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    Poetry & Place Anthology 2015
    Poetry & Place Anthology 2015
    Poetry & Place Anthology 2015
    Ebook166 pages59 minutes

    Poetry & Place Anthology 2015

    By Close-Up Books

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    About this ebook

    A new anthology of international poetry collecting ideas and experiences of 'place' in a variety of forms, from free and structured verse to concrete poetry and haiku, each exploring our relationship with place via the personal, political and beyond.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherClose-Up Books
    Release dateApr 8, 2016
    ISBN9780994528902
    Poetry & Place Anthology 2015

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      Book preview

      Poetry & Place Anthology 2015 - Close-Up Books

      Poetry & Place

      2015 Anthology

      Edited by

      Ashley Capes & Brooke Linford

      Poetry & Place Anthology 2015

      Copyright © 2016

      Copyright of individual poems to respective authors.

      Cover: www.indigoforest.weebly.com

      Layout & Typset: Close-Up Books

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval without permission in writing from the authors.

      ISBN-978-0-9945289-2-6

      Published by Close-Up Books

      Melbourne, Australia

      Thanks to the poets who made all of this possible.

      Contents

      Local Positioning System

      First Morning in Venice

      Commit to Your City

      What if I Knew of the Upstairs Lounge?

      Domestic

      Dudgeon

      Woman Crying in the Supermarket

      The Sea is Emptying

      Undersong

      In the Lane Where I Live

      Brohmon (Journey)

      The Home Midwife

      Mourning Morning

      The Persistence of Memory

      Taj Mahal

      Brisbane

      Rozelle Window on Two Consecutive Days

      Parallel to Shore

      Reclining Tree

      An Afterlife of Stone

      Field Church

      Death in Nepal

      Thoughts from Above

      Tabula Rasa

      Don’t Worry, I’ll Go

      Fingal

      Casglu Afalau / Apple Picking

      Surface Tensions

      Transience

      Canal Life

      My Inheritance

      The Barn Roof

      Sulfur

      Solar Power

      Monochromist

      Tom Boy Poet

      Running Away and Coming Back

      The Woman on the Island

      Tokyo

      Now You Know it All Goes on Beyond You Don’t

      Parts of the Furniture

      The Heat

      Petasus’ and Petal’s Next

      Crossroads

      Nullarbor at Night

      A Different Dawn

      Land of Corn

      Inside Edward Hopper

      Gone

      Heat, Flies and Cane Toads

      ICU

      Distance Travelled Over Time Taken

      Crossing the Harbour Bridge

      A Passport

      That I Might Love Differently

      On Neruda’s Hill

      Other People’s Houses

      Stoplight Outside Hamburger Harry’s, 2:00 a.m.

      The Woodland Chapel

      Retreat

      I’m More of an Amphetamines Girl, Myself

      Another Take on Recycling

      Leaving the Monaro

      Only Decent Coffee in New York

      Deep Cold Pockets

      This City

      Blue

      42 Memories

      The Flooded Field

      Christmas Email

      Do You Remember…

      Ghost Town

      Sell and Regret, But Sell

      Mother Roux

      On His Wedding Day

      Grant's Picnic Ground, Sherbrooke Forest

      The Smile of the Orange-Robed Monk

      Local Positioning System

      This corner is where the gutter backs up and the road floods.

      It is dry now and everyone will forget until it rains again.

      Keep going, up past where kittens popped out of the drain once, summer balls of fur and eyes, in front of the house where the piano teacher lived;

      she said ‘you have the hands of a flautist,’ so the piano lessons didn’t go far.

      This line of trees was lopped around when I was in high school,

      see how the branches have been cut to make a canyon for the power lines to pass through. It’s all built up now: No. 32 is on the spot of the Paddock of One Sheep.

      They’ve put a second storey on No. 29 and the hedge around No. 26 used to seem like something from a fairytale; things are taller when you are littler.

      Turn right at the corner with the apartments. There was a girl who learned the violin, she lived in the one on the lower left. Mostly windows are blind eyes but at dusk

      she’d put the light on, stage lighting her bowing. Exhibitionist. Maybe I was smarting from my piano teacher’s words, but I see her ghost in the window every time I pass.

      It’s a long straight road next. In summer it is the best way to town because of the plane trees

      The temperature drops 10 degrees instantly. And in autumn it rains itchy fluff

      with the cockatoos up there ravaging the seed balls. No, that’s

      not a cockatoo.

      It’s a scrap of paper in the wind.

      Jane Downing

      First Morning in Venice

      How easy to lose one’s point of origin,

      the tourist at the next table reminds us.

      Even once around the square

      and you could be anyone anywhere,

      one minute a temporary lagoon dweller

      the next a misplaced fixture in time and space –

      implausible spec in the eye of the camera.

      She would be lost still, she claims,

      were it not for the old man

      who led her back … eventually …

      through a succession of frescos,

      across a fifteenth-century plaza,

      somehow threading three floors

      of hospital corridors

      long ago inhabited by monks.

      In one room they fixed his left leg,

      in another his right eye, and there,

      part of his heart. Returning him to life

      time and again. Miracolo.

      We listen like children intent on believing,

      the walls of the hotel’s breakfast room

      closing in. We dismiss the guide map,

      cold cofee and half-eaten pastries -

      hungry for a tale of our own.

      Outside: fabled alleys, web of waterways,

      arched bridges, rumoured hauntings,

      refugee history, the anonymity

      of carnival masks - all waiting

      to waylay us from whatever task,

      whatever path it is we think we’re on.

      Jane Williams

      Commit to Your City

      Our mattress is bicoastal, our books

      well traveled, all the dishes chipped.

      The sofa is new, a commitment

      to a bigger apartment, a lifestyle that affords

      plants on sunny windowsills.

      We see our new city through eyes

      that have seen many cities, lived

      in a few, sipped the water, sampled

      the restaurants, survived the public

      transportation, debated the merits

      of parking lots and community pools.

      Here, we see the bland light

      of people passing one generation

      to another, the same chance

      at swing pushing and shop ownership.

      We are confused by this,

      attempt to acclimatize while mentally

      arranging our apartment back

      into a box, and writing down lists

      of city names, wondering what

      is strange there, what detail have we

      forgotten about geography?

      Caitlin Thomson

      What if I Knew of the Upstairs Lounge?

      My feet were in the same sneakers

      that squeaked the St. Francis gym floor,

      when I first stepped of the sidewalk

      of Chartres in August of '75,

      crossed Iberville Street, near

      the wooden stairwell where men

      once climbed sixteen steps through

      a steel door to a space where

      the simple was spoken freely: Did you

      see that cute guy in the square? . . .

      John's got a new boyfriend . . .

      I

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