolyard
for your five-year-old child

the teacher looks at you
clipboard shaking
eyes open wide

& it is then you realise

this morning
your child
did not
arrive

there was another girl
reported missing / today
her picture only made third page

her mother / red eyed /gasping
pulled frantically at her hair

how can a fourteen year old girl
just /disappear into thin air

& you will your mind / you
will it just not
not to go there

thin air

where none of us / wants
our babies to be / thin air
is the guilt you start to see
on every neighbour’s face

broken adolescents
crawl from prison basements
all over the goddamn place
they are all grown up but
somehow still have
the missing child’s face

do we need to teach our children
to walk to school with blades / is that
paranoia / mother-love
or just common goddamn safety
cause the girl in the paper this morning
she only made page three
thirty pm
school pick-up time
you / have looked all over the schoolyard
for your teenage child

& thin air

is the possibility
they could be still alive
statistically your child could wait /six
hundred thousand years
before any harm would come true
but / for that little melbourne boy
thin air was a friend
of the family’s boot

did he regain consciousness
before he slipped away / was it
dark in there / was that
three year old very / very
afraid / i watch my children
while they sleep / thin air
could happen as i dream

was he very / very afraid

a little blonde girl / vanished
from a hotel room in spain

thin air

thin air / is now a household name

as i speak / the
queensland police
are scouring a lake
with divers

while the nation waits
it’s pick-up time
in every mother’s mind

it's thin air

the possibility
our child
will not
arrive

Review: 'Love & Fuck Poems' by Koraly Dimitriadis

2011-08-22T10:57:00.017+10:00

You asked me if I’d be long and I said
‘Why, you expecting someone?’
And when you didn’t answer I said
‘Call her and tell her if she comes
into my house I’ll kill her and I’ll kill you’
‘It’s not your house anymore,’ you said.
I gave you back the keys.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said,
‘I’ll be out of your hair soon
and then you can fuck her on our bed.’

Such is the pulsing, unchecked emotion that rages though Koraly Dimitriadis’ second self-published poetry chapbook, Love and Fuck Poems. Melbournite Dimitriadis is a young, outspoken, Greek Cypriot spoken-word ‘newbie’ with a brave, no-holds-barred approach to poetry. Since storming the Melbourne spoken word stage some eighteen months ago, poetry has all but wooed her from her first love of prose, and her much-laboured-over first novel-in-progress.

Love and Fuck Poems is that most curious of poetry beasts, an entirely erratic collection. While the inclusion of poerotica such as Fantasy and How to get a fuck might startle poetry purists, there are also moments of stillness in this book: perfectly captured family tableaus which leave your heart aching, poetic polaroids which cut with razor-sharp precision into the writer’s psyche and life. In Best friend, for example, Dimitriadis captures her post-marriage mindset and her family’s culturally ingrained shame at her changed circumstances:

The wedding dress in a cardboard white coffin,
telling Mum I’m going to sell it on ebay,
Mum, taking the box, saying the dress is hers
she paid for it, watching her take it away to her room...’
My life is over,’ she said.
‘Me evales ston tafo.’ You’ve put me in my grave.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, it is the poems which deal purely with graphic sexual encounters which let down this collection. That said, the more emotive poems are certainly no simpering dedications to everlasting companionship: they too, are fuck poems in their own way. They are complex, angst-ridden, volatile, eloquent and honest:

You say I’m like a volcano...
...There’s one point you overlooked
as you fought me naked in the night:

Nobody is crazy enough
To go near a volcano
And the ones that do
Never survive

Love and Fuck Poems showcases, Dimitriadis’ versatility, moving ably through humour, passion and heartache. The poem Gotcha is a side-splitting social-networking send-up of a disgruntled ex:

...Found ya bitch on facebook.
Fucked her page over.
Ha.
Saw her ugly face.
The wedding photo.
Bitch.
Her profile’s hidden.
But facebook made changes.
Yeah.
Changes....

