Ellipsis Poetry

Unknown Speaker 0:02

This is a Vision Australia Radio Podcast.

Speaker 1 0:19

I'm Vision Australia Radio, welcome to Emerging Writers. I'm Kate Cooper, and I'm delighted to be bringing a special feature this week. Listeners to our most recent programs would have heard our conversation with the poet Pam Makin. Pam along with Jas Veknalanti convenes Ellipsis poetry nights, held at the Arthur Art Bar in the city. It's an open mic event, and emerging writers was fortunate to be able to record the November edition. There was some amazing poetry. So we're really pleased to be able to bring you the first in our selections from the Ellipsis Poetry night. We begin with Pam Makin.

Speaker 2  1:09

Hello, this poem is called A New Spring.

It's different this year, spring, the magpies seem a little more defensive, swooping pot shots with unprecedented vigor. There's something near more than mortal, a chemical scent on the breeze we've never smelled before. The sun sinks like Sangria in a cocktail of smoke and pollutants As night falls fully possums stomp on color bond where eucalypts once were home, the thuft of vineyard frost fans serenades insomnia in the morning, the bathroom Spider glares down from the corner, unimpressed with our zapper and yet, magpies wall along the lawn as if today will be okay. 

This poem is called Cats and Prints and Screams. 

William catches birds. Alfred lets them loose. William watches them fly, flats, lifts, squabbles for airspace with others of their species. Alfred shoots birds. William flies with them. Alfred is threatened by their hunger for freedom, equality, space, time. Two species, one goal.

And finally, this poem is a prose poem called Damn the Dawn. 

Damn it, it has happened again. Every day the sun rises and I am reminded that I am another day older, that there is another day to fill with productivity and usefulness, that there is another achingly long day of Jaws, tasks, stuff, another day like all the other days yesterday, I declared that I would stop, that I would set aside the modality of sleep, wake, work cycles that I would write myself a new to do list full of new ways to fill the daily days. Yesterday, I was productive and useful. I did chores and tasks and stuff. I didn't make the list, damn it. Today, I will make the list. I will fill it with adventure and excitement. I will imagine life beyond my comfort zone. I will disassemble all my two big dreams and gather them back as doable, chewable chunks. I will be productive and useful. 

Damn the jaws, damn the tasks. They are not the stuff of today. Tomorrow, the sun will rise and I will be reassured that I have another day of life experience under my well notched belt, I will have a whole new day to fill with productivity and usefulness, a blessedly long day to consider and select parts of my dreams to work on. Damn, I can't wait for dawn tomorrow. 

Thank you.

Speaker 1 5:02

That was Pam Makin. Next, Pam's co convener of the Ellipsis Poetry nights, Jazz [?Viknalanti]. 

Speaker 3 5:13

Perfection down to the last touch, columns leading up in straight lines, ceilings held up by perfect beams, stares, seemingly symmetrical and perfect, glossy counters, not a speck of dust or scent of any odor, perfection to the very last touch. No one can enter here without perfection in their stature, perfection in their dress, perfection in their manners and perfection in their mess. These patrons would rather die than see the place where chaos grew life red sand in every crevice with 1000s of crevices to hide dead trees out front and dead dreams inside walls built of tumbling stone found on the side of the road counters that will give you splinters and enough bugs to drive you mad, the feeling of never being clean and a lack of odor of bleach, yes, those patrons would rather die than set one well shined shoe in the place that chaos grew life.

And this one is about my poet friends... 

I stand here tonight lost in the poetry of hearing something so important that so many people forgot to listen to but we're hearing it even when you're silent, even when you don't think you could push one more word out of your lips. We will hear you, your words shining bright on the stage, your face reflecting the bare truth right back at us. I lost my truth, so I'll worry yours, just for tonight, using the light, last the spotlights, to remember who I am and who I want to be when I grow up as a poet. I want to be just like you, strong words and stronger truths and a delicate handle on everything held so well in balance you wouldn't even realise you were still juggling.

Speaker 1 7:14

You've been listening to Jazz [?Viknalante]. Next we hear from Stella [?Tamajatiu]. 

Speaker 4 

This poem is called The Walking Trail.

I meander along this walking trail, foot steps scuffing against the dirt, blue sky above afternoon sun breaking through the forest canopy of gray box, Malley box, pink, blue man of gum trees, their long, slender leaves swaying in the breeze, their rough, weathered barks, a gallery of textures I run my hands through hot Bush, waddle trees, hakeia, kangery, grass, taking care to avoid the sharp spines of the prickly wattle and native Black Swan. As I continue my journey, I hear an Australian Magpie crooning a song, the loud, harsh chop choc of a red wattle bird, the chitter and sharp chick chick, trill of a New Holland honey eater. 

I catch a flash of blue, green, orange in the canopy above me, followed by sharp screech a Rainbow lorikeet, the high pitch whistle of pee pee in the distance, an Eastern Rosella and the loud, mournful whales of yellow tailed Black Cockatoos turning a corner a mob of gray kangaroos, grays and lounge lazily in the afternoon sun, insects, spiders and snakes stay hidden from my sight, but I know they are there as I walk, my fingers suddenly brush against lender green needles of creeping she oaks, and I know I am close to my destination ahead of me, the trail ends with another, beginning again To the left of me. Today I turn right towards my destination. 

