I was back in the cafe this week after a couple of very stimulating Fridays. On Friday the 27th of July I read my poem 'Demokratizmi', which an be viewed
here. There was a great turn out. The artworks look fantastic hung, having a very different and larger emotional impact than what they do as small images on the computer screen. The other two poets, Di Barkas and Ken Challenor, read out two very different, but amazingly clever pieces of poetry. Listening to Alena Kennedy and Rike talk about the art theory through which they interpreted the works was very interesting and had a strong correlation to some of the literary theory that I am currently immersed in for my honours thesis.
The first weekend of August I spent at the Byron Bay writers' Festival, which I recommend anyone interested in literature attend. It was a great festival, very laid back, but with some wonderful, successful writers in attendance. I especially enjoyed listening to Mike Ladd, John Tranter and Mark Tredinnick read some of their poetry and discuss the importance of sound in poetry.
So after all of this stimulation you can imagine that I had quite a productive day in the cafe this week. I completed the first draft of my petrarchan sonnet, as Ron Pretty requested for the SCWC poetry workshop. As you can see this sonnet has obviously been influenced by my trip to Byron Bay and not just in the subject of the poem, but also through my reading of John Tranter's
Starlight: 150 poems, which is a book of mostly sonnets, many of which deal with similar themes to this one. Before I post my sonnet here I want to again remind you that anything posted on my blog is in draft form, I appreciate any feedback or commentary that you may wish to offer, but please respect the fact that these poems have not been edited into the kind of fine specimens that can be found in Tranter's book.
Byron Bay
The rhythmic drumming draws us to the park
and waves of colour swirl a crescendo
of bohemian pants that bounce, bongos
and marijuana smoke, as cries of ‘Spark
it!’ reverberate in a three year old’s
soft curls and waves that drum the coast retreat,
remeet, melding salt smells with sand and feet.
Our senses hula-hoop as we behold
the self-assuredness we long for in our selves.
The discontent of our lonely and busy
lives is dispersed as grains of
sand are lodged
between our toes, in our hair salt spray delves
unlocking the self we smother only
to fit the social standard. We are freed.
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