Dimitriadis’ second chapbook is slightly hindered by the classic hurdles of many self-published collections: though the cherry-red cardboard cover is apt and eye-catching, the writer’s line drawings add little but distraction to her words. Then too, a reader might wonder at the logic behind the ordering of the poems.

But Love and Fuck Poems must be embraced for what it is: an unashamed poetic celebration of one woman’s liberation from the chains of marital convention, sexual repression and cultural obligation. All in all, it is a gutsy, defiant firecracker of a chapbook which demands to be read angrily out loud after half a bottle of red. Readers who approach it thus will doubtless be satisfied.

Love and Fuck Poems is available at http://koralydimitriadis.com/love-and-fuck-poems/ or online at www.polyester.com.au.

there was an old woman who lived in a shoe

2011-08-21T10:18:00.004+10:00

there once was a lady / who
lived in a shoe / she had
so many children / she
didn’t know what to do

word is / she beat them
after their bread
but most likely
some hater
had that spread

& she was just
a good woman
in a difficult situation
whispered about
all over the town

but nonetheless

trying her best

Dear Readers

2011-08-20T19:17:00.000+10:00

Writing Competitions Are Useless to 97% of Entrants

2011-08-19T13:06:00.007+10:00

At the end of last month, Maya (my 10 month old) and I went to the Wheeler Centre to present the poetry prizes for the bi-ennual poetry competition of the Society of Women Writers. I blogged here several months ago about how difficult the competition was to judge...and it didn’t get any easier. I ended up with about eight poems which I read over and over again to ascertain the three places, and even then I ended up with a first, a second and two highly commendeds.

The competition was judged blind, so I was a little surprised to find out that I’d given first and second place to the same poet for the astonishingly raw poems Milk and Scar. The author unexpectedly turned out to be one Lorraine McGuigan, who at the prize giving ceremony gave me a copy of her book Wings of The Same Bird. The winner of IP Picks 2009 Best Poetry Award. The book is fast becoming one of my favourites. The two highly commended places went to Maree Silver for her haunting landscape poem Corner Country and Meryl Tobin for the poem Athens.

When I was initially asked to judge the poetry competition, I undertook to give feedback on every single poem. I know this sounds mad. After all, the competition guidelines specified that the judge’s decision was final and no correspondence would be entered into. And perhaps I was voluntarily opening my judging decision up for scrutiny, but I didn’t much care. My rational was that writing competitions are useless to the 97% of people who don’t get a place. You enter the writing and have no idea how, or if, you went wrong. Perhaps you were in the top four, and there were simply three poems the judge considered ‘better’ than yours, or maybe most of your poem was fantastic but the last line was so cringingly cliché that it ruined the whole experience.

Of course, once I started writing a one sentence comment on each poem, one thing led to another and I ended up writing each poet a report of several paragraphs in order to properly explain myself and provide feedback which will hopefully go on to be some kind of use.

Judging the competition taught me so much about what never believed I knew about poetry.

Some of the images from these poems still visit me in my sleep.

Now that is poetry.

Thanks to SWA for the use of the photograph, thanks to my daughter Maya Lou for behaving with suitable decorum throughout the judging speech and 'ceremony' .

Your mission, should you choose to accept it...

2011-08-16T12:45:00.002+10:00

that wasn't climate change, it was jesus

2011-08-15T19:50:00.004+10:00

climate change ‘science’ is frickin crap
all those hurricanes n floods:
phuket haiti & new orleans

that wasn’t climate change man
it was jesus

cz we all know deep down
jesus hates asians & blacks
so that wasn’t frickin climate change
it wz the boys upstairs cleaning up

i gotta pay ten cents for a plastic bag
now / at the local supermarket
well aldi cn kiss my ar*e
i don’t give a frickin shit
sell me the plastic / in fact
here’s a dollar / i’ll take ten
& no half retarded check-out chick
is gonna guilt me for using them

anyone with half a brain cell knows
tht climate change is crap
jst like anyone with half a brain cell knows
jesus hates asians
green voters & blacks