I walk the short distance to the wood and metal railing. My footsteps thudding on the platform. I gaze towards the ridge at the woodland forest spread before me. I. The river valley below the Bree stirs my hair. The warm sun caresses my face. I smile. I am here at punch bowl of cat drinking in the view of onca peringa Gorge. 

Thank you.

Speaker 1 10:26

That was Stella [?Tamajati]. Our next poet is Amy [?Nankaro].

Speaker 5 10:33

My name is Amy nankaro, and I guess the content warning for this would be anger and misogyny. This is about the current state of the world. It's called Pandora. 

I will change your mind. I will rewind back the witching hour. Promising woman, can you feel your heart beating, Father, than gasoline catching fire? I'm still on this cliff with no space left, where all that appears is the dread I've contained over the years, a flipped switch, pure adrenaline fades into oblivion beneath the chairs. Looking up, will you cry to the sky? Will there ever be a chance to make things right? I speak to God. Do you believe in life, or only ones different from mine? They say hope cast a spell, but the truth keeps me high under the influence, will I be instrumental tonight? Will ever be the hour of the star? 

Two fools conducting the chess board, rewriting the walls. Your opacity is blinding, almost paradoxical. Your concern melts into control, but standing still does nothing to keep the thrill or change the fact that this is real. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. I suppose it's because I'm hearing voices that you'll burn me and I'll fall into the night circle. So continue your vice, you'll never have to pay the price. But to it, I'll give my life. Who am I to speak my vows in the comfort of a planet far from the battleground, handcuffed to the wall watching leaves fall outside the shattered window, a place where children used to grow the feminine is forever transcendental, even under the weight of propaganda soaked and wasted potential. Hear the woman scream across the blood stained table. Fuck propriety. 

Do you really believe you know what's best for me here, I'll give you my body. Possess me, please. You know more than me for now I am legally meet. The fire in my hand starts to scream ablaze, and what a disappointment, a flood to drown it out. Will it turn around or fall for fiercely in a drought aboard the mission and turn it into obsession? Instead, distractions are spoon fed. When Hope becomes double edged, possessed, must we raise Mother Earth from the dead? The first woman was born to punishment. Mother of men, they're guilty as sin, and the boxers missing key now lay in Legend. What else can I do but turn to the ivy growing on the walls? At least it's beautiful, if only metaphorically real, and I can believe in it more than I can in this world.

Speaker 1 13:13

That was Amy [?Nancy]. You're listening to Emerging Writers. This week. We're bringing you selections from the Ellipsis Poetry open mic night at Arthur Art Bar in Adelaide, and next we hear from Philip H Bleak.

Speaker 6 13:39

[This] is a song that I would read. It's called State of Play. We'll see if it holds up. 

You're playing guitar in the corner while the world is burning down. And if it's not the climate, then it's some idiot who are bomb. They all preach for peace and progress, until they learn that wall brings in more cash, there must be an easier way to make money set a poor man in the gutter, because a child dreams of beauty, it takes an adult to mess it up, because something happens deep inside of us when we want the things that we cannot have. Something happens deep inside of us all when we want the things we can't control. First, you listen to every story until you decide that you had your fill. 

You declare that you know better, because you have your own free will. He had the universe's random chaos that does not care just how you feel. Nothing travels in a straight line, and nothing ever just stands still because a child dreams of beauty. Pleasure, happiness and frills. It takes an adult to mess it up and destroy their own dreams, because something happens deep inside of us when we want too many things, when we compromise our values and sell our own soul for material things.

Speaker 1 15:30

That was Philip H Bleak. Our next poet is Helium.

Speaker 7 15:38

A heart can be tricked into beating slowly like labored steps, like the dark of an empty hallway biting the movement ahead is unaware of her, buried in his own shivers, she is tiny, or she has learned to be as unalarming to anyone As a doll in dreaming a second later, the movements gone, a door closes, and she's alone again. She waits for the echoes to evaporate to the patience and consciousness of a true scavenger and agent of an unknown hunger. He can smell it, the warm vibrations of cold synthetic skin hugging the metal maze beneath while the maze clings onto an airy cremination, one smooth move as easy as sleep, as fast as all the little deaths in the world, no eyes on her, no one's watching a hypnotist without live audiences, just mastered the art of seizing the moment and seizing on eyed belongings from unlocked lockers.

Progress, you had heard them call it. Hours, accumulated for years, bruised fingertips hardened into stone with nameless, shapeless figures wriggling within what are their words, if not for the irons and alums the sand accumulated from time, dug from the crust of the earth, is all nature. In nature, there is no senseless laws of ownership in those reeds downstream a wild animal ticks, where he can find eggs of water birds as lost as abandoned animals are not hairless things the hair or feathers on the back of their necks whisper, then nothing truly belongs to them, not as much as they belong to the redness below. And she knows this better than any of them she had. 

