Hi everyone, I’m thrilled to announce that my poem “your mother’s hands” has been published at kipple. It’s a journey of ups and downs to get published, and it is really satisfying when the hard work pays off. Head on over to kipple and check it out…http://kipplepoetry.blogspot.com/2009/06/your-mothers-hands-vanessa-page.html
Archive for June, 2009
Somehow, the words come easier in the rain. Maybe less distractions, maybe the romanticism of it, maybe just that my mind has slowed down just enough to allow me to concentrate. Whatever the answer may be, it has been a productive couple of days.
Today we went along to Dendy at Portside (fantastic place to catch a movie) to see “My Year Without Sex” starring Sascha Horler and Matt Day and an amazing William McInnes gving a cameo in one of the Gold Coast scenes. I’m a big fan of Aussie films and I love seeing the little idiosyncracies and culture references of Oz society up on the big screen. A la The Castle. Scrap the citizenship test I say – just make the Castle compulsory viewing for all. Have a laugh and you’re in!
My Year Without Sex was a gorgeous little film, with great leads and shot all around the neighbourhoods of Altona North and Williamstown – both old stomping grounds of mine. Recommended, people!
mounted on bicycles
the sting of air
whistles past us clean
tiny licks lifting the edges
of coat fronts, fringes
fluid in motion
one small shape, and a bigger one
two Impressionist blurs
Another long and restless night with a little boy who just won’t sleep. I’m wrecked. I’m going to need coffee when I hit the city for work this morning….
Ends and ends
it came down to percentages
the balance of night against day
degrees of displeasure
your couch, my chair; stranger rituals
by afternoon, speech comes to an end
washing must be brought in,
the sounds of night have commenced
longing keeps its own counsel
today, the smell of the earth was full
as you dug and dug; pitting enthusiasm
against the reality of this new life
pushing the light toward dusk smoke
I love the concept of birthday week. Why just have a single day celebration – stretch it out and savour, I say! I’ve been looking forward to 33 for a long time. I always thought that by 33 I’d know exactly what I was doing and be happy and content. I have mostly fulfilled this ideal. When I had a tarot card reading in jJanuary and pulled the happiness card I felt this was a good omen, and the prophecy has been fulfilling itself since then.
It has been a great start to birthday week. An early morning run, then on our pushbikes and a short ride down to Grub Street at Gaythorne for the best breakfast you will ever find on Brisbane’s northside. Later, dark chocolate and chilli mocha at Coffee and Chocolate at Paddington and now looking forward to dinner with good friends tonight at the Breakfast Creek. Culinary overload, but I love it all…good times.
Went running this morning for the first time in a week. I find myself lost when I don’t get the opportunity to run every day. For a personality like mine which has so much going on internally, running provides the clarity, the space to think and analyse and the ‘time out’ we INTJ (Myers Briggs) types require.
Much as I love to run, it is extremely difficult to rise before 7am on a weekend in Brisbane, in the winter time and make the transition from bedclothes to running clothes. That done however there is such a sense of exhilaration and freedom in pounding the pavements early before too many folks are up and about and listening to music as I run.
My route around the neighbourhood is nice and hilly so I know I’m doing myself some good at the same time. I have my eye on the Jetty to Jetty Fun Run and the Bridge to Brisbane as reasonable short term running goals. So, a few more early mornings in the cold, hoping my lungs can cope with the temperature and that the stinging slap of iced air on my skin won’t be too much of a deterrant.
The best part is wrapping up with the Courier-Mail and going for a coffee at my local, knowing I’ve started the day on a positive note.
We render them,
We paper them over our
Tiny little cracks
Deftly and silently, they
Seep through our layers
They complete our neat existences
Bring a certain satisfaction, like knife’s
Steady method through fleshy pear
We are high functioning, deliberate, and yet
Time has worn smooth our clever ruses
Our countenance is pale and yellow
Barely disguising this violence
The betrayal of sudden pallour
And we are stunned by the grief
Red inked and stamped
Tentative, picking up threads
Of expired conversations
Of words tied to redundancy
Reborn as slivers of the tiniest half moons
They are impossible, much too delicate
Slipping past us like tadpole flickers
Too far gone, the same as five o’clock
The slow glimmer along the peak hour river
Indifference and the slow flap of white sails
Our own breath is not enough to reach them
Exhalations, jeopardised by the effort
Like you to me, at once flailing and corralled
Circling like a pair of sanguine cats.
In evening hues
We are less affronted by
This city’s gangrenous reaches
The sentinel has drifted off, and now
There will be no record of this
Just the wrongfooted shadows of us
Gingerly testing the newness of it all
Navigating the tiny cracks
Smoothing out the deepest creases
Testing untried sequences, new coordinates
Resigned to it, but knowing enough
To leave the remnants to the wind
Clear notes, remembered as fossils
The truth in them, long gone
Captured in erratic shapes
And the chatter of furious pinwheels
Not much longer /til the chill turns to fever
The belly lay soft/ nudged by tiny anchors
We are moored in precedents/ this yoke, the only certainty
Black lipped whispers /already instruct us on how
The night is creaking /while we wait for the bolt
Our mouths are tentative/poised at the brim of it
Steam and breath/a potent new force of life
Warm in our sockets/we are flesh and bone
Pleased by symmetry/ smoothing linen in the same way