i am gonna buy myself
a really old four wheel drive
the gas-guzzling / black
smoke-belting kind
i am gonna backyard manufacture
three hundred thousand litres
of leaded petrol
i am gonna fill the tank
load the other tins in that beast of a boot
& i am gonna come visit
all you climate change ‘scientists’
who think the big bad carbon monster
is gonna come and eat you

bt before i leave i ‘m gonna make sure
every light switch in the house is on
& every appliance is plugged in / i
will turn all the taps on full
& leave the gas right up
burning / just for you

climate change ‘science’ is fricken crap

everyone knows jesus hates
climate change scientists
just as much as asians / gays
& blacks / & i
am gonna help the boys upstairs
clean the real pollution up

Attitude

2011-08-14T10:49:00.002+10:00

Writing black, political, spoken word poetry in Australia.

2011-08-13T18:53:00.006+10:00

Still thinking about what I’m going to say tomorrow during my talk at the CaribVic Youth Arts Festival. I know that sounds really slack, but it’s just the way I approach panels and talks. Things brew somewhere in the untidy back of this brain for weeks, and then I jot down a few talking points the night before.

The topic I gave was: How to ‘survive’ writing as West Indian-Australian when you have an often ‘resistant’ Australian audience.

Going over it now, I realise I didn’t explain the topic very well. It’s more how to survive writing West Indian-Australia than as a West-Indian Australian. That is, the writing theme, rather than the cultural background.

But it’s more than that.

It’s being a writer. It’s being a black, female writer. And choosing poetry. It’s choosing poetry, then writing black. It’s choosing poetry, writing black and writing politically. It’s being a black female writer, choosing poetry, writing black, writing politically, and writing way left of centre.

Then choosing spoken word as a medium.

Four words for you on my cue card, dear Youth Festival Audience:

I. must. be. mad.

And as for 'survive', what does that mean anyway? In terms of poetry in Australia, it means being published, getting reviewed, being booked for performances and maybe selling a few books every now and then if you’re lucky.

I’ve got a long night of poetic disillusionment ahead of me. Catch me tomorrow and see how I come out the other end of it.

I'll be performing some poems and a Q&A about my writing and the above topic at the CaribVic Youth Arts Festival in Melbourne which runs from 3pm to 7pm. Other featured artists include artist Tony Phillips, filmmaker Jason Phillips and musician Lloyd Watson-Jones: Really looking forward to this one! You can find out more details about this event, how to book, and about the Caribbean Association of Victoria over here at the CaribVic blog.

tim minchin wants to marry me

2011-08-12T18:12:00.004+10:00

for David Ryding

turns out tim minchin is an old friend
of an old friend of mine

for real

it/s not one of those six degrees
of kevin bacon things

my mate n tim r really tight

& now / he hz told tim minchin
about me

& last i heard
tim wz tweeting my sh$t
all over f!ckin town**

won’t be long before he comes for me

that/s right
next time you see tim
he will sing
about a whole lotta bad brown
next time you see me / i
will be wheeling little minchins
all over melbourne town / all those
doe eyed groupies / trying
to slap me down

that/s right
what did i always say
i said: one day tim minchin
is gonna ask to marry me

wz that really so hard to believe?

to all of you who rolled eyes
guffawed / snickered / even sighed
i say: suck it / doubters

i always knew
we/d be this way eventually:
me & tim
even before i read the secret
& channelled him

y’see / tim minchin & me
is about more thn just
the law of attraction:

me & tim minchin
tim minchin & me
me & tim

it is poetry
meant to happen

**{@timminchin Wow. Maxine Beneba Clarke: http://t.co/1CPYUJy #ukriots (PLEASE don't troll her comments. It's a poem, not her nor my opinion) - 10 Aug 2011}

ban live export

2011-08-11T06:43:00.003+10:00

the rspca hz got a ban live export campaign
bold printed across the national paper pages
in it / there is a beach
& sun
& an australian mum
says / she wants her four children to grow
in a country that is humane
she says / how cn we send livestock
to places / there are no laws from cruelty

shame

the rspca is right
ban live export from australia
starting with the refugees
we r shipping to malaysia

