Gilbert's of Mittagong - tea party

How one's mind wanders when it should be focused on writing an honours thesis.

I don't drink coffee so when I am in the cafe for my poet residency I sip on herbal teas, one of which is called tea party. I just wrote this today so as per usual, this is a first draft. Please offer any commentary you might have.

Tea party

            A party of tea

Tea discoing down my throat a do I look hot

                                    Shimmy giggling with the remnants

            Of tequila days past

                        Tea streamers tickling nostrils

Lingering come and get me and with a flick

                                                Of hair

                        Tea booty shakes in a flourish of teapot

And cup

                                    Action

Even the saucer gets a lick

Warm and giddy tea drums my mind – faster faster

Then

Slow – lights up after sex

cigarette plumes float in my belly

                        tea drunk I am spent but

tea tea parties on

Cafe Rosso

Check out my poem in the August-September 2012 edition of Sotto. Sotto is Australian Poetry's online journal and I am honoured to have my poem nestled in between some wonderful articles and poetry reviews.

Cafe Rosso
By Rhiannon Hall


grey thunders Bowral skies
two women with windswept hair
warming over cannelloni, their cappuccinos cupped.

Lovers lean across tables, faces almost touch;
Order seafood—Grigliato Misto, white wine.

Big men, cocky as sunshine yellow parrots,
chucking back macchiatos; riffling work schedules,
envy every casual diner.

Waitresses flitting across the room,
enjoy sweet meringue aromas,
the delicate perfumes
of stout women waiting to pay.

Poetry Open Mic

"Poetry begins in reading" - John Tranter
 

All enthralled by Kerry Miller's poetry
 

As cafe poet at Gilbert's of Mittagong, I have just held my fist poetry open mic today. It was a great day, with good food as always. Thank you to all of the staff for being so supportive of my residency and of poetry.

Susan Pearce dazzles us all with her talent
 

Everyone in the cafe today was dazzled by Jared Camilleri, Kerry Miller and Susan Pearce's poetry.

 

"A poem is something that the heart says to the mind, says to the body - poetry is an embodiment" - Mark Tredinnick
 

Rhiannon Hall reading a poem at Gilbert's of Mittagong

Thank you to Peter Carmody for organising a sound system for me.

"Poetry is a language awake to its connections" - Jane Hirshfield
 

Deeply engrossed in Jared Camilleri's poem

Thank you John Brown for taking photos of the event.

I hope to see more poets at my next open mic on the 24th of November. Here's a great blog post by Pip Smith about reading poetry out loud.

'Prune dear, prune'

Peter Skrzynecki visited the Fellowship of Australian Writers' Southern Highlands Chapter today and gave a multitude of good advice and encouragement. He also shared some of his life story and some of the inspiration for his writing. Of the advice Skryznecki gave the one piece that will stick with me, which resonates with the advice that David Brooks gave in the workshop I did with him, is "prune dear, prune". This was something that Judith Wright told Skrzynecki after she read his first book. What I take from this advice is that a good piece of writing must be well edited. Skryznecki told us how Raymond Carver's first editor used to get Carver to cut a twenty word sentence in half to ten words, while still holding the same meaning. Once Carver had done this the editor would say, 'good, now cut it to five words'. This is an important technique for all forms of writing, to avoid waffling, but I believe it is especially important in poetry. A poem is so short that every word must be essential to the meaning and architecture of the poem.

Here is a little writing exercise, not a poem, but still a fun task. I had to write 100 words on the theme of 'whisper'. I really enjoyed writing this, which I haven't enjoyed writing fiction in a while. Could be the start of a short story.

Whisper

“What do you want? Well come on it’s not hard. What do you want?” 

He points at the menu, resting his finger underneath ‘steak sandwich $18’. He can taste it already, the rare, finely slithered flesh with just enough hot mustard to create a tickling sensation in his noise, the firm crust of the sourdough, the subtle crispness of the rocket leaves and the smooth oiliness of the avocado.

“You don’t want that. Look at the price, that’s an indicator of how big the meal is. You won’t want dinner…”

He glances over his shoulder, if only she would whisper.

Sonnet - Byron Bay

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.