Her shrill cries puncture the foamy plain, only silence left with the carcasses, her nose draws pulled by their putrid aroma making her mouth water and her eyes teary, she had hurriedly followed to the source and licked her bounty clean. And now, unlike Lin, here she goes a city of crystal tunnels asleep, enveloped by layers of night. The Night night wraps around her and her prized bounties, nesting in the backpack quietly with every step she fails their weight, sending rumbles up her spine, patting gently on her back, reassuring that this is the fruit of her labor, all in a day's foraging soon after, on the hallway lockers, a warning may appear, a letter speaking of empty threats, more of a pleading, a paper note soaked in panic, voices louder than sharper, finally, with the intent to injure, but she will be gone. Oh, she will be gone, even if she hasn't. 

No one remembers a silent shuttle in the corner, no eyes on her, no one's watching. The night is mute that she sleeps into the reeds or the cracks in a damaged land or the sewer where subway rats leave. There she brings them her gifts. There they celebrate their little world built from stolen treasures, an unfasmable tower made of Lost Things. There she crawls. Into her own membrane and ways for the Hollings of old to pass. It is no longer winter as she crawls out of the cave and die with a glimpse of her there, she is un alarming to anyone as a dog in dreaming and she smells fairies.

Speaker 1 20:28

You've been listening to the poet Helium. Next, Catherine Rees.

Speaker 8 20:33

This is a poem about a wishing well. 

What the fairy tales say is true. I am made from stone. My insides are slick with algae and moss. My heart is dark enough to drown a kitten refuge for frogs and slugs and ghouls, the alderman ordered an iron grate to be placed across my mouth. This prevents her falling in, but not my whispering my love what the tourist brochures print is true. April is crisp and bright, littered with maple and liquid amber leaves, checkered shirts, floral skirts, cartwheels, pinwheels and elastic sided boots that have never seen a day of work or dust. There are cinnamon donuts, hot chips, fairy floss and fingers sticky with spice and salt, but I am empty. 

What the wise ones say is true. I was made only for coin. They feed me well on silver, but I am hollow until after sun fall, when all sound is silent, this distant Ale House rumble and the hiss of rain on fairy lights, then she comes, red boots, frost, cool hands, breath so warm it shimmers on her lips. My love has come. My love, sing and I will hold your voice, your moss stained lone, deep vibrato, sing, and I will hold each note, then give it back to you.

Speaker 1 22:18

That was Catherine Rees. Next, we hear from Aaron Mitchell. 

Speaker 9 22:23

All right, so this poem is called Old Songs. 

Today is the day for old songs. Sounds to calm a cluttered mind, familiar rhythms, known words for the subconscious. Come look on. Get lost and lose oneself, submitting to the incoming noise, washing, crashing, drifting in the waves, rolling back and forth, eyes closed, mouth parted, arms straight to the floor, feet alternatively, shuffling like dancing under shower, rose heart, sinking to the thump, thump, oons, the rising moan and wailing cry, distorted, amp and strings roar. Words, unclear, feelings, felt neon glows in UV light, deeply darkly in the devil's Mildred, hypnotic swaying for better days, childhood fog and blueberry haze. 

It could be the end of days, happily violent or violently happy in the sweet and sour, symphony cords like golden straw in sunlight to transport and fold time to faded memories of a different age 10, a sweat of giddy uncertainty, heart choked risk of unsure attraction, mirror balls and Kaleidoscope dots, strobing, drunk, surging, falling silhouettes etched in machine smoking tobacco, downtown boys and uptown girls. Video screens, confusion and chaos, bumping, crumping, grinding, breaking, Tequila Sunrise over blurred wrist stamps for Lua ropes and bouncer doors, 5am light immortal. No more. We struggled back to the fatal shore.

Speaker 1 24:40

that was Ari Mitchell. And now Lizzie Osborne.

Speaker 10 24:46

So this next one I wrote for my best friend. She's pretty amazing. This is called Take the Pictures. 

Take the pictures. Keep the memories close to your heart, because seasons she. Changed you quickly, and gray hairs grow between Christmas and New Years before you know it, your daughters will be older than you when you first met. Hold her close. Tell her how much she means to you. Trade stories for secrets and keep them inside, trinkets exchanged at birthday parties. Need sweaters to wear her stress on your shoulders, stitch in healing words of love to keep her warm. Gather up every wishbone so she can dream too. Collect stars from the skies. They are in her reach, carry her through fire. Bleed for her broken hearts. Breathe air into her lungs when she is drowning, because I can see the trinkets and the sweaters and the wishbones and the stars that she is hand picked you best friend doesn't quite capture who she is. She is a soul mate. She is a skip to your step. She is joy, she is family. She is home. 

Thank you.

Speaker 1 26:10

That was Lizzie Osborne, you've been listening to a special edition of Emerging Writers, recorded at the Ellipsis Poetry open mic night held at the Arthur Art Bar in Adelaide. We'll be bringing you further selections from the Ellipsis Poetry open mic night in future episodes of Emerging Writers. 

This program can be heard at the same time each week here on Vision Australia Radio, VA radio on digital, online at va radio.org and also on Vision Australia radio podcasts, where you can catch up on earlier episodes. [MUSIC] 

Unknown Speaker 27:08

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