Words

2011-08-10T10:53:00.004+10:00

angry brown men r gonna burn london to the ground

2011-08-09T19:57:00.004+10:00

fifty five years

beat up / pat down
spat at / shot / chased /stopped
false incarcerated / harassed
accused / debased / denied
cuffed / bluffed / roughed up
dehumanised
& baited

bt miss cnn looks surprised
tht angry brown men r gonna
burn london to the ground
is bemused when
the black grandfather whoops:
go on & light the match / sons
this city is no f*ckin friend of ours

miss cnn is sayin / these riots
cd put ’58 and ’85 to shame
bt the ole man’s smile reads:
ain’t that damn right pretty white
girl / our grandbabies
gonna pull the pin
tht blows this mo fo
into the London Met hall of fame

beat up / pat down
spat at / shot / chased /stopped
false incarcerated / harassed
accused / debased / denied
cuffed / bluffed / roughed up
dehumanised
& baited

fifty five years

& miss cnn is talkin
unlawful /unemployed
& undereducated

all around
angry black men
burn london to the ground
& these people ask
if it is really
about race

- @slamup

drought

2011-08-08T12:22:00.003+10:00

she can’t crawl yet
but my sassy little daughter
bum-shuffles her way
toward the broadsheet
smirking back at me / in defiance

the paper is open
to a young somali woman
trying to finger-feed rice
to her wasting child

maya stares at them
transfixed

then / trying to catch
the dying baby’s gaze
she lifts chubby brown fingers
to cherubic mouth
& smiles

the young mother
half-turns from the camera
lowers suffering brown eyes

there

drought ravaged
desperate
broken

& but by the grace of god

go i

Poevolution

2011-08-07T19:32:00.009+10:00

Poevolution:
1.The spiritual, physical, intellectual or humanistic enlightenment of a human being through the consumption, or creation, of poetry;
2. An uprising of, by, or for poets;
3. The changing of a poem.

Some Dream Was Brewing

2011-08-06T18:30:00.004+10:00

Last week on Tuesday I went to RRR studios to record my poem Some Dream Was Brewing for the next issue of Going Down Swinging magazine. Some Dream Was Brewing is a 13 minute percussive patois poem which was commissioned by Going Down Swinging to be performed at the Melbourne Writers Festival’s Thursday Night Swing Club last year. The recording went well – no glitches and we got the piece down in just the one take.

I wanted more though: the recording studio experience reminded me what spoken word is all about. Sometimes stage performing becomes about the audience, rather than the words. I’ve always felt that a really good spoken word artist puts thought into each set : picks poem based on the venue, the kind of audience they’ll have, thinks about the order of pieces - whether they fit together, whether to start by easing the audience in, or hit them hard upside the brain space.

In the studio it was just me, in front of the microphone, in a sound-proof glass cubicle. The sound engineer, Keiren, was doing his thing on the other side, but for me, nothing and no-one existed but the sounds I was making, which were amplified back to me through the headphones.

I’ve been working on a pretty major non-fiction manuscript for the last few months, but also thinking about my next step in terms of poetry publication. I’ve been putting together poems for a third poetry collection, ordering poems, re-ordering poems, editing and re-thinking editing, thinking about whether to approach a new publisher with the manuscript or maybe the one who published my last collection.

And I haven’t been having fun with it.

When I first started this blog, or at least, a long while ago on this blog, I had a project to get a heap of poems published in all sorts of journals. Of course, I publish a lot of non-fiction essays, journalism articles and short fiction, but I’d always been vocal about my poetry being, well, vocal.

But in any case, I started sending poems out, sometimes on the page, sometimes in audio and they started being accepted. And it just became, well, part of what I do, as a poet.

Is that why I started putting together another written collection? For the reviews? The publication credit? The validation? Because that’s what poets do? It's not that I think my poetry doesn't translate well to page, it's that I’m first and foremost a spoken word performer.

Performer.

Derr...derr!

Why (the f*ck) am I not in recording the studio? What about a spoken word album?