Now is the Winter of our Discontent

Seeing as I haven't posted any of my poetry in a while, I thought I should share something I've been working on. I think the last two stanzas still need a bit of work. I received some great feedback from a friend at the South Coast Writers Centre, Adam Carr, about perhaps dropping the 'is' in both the last stanzas. As Adam said, with so little syllables it seems a waste to have 'is' in there. Fellow Fellowship of Australian Writers', Southern Highlands chapter, Greg Tome, also gave me some wonderful feedback. Greg liked the suprise of 'squeezing size 8 legs' and found 'the can of bull' a cold contrast to 'dark, warm and melty'. Thank you to both Adam and Greg for their encouragement and advise on this poem. I wonder what others think? I am stuck on 'voluptuous bosoms', I think that sounds a bit cliche, but it is the kind of image that I want to finish with, a woman who is older, more confident, and comfortable in her body, to the point that she can again enjoy the foods that she did as a younger child without the guilt that society places on women to look a certain way.

Dessert First

"now 'really' is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by cheesecake and fork" @PresumptuousBug.

I

Finger sucking cream,

saliva giggles over

mother’s hand.

II

Freckles stain your lips,

rainbow on your tongue, in your

hands dark, melty, warm.

III

Squeezing size 8 legs

chocolate cake is turned away,

for a can of bull.

IV

Now cake is ordered

first, for glorious laughter

and voluptuous

bosoms.

By the Estuary

Jonathan Bate writes that “[a] Romantic poem may be regarded as a model of a certain kind of being and of dwelling… the poem itself is an image of ecological wholeness which may grant to the attentive and receptive reader a sense of being-at-home-in-the-world” (2000, p109). In this sense Mark Miller’s poetry could be described as post-Romantic or a reconfiguration of Romanticism. Within his poetry Miller describes the natural world in such a way that the people who are featured in his poems are embedded in their surroundings. An example of this is his poem ‘By the Estuary’, a poem in four parts, where Miller paints images of the activity of one day, from morning till night: “Making the most of the failing light, / a flurry of gulls / scatters like flecks of silver / late children shriek and dive / from the pier into the herringed tide, / down into the lathing currents / before scurring home / with the salt-tang still on their skin /…” (2010). Within this poem the birds, a dead seadragon, moored fishing boats, swimming children and fruit bats are all described in such a way that they all, the human and nonhuman elements, appear natural and ingrained into that place. The majority of Miller’s poetry displays this ‘ecological wholeness’ that Bate discusses, exploring the majesty of life, both human and nonhuman, along the Shoalhaven River. As Mark Miller stated in an interview, “[a] lot of my poems are about place, and although they… don’t have that overtly environmental, or conservation message to them, it’s there inherently or implied through the impact of the environment on me and on my sensibilities” (2012, pers. comm. 1 June). This comment by Miller demonstrates his mission to create a sense of ‘dwelling’ within his poetry, where the reader may take away lessons of preservation through an experience of the majesty of nature, as Miller views it. 

You can buy Mark Miller's Conversing with Stones at http://books.google.com.au/books/about/Conversing_with_Stones.html?id=twpgAAAACAAJ&redir_esc=y

Slam Poetry

Friday the 15th of June at Gilbert's I was joined again by Gregory Tome to discuss Susan Stewart's poetry among others. Gregory introduced Stewart to me the week before, but though I enjoyed some of her poems as single pieces I struggled to read her book Red Rover in an entire sitting. This week I have also been reading Dennis McDermott and Peter Minter. These two poets are masters of imagery and language and I am afraid that Stewart's imagery of child hood games and nursery rhymes were obvious and repetitive compared with McDermott and Minter. It was great to talk to Greg about these poet's works and his own poetry.

FAW and SCWC member Ken Challenor and his wife came and had a coffee with me and discussed the process of writing in response to an artwork, as well as writing to a theme. It was lovely to meet Josephine and talk about the writing process with the two of them.

I have been thinking about attempting a slam poem for a while now, but yesterday, while attempting to write a poem on the theme 'Forgotten Days' for the FAW homework I found the perfect inspiration. Here is a first and very rough draft. I need to extend the poem and add some rhyme. My inspiration for this has come from Kasabian's song Days Are Forgotten. The lyrics for this song are absolutely the worst thing I have ever read, but a great starting point for a slam poem, hopefully!

Let’s set ourselves free with a helping of monkey brains

that’d be the way to go. Forgetting

days of our lives and the surfing couch

as we disappear under bleeding stars.

Kasabian get it,

we need to be free.