Seriously, sometimes I wonder how I even have enough brain cells to write one line of a poem.

Carib Vic Youth Arts Festival

2011-08-04T07:03:00.005+10:00

On Sunday August 14th, I'll be performing some poems and a Q&A about my writing at the CaribVic Youth Arts Festival in Melbourne which runs from 3pm to 7pm. Other featured artists include artist Tony Phillips, filmmaker Jason Phillips and musician Lloyd Watson-Jones: Really looking forward to this one! You can find out more details about this event, how to book, and about the Caribbean Association of Victoria over here at the CaribVic blog.

Poebot

2011-08-02T10:43:00.000+10:00

Overload

2011-07-20T20:40:00.003+10:00

I'll be away for a little bit. A new writing project has hatched itself and I'm having trouble keeping my carpel-tunnel-crippled hands off it!

See you over at yours, or back here in a bit.

Slut! I made it up Mum! Isn't it a great word?

2011-07-11T10:21:00.005+10:00

Boy: Mum, why does baby have to be such a slut? I wish she wasn’t such a slut this morning.
Me: (gasping for air) What? What did you say? Where did you hear that word?
Boy: (backing away) What word?
Me: Uhhh...slut
Boy: Oh...slut. I made it up Mum. Isn’t it a great word? Slut!
Me: No. No, it’s not a great word! Don't say it! What do you mean, you made it up?

Boy: (proudly) I mean I invented it.
Me: Oh...you did? How did you invent it? What does it mean?
Boy: Well...I invented it because poor little baby has a runny nose and she’s been a bit sick.
Me: (confused) So...uhh...why does that mean she’s a uhhh... a slut?
Boy: Well, slut means sick-little-toddler or sick-little-tot or something like that.
Me: (pausing) Oh. Right. Oh. Okay. Well...it doesn’t umm...sound like a very nice word.
Boy: Why not?
Me: Ummmm... it just... it’s... well, I mean, sick little tot would actually be slot, or sick little toddler would be slod... because there’s no ‘u’ sound in the words. So how about we use one of those. How about we say she’s a slod? That’s a great word! (enthusiastically) Slod!
Boy: (shrugging). Okay, if you like... I still like slut though.

Nothing Here Needs Fixing

2011-07-08T03:28:00.001+10:00

there ain't nothing here / needs fixing

black-eyed pea monday nights
jamaican bun / spiced
rice pudding / mild
mama love
chicken & coconut rice
but on friday nights / we wing it

fish fingers / tinned spaghetti
& oven chips style

cause isn’t tiredness
a single mother’s way
of life

love lives here
though things are tight

if these walls could talk
they’d stand tall & say
there have been dark nights
& even darker days
bt only tenderness
was ever spoken

things are tight
but love lives here
if these walls
could talk they wd stand & say
this home was never broken

look around
i steer a second hand / hand made
home baked
& obedient ship
children should be heard / not silenced
but both kids must be in bed by six
& just somebody even
think about giving me lip

broken home?

nah uh

there ain't nothing here
wants fixing

How Would You Judge a Poetry Competition?

2011-07-05T16:24:00.006+10:00

I’m judging a national poetry competition at the moment. The call came from out of nowhere:

Is this Maxine Clarke? Are you a writer? What do you mostly write?

And I’m thinking: This could be journalism work. Don’t say poetry...whatever you do, don’t admit it’s mostly poetry.

Uhhh... mostly poetry? (with some resignation)

Pause.

Well...of course I also write non-fiction and pro—

No, no, that’s perfect. We’re looking for a poet. I’m looking for someone to judge a poetry competition and maybe give some workshops.

Money. For poetry. Not non-fiction, not copy writing. Poetry. Proper money for poetry. Stay calm. Stay calm...

How did you get my number?

I actually have no idea. Someone gave it to me a few years ago when we needed some help with some poetry and then we found someone else, but I still had your number with me. Can you tell me a bit about your poetry experience?

I’ve rarely entered (‘on paper’) writing competitions. Partly because the very idea of ‘competition writing’ makes me feel a little grubby and partly because everyone always bangs on about how they’re rigged... they’re supposed to be blind read and they’re not...a ‘name’ writer always wins blah blah blah etc etc etc.

I don’t know why I give any credence to the ‘writing comps are rigged’ conspiracy theory (which is probably mostly espoused by disgruntled entrants), because out of the four times I’ve entered writing competitions, two of them I’ve won...both pretty much as an emerging or little-known writer.

I’ve also judged written poetry competitions before, and these clearly were not rigged. Unfortunately though the trend in the past has been that out of a hundred and fifty odd poems a hundred can be put on the ‘no’ pile straight away, twenty five can be put on the ‘ maybe...read a few more times’ pile and twenty-five are pretty much 'decent contenders'. I read each poem at least ten times over several days, and poems sometimes move from the 'no' pile to the 'maybe' pile, or from the 'maybe pile' to the 'serious contender' pile - or in reverse, but it would take something amazing to leap two piles in either direction.

I know, I know...if you’re a poet who does enter competitions frequently, you may well be outraged by this judging method. Sorry folks.

So part of me was thinking (perhaps hopefully even): Wow, this could pretty much be money for snoozing.

But now here I am, ankle-deep in poems and, quite frankly, peeing myself. Because I read the first poem, then the second, then the third, then to number twenty and then started to hyperventilate and couldn’t read on...

Because the standard of these works is mostly even.

And quite frankly, they’re all pretty bloody good.

So what does it come down to? Form? Subject? Rhythm? Rhyme? Originality? That get-you-in-the-guts kind of feeling a poem can leave you with?

I'm tired. I think I’m just gonna throw the pile up in the air and see which ones land at the top.

Joking.

JOKING.

I swear that last bit was a joke. Please take it as a joke or it could get me into some mighty kind of trouble.

I’ve been left to my own devices as to judging criteria, and unlike past writing comps I’ve judged, there is no co-judge to chew the fat with.

And I've only got a couple weeks to decide.

Shit.

SHIT.

So tell me, what do you love in a poem?

Is 'Drat the Bird!' a Sentence?

2011-07-03T08:47:00.003+10:00

Boy: I got a sad face on my school work today.
Me: Oh. That's no good. Why was that?
Boy: We had to use the word ‘bird’ in a sentence and I wrote ‘Drat the bird.’
Me: (stifling laughter) Oh. What did your teacher say? Didn’t she like the word ‘drat’?
Boy: She said it wasn’t a proper sentence and she gave me a sad face.
Me: Oh.
Boy: Also, I didn’t write it properly, I wrote DRATTHEBIRD! All in capitals and smushed together with a big exclamation mark at the end.
Me: (stifling laughter again). Why did you do that?
Boy: Cause I’m tired of writing sentences.
Me: What happened after she gave you a sad face?
Boy: She asked me to write a proper sentence.
Me: Oh, what was your proper sentence?
Boy: I wrote ‘Drat the bird’ again, but properly so it wasn’t all in capitals and the words had spaces in between.
Me: And what did your teacher think about that?
Boy: She said it was better, but she said it still wasn’t a proper sentence.
Me: Oh...
Boy: I think it’s a proper sentence.
Me: Do you?
Boy: Yes, I do. Is it a proper sentence?
Me: Uhhh. Well...if your teacher says it’s not a proper sentence then we’ll go with that. I think your teacher's right.
Boy: But do you think it is a proper sentence.
Me: Eat your dinner.
Boy: But I want to know. You write books. Do you think it’s a proper sentence?
Me: I don’t know... I’m a poet. I actually have no idea what a proper sentence is. Poets don't write in sentences...
Boy: (incredulously) You don’t know what a sentence is? Didn’t they teach you at school?
Me: Eat your dinner. Isn’t it a yummy dinner!

Pottermore and the Rise of Author-Publishers.