Put an end to black

too toos, tattoo sleeves

and bathroom tears, cos

we got blood lust

we’re going to live Twilight

8th of June Cafe Poet Residency

Another productive day at Gilbert's yesterday. I wrote a draft ekphrastic poem for an upcoming exhibition at the University of Wollongong Creative Arts Faculty gallery. I won't post the poem, just in case it is good enough to be published as part of the exhibition. But, let me share with you how I went about responding to Gela Samsonidse's artwork. He begins his art works with words and through his work explores the aesthetics of the word, rubbing the words back out. The piece that I have responded to is a charcoal and graphite rendering. I have tried to draw the words, emotions and concepts back out of his image, commenting on the sound of the words and how that relates to the meaning those words hold.

I also, had two people come in to workshop their poetry with me yesterday which was lovely. It was very enjoyable talking with some fellow writers, Berlio and her husband Ron, as well as Gregory Tome.

Yesterday I read a selection of Libby Hathorn's poetry from Talks with my Sakteboard (these can be found on a great blog 'An Australian Poem a Day'). This selection is written for children and is a great read. She uses rhyme and draws upon the everyday life of a school student to craft something, or multiple somethings, that is witty, clever and fun.

Finally, I began writing a poem on the theme of 'The Winter of our Discontent' for the second UOW literary Society Zine. I began by doing a twitter search of this quote and I rate the top tweet as: "now 'really' is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by cheesecake and fork" by @PresumptuousBug.

Fly

I didn't make into the cafe this week, as I was interviewing Shoalhaven poet Mark Miller about his work. I'll post some snip bits of this interview in a couple of weeks, when I have finished collating the wealth of information I gained.

Here is another poem that I wrote last week, to tied you over. It's a little silly, but it was fun. This piece was inspired by Craig Billingham's poem 'The Fan', from Going Down Swinging. A great little poem (Billingham's poem that is...)!

Fly

Can you fly?

What a wonder!
Please, let me ponder,
what it would be
to perch in a tree,
wind in my hair,
way up there,
to spread my arms
and prepare to charm,
as I whoop and hook
around for a loop-the-loop...


No, I said, Can you swat that fly?

Week three cafe poet

Mittagong main road - gorgeous Autumn colours

A beautiful day to be in a cafe today! Out of the wind, but still soaking up the sun. Anyway, I've started a poem for and about Barry Spurr so I might share that next week, but for this week here's a poem about Uni.

Her fingers are ink stained
and jagged, as they protrude
 from fingerless gloves -
kalidascopic gloves
a defiant cry of individuality
as she hands over monotonous words.

She is trapped in paragraphs,
bordered in by the white page,
she follows the formula.

They say academics is purely objective,
but she knows the truth, her truth.

I Remember

Week Two of my residency. This week I decided to use my time completing a homework task for a poetry workshop I am doing with Ron Pretty, through the South Coast Writers Centre. The task was to write a poem, where each line had thirteen syllables and each line was to begin "I remember...". So this is what I have written, and please note that this is a first, rough draft:

I remember shadow puppets acting resolute,
I remember the lustrous rainbow-like colour back drop,
I remember whizzing through the theater curtains
and discovering the destruction my journey brings.
I remember dark stumps strewn like forgotten stage props,
I remember the smoke machine haze clad skeletons,
I remember wishing the show would come to an end,
even the cost, four tonnes of CO2 per actor.
I remember necessity, the show must go on...

day one of my cafe poet residency

I've had a productive first day at Gilbert's of Mittagong. Here's a look at something I wrote today. Warning, this is a work in progress.

Your little fingers curl, biscuit crumbs speckle your mother's skirt. When I grow up I want to be a ballerina, you said. Playing with the delicate beads that adorn your mother's neck. Center of her gaze, pink jacketed, you smile. Capriole into the next scene. You no longer fit on your mother's knee; no longer care for the intricacy of her jewelery. You would rather shimmer into someone else's peripherals.

Hope to see some of you at the cafe next Friday.

Gilbert's Cafe, Mittagong

I am beginning my café poet residence at Gilbert’s café, in Mittagong, this Friday. Pop in, have a coffee and talk about writing with me (http://www.localstore.com.au/store/164163/gilberts/mittagong/). I will be at Gilbert’s every Friday for the next twelve months. I will be hosting open mics and poetry readings so keep an eye out for those. Follow this blog to stay up-to-date on the progress of my residency.

Happy writing and reading

Rhiannon.