2011-06-27T20:25:00.004+10:00

Last Sunday’s Age contained a story about how J.K. Rowling has retained the digital rights to her work, and plans to start a Pottermore website containing 20,000 words of previously unpublished material from the Harry Potter series and additional information about all the characters:

It will be a combination: part social-networking forum, part computer game in a website containing additional encyclopedic-like details. It will allow fans to continue interacting with their favourite books, but more importantly, it will make the series relevant to a new "digital generation" of readers who may not have been as prepared to read printed books in future.

A very shrewd business move. Having worked in copyright law for about five years (two and a half of them with visual artists), I’m fascinated by Rowling’s foresight in retaining the particular rights she did, and the opportunity she's now created for herself.

Interestingly, a representative of Melbourne University Publishing’s was quoted in the weekend's article as saying that Rowling's move won't start a new trend because 'authors generally want someone between them and their audience so they can focus on their writing'.

Uh...do these sound like the somewhat illogical rantings of a desperate member of a soon-to-be-extinct profession to you?

Writers are, of course, increasingly seeking more direct contact with their audience, not less.

How else to explain the rise of author blogs, twitter accounts and the like? How else to explain the rise of spoken word and performance poetry here in Melbourne, the world's second only UNESCO City of Literature.

How else to explain you, landing here, reading this?

Free Read

2011-06-25T10:30:00.003+10:00

Go Back To Where You Came From

2011-06-23T20:06:00.003+10:00

go back to where you came from:
that dark prison cell in khartoum
where torture chairs
heat thighs / like

steak on an unoiled barbecue

to where you came from / hey you

to that / two cent per box

twenty-hour-work-day live -in

jean sweat-shop / to the

bare bullet ricochet
suicide bomb/bardment

& midnight raids

the war rape

& war rape

go back to where

you came from /you came
uninvited / illegal
illiterate / illegitimate

it is all so f*cking illogical

go back to where you came from
you might be a ‘faggot’
& back home they execute gays
the government hz put a price on your head:
your destitute neighbours
wd sell you for a song
& you know you couldn’t
even blame them
you fell in love
with a different man or gender or god
or simply whispered to someone / in passing
tht you thought the government/s
ethnic cleansing campaign
wz wrong

in any case
welcome to Australia
go back
where you

belong

Inspired, of course, by the documentary currently screening in Australia on SBS ‘Go Back To Where You Came From’.

Tomorrow, I’ll be performing as part of Federation Square’s Festival of Light. I’ll be opening a fiery community panel discussion about ‘Multicultural Australia’ organised by Latrobe University's Centre for Dialogue with my poem ‘immigration museum’. See you Friday June 24, from 6pm at the BMW Edge Theatre. All Welcome!Entry free.

In Five Years Time Every Bookstore in Australia Will Be Dead

2011-06-20T20:39:00.005+10:00

the minister hz made a declaration:

in five years / or less
every bookstore in the country
will be dead

with all due respect
(which cd even mean none)
the minister is clearly not
very well read

the minister hz never
trailed fingers / alphabetically / along
shiny new fiction spines / walked
in for arundhati & out somehow
with zadie smith & lionel shriver

the minister never speed read first chapters
crouched on rainy day store stools
back when kindle wz a dream
amazon wz still a region
& every dollar went on law school

the minister hz never hid
amongst the shrinking poetry corner
in the company of someone’s plath-buried
black-clad / darkness hearted / emo daughter

never elbowed through red wine
drunk poets & mic’d pre-release words
to see a soft-skinned new writer / born
into the world

the minister says:
in five years time
every bookstore in the country
will be dead / i say
the minister is a fool / i say
f*ck the minister / i say
forget about the books
the minister should
go get his head
read

If you’re an Aussie and you read, then you’ll know that some deranged wally, Senator Nick Sherry, who likes to swan around calling himself the Minister for Small Business declared in a public forum last week that all Australian bookshops will be out of business in five years. Wow. Way to get stabbed to death with biros by starving poets in some dark alley on your way back to your Mercedes after some high-brow champagne-laced tax-payer-funded do.Course, writers, publishers, booksellers and other literary types have gone to town on the fool. The first thing I thought of when I heard about this prediction was my post a few months ago about the death of the bookstore. Yep, you heard it first here folks, and I didn’t even need a ministerial title.The difference though? My post was a musing, not a prediction. I value my life, and my livelihood.

Fiction

2011-06-19T07:43:00.002+10:00

How To Pitch Non-Fiction Writing (Masterclass #1)

2011-06-17T09:32:00.014+10:00

I missed the Emerging Writers Festival panel on Pitching a few weekend ago. Sources tell me though, that after initial talk about the importance of fostering a good relationship with editors and some practical pitching tips, the audience was warned not to take an ‘entrepreneurial approach’ to their writing because you’re writing for and within a ‘community’. Apparently from there on in it all got touchy feely community -minded.

With all due respect (and some of my fave editors were on the panel, so I mean that), that’s bullsh*t.

We all, most of us, want to make a living from our writing. Sure, we know it’s maybe unlikely but why shouldn’t we try? What is wrong with approaching writing like a business if words are your stock in trade? Community minded smacks of unpaid, short-changed, underpaid, bullied and underappreciated. I’m all for being a socially responsible writer, which includes my long history of blogging for left-leaning literary site Overland for free, mentoring and assisting marginalised writers and donating my writing or performances for worthy causes. All of my non-fiction writing is social justice-based. But really, people turned up to the session for advice on how to pitch. So it’s a fair assumption they want tips on how to make money from their work.

From my experience, pitching protocol is at best a pretence – particularly if you’re an unpublished or under-published writer. You can be pitch-perfect and still not get a reading.

Case in point: when I’d written my first major personal essay/non-fiction article, I sent it to a major national magazine. They sat on it. For months. I wasn’t sure what to do about it. I’d received an acknowledgement by email when I sent it in, but what had happened since then? Had they even read it? It was a bloody good essay, I knew it. I’d researched hard, poured on lots of personal reflection and edited and re-edited until I was sure it was pretty much perfect. And yet I knew if I started hassling the editor, they might think I was one of those deranged no-talent lunatics they’d never get rid of who’d send every sentence they’d ever written to the submissions slushpile and become indignant and nasty if things didn’t go her way.

So I pulled a stunt.

A very dishonest stunt.

I emailed the editor explaining that I submitted an article months ago and hadn’t heard back, but that a national newspaper had emailed me asking for an essay on a similar subject. Of course, they were my preferred place of publication, but since I hadn’t heard I assumed they didn’t want the article. Just checking to make sure it's okay for me to offer the article to someone else...(a publication which I knew was a direct rival).

It was a gamble, but it worked. The editor got back to me that very day. The article became the cover article for the next issue of the magazine and I got paid. Not an awful lot, but enough to cover two weeks rent at the time. Sure, I told a little white lie, but so what, every aspiring writer does sometimes, right?

Oh, I see, you’re a better, bigger and more ethical writer than me and don't need to rely on such trickery. What's that? When prospective editors read this post, they won’t trust me as far as they can publish me?

Yeah.

Sure.

Whatever.

Now here’s some practical advice for pitching:

When you’re pitching non-fiction by email, the email should be no longer than three short paragraphs long. Title the email so the editor can tell it’s a submission and what the article topic is without opening the email. In your pitch:

* Get the editor’s name right and address them by it;
* Introduce yourself with a very short bio (maximum five lines) explaining who you are, which includes your major writing credits to date;
* Give the title of your article and a three sentence description which includes why you’re qualified to write the article (Are you an academic in the area? Is it a parenting article and you’re a mother of ten etc);
* Include fast access contact details (mobile/email)
* Add one full page of the article only in a word attachment – carefully select the
most interesting section or a section which makes the editor want to know more.

If they don’t get back to you after a fortnight, email or call to check your submission arrived.

And if they don’t get back to you at all...well, maybe your work is appallingly bad...or you could tell a little white lie to drag yourself out of the slushpile.

I know, I know. Sure. You'd never do what I did. Good luck with that then.

Poem Warehouse

2011-06-15T09:28:00.001+10:00