the fine print THE POETRY EDITION THE NEWSLETTER OF THE UTS WRITING AND CULTURAL STUDIES AREA SPRING 2006

The fine print Ah. Poetry and spring. This is the first edition of The fine print to be devoted to poetry. This issue celebrates the opening of Between! the Fifth Australian Poetry Festival, as well as the beginning of Spring Semester 2006 at UTS. From 1 -10 September poetry will be recognised with festivals, readings, Poets on Wheels, poet trees, launches, special editions, the awarding of competitions, etc all over Australia.

We are pleased with the quality and the diversity of styles and themes of the poems submitted by talented current and past UTS students and teachers.

Unfortunately there was not room to print as many poems as we would have liked. The winning entry in a competition to write a detective poem in fifty words or less is included as are four short-listed detective poems. The winner, who we have not been able to contact, can pick up the prize by contacting Cathy Cole, cathy.cole@uts.edu.au The Poets Union and Poetry Australia Foundation are two organisations which provide members with rich opportunities to further their interest in reading and writing poetry. We’ve included information about what they offer and how you can join. Read about Sappho Bookstore’s free monthly poetry nights with guest poets and an open microphone. Sappho is in Glebe, within walking distance of UTS. Many thanks to all those who have submitted poems and information. Julie Chevalier and Linda Godfrey Editors, August 2006

2.

Back Shop Boys Milk crates outside the back shop and the boys hang elbows over knees cigarettes dripping from fingers smoothing bleached bowl of hair gangsta rap video clip talking rolling rs like machine guns Aussie twang stretching into a song Subaru WRX rumbles to the kerb polished shiny as his mum's silver thud of bass shakes a papery gum sends pigeons off to try their luck with cats Yo of hello in voices smokier than the exhaust purr Then burning rubber scars the road leaves a cloud in the shop doorway and a sparrow pecks at a piece of tobacco milk crate its perch Sarah Attfield

3.

Girls' Night Out 1. Pernod, vermouth, blackcurrant puts us in the right shade of a purple haze to get narked with some tosser who says we must be lezzos cos we don't want to suck his nob Denise squeezes my hand but we don't leave till Tony with the dotted line along his throat picks up his cue go on try it mate just try it So we chuck ourselves into the world of chips and curry sauce vomit on the bus crying to get the key in the lock and it was one of the best a great night out 2.

Dinner is a packet of crisps but food is the urine glow of Stella Artois

we lob beer mats buy peanuts from a cardboard display of a topless bird jus one more

packet and we’ll av er left tit feed from stories of that prat and stupid cow until the bell

rings and we sniff our way to the hotdog stand for an onion roll with more grease than

Prince Philip’s hair

and we’re full

Sarah Attfield

4.

Redevelopment

It came down piece by piece no explosions detonations just a quiet rain of concrete powder We watched ourselves be moved into new homes built over the great social experiment Watched ourselves learn how to step out onto a street from a real front door dig a garden look over a fence Lost the stench of darkened stairwells smouldering rubbish fried spam and boiled cabbage Looked at cobbled paving brass pub signs shops without iron grill windows Breathed for a moment – then saw it was still there shadows of the towers like ghost limbs and the same screams hoarsed through the night twos and blues flashing into dreams blood outside the take-away kids with no coats loan sharks at the door Breathed and realised the fumes from the rubber factory were still curling our way Sarah Attfield

5.

Not The Way Of The World She runs Fast in her own direction Not The Way Of The World

It's own pulse Beating itself in a Rat Race of Competition to win. What?

She runs Out of pace, Out of breath, Out of view We thought we saw her. Did you see her too? She runs past the point of inhalation Around the corner of exhalation where She can be seen - in a moment of stillness between two truths. She runs To wind up a world of her own Turn back the clock Make a new zone An orbit prone to understanding the grace of natural rhythm. She runs away From tunnels and towers Unethical powers The roots of greed The concrete seeds

She runs towards keeping at one with the Spirit of Innocence Pure.

She runs

Not The Way Of The World. Contrary to the lure.

We thought we saw her (We thought we saw two?) Is she running inside of you? Melissa Bruce

6.

what’s the damage

someone should write a history of shoulders how much they contribute to the economy i was thinking this last night at westfields bondi junction the way the meat looked so human on display those shoulders of lamb on special not that i wanted to buy any i don’t like ovens here’s a chapter – ‘the shoulder in australian sport’ with subheadings that’ll attract any patriot worth their steroids; how much we loved our coppertoned shoulders in the pre-melanoma days; up the steps in gymworld you build the shoulder and you build a country, time to go on a cruise and show the ocean what your mateship is made of: in the photo your eight pairs of shoulders looked like a rescue boat joanne burns

7.

rum

i clipped on my custom made horse and trotted up the south head road like a casual centaur in search of a moment, the lighthouse looked too much like a brochure there on the cliff with its white picket fence, and then the old house, front to the ocean, back to the harbour, its rumsmuggler history flaring the nostrils, a ninety year old woman in the sandstone basement, damp and ancestral, with her cockatoo general on too long a chain, watch out for your toes; i clip-clop up to the rooms of her nephew who believed in good fortune in a walnut shell, i went to his ‘first night of television in australia’ party he wrote a book on the subject, brian henderson glowed and the harbour outside dark as a zoo; you could hear the corps marching towards the shipwreck, my equine attachment scratching the floorboards in time for a swim joanne burns

8.

The Perfection of Sundays

You stride through Hyde Park, a shooting star digressing from the peaceful demonstration. Inline skaters soul-grind on the lip of Victorian fountains, without faltering. The waratahs are practising diplomacy. I watch from the crossing, regard my reflection in department store windows, and blink as if to verify the words we’ve spoken, those not. This sunday of Autumn’s first warmth my stunned heart slowly pulses to the spontaneous jolt of a new rhythm. By evening I water the bromeliads in another garden, a different life. The sprinkler leaks, soaking the lawn, my shoes are wet and heavy. And although the house is a history, there’s nothing fierce or deliberate left. Meaning that you slip through the words invisibly to my heart’s tissue. Meaning that you leave me estranged from the burden of duty. Let’s stray down to the harbour like cats with cocktails. Ingenuous fictions are spun in city drizzle, its grey romance. Michelle Cahill

9.

avoiding the mirror slept through two alarms … ignored the mirror and mislaid one of the grandchildren … cat food to the cat lady? … searching for child cat ID ticket passport manuscript … cab door slams … searching the pockets of coat handbag suitcase … thesis picked up from bindery? … put the prawn shells in the bin?... flight unavoidably delayed … queue and heave what do you have on here … high heels and dancing and none of your business … in the corridors of the airport hospital … doors swinging open closing … declaration of authenticity of authorship permission not to lodge in library … ethics code statement supervisor’s report permission to submit … departure delayed at least twelve hours … grandchild returned to his mother … drizzling thin streams of red wine out of goat skins with stranded randy travellers … caught mamboing samboing fandangoing around departure lounge … singing the cockroach song off-key in six jangling languages at three a.m. … the crumpled size fourteen black silk tango skirt beneath the table is not my black silk tango skirt … the white-uniformed ready a room … how much more time before … punishment for lateness … is death … let the cat out turned the iron and stove off … five minutes is not enough … to drop off the library books pick up the dry cleaning … not ready enough not good enough its not … room has toilet area bed area deadlines gurneys rumbling past the duty free … staying is easier if you avoid the mirror … an operation for inadequacy … not signing consent … prawn shells still in the freezer … don’t want to be cut and stitched, nipped and tucked, cut and pasted … anaesthetic renders writer irresponsible … nobody’s going to edit me … don’t know the surgeon red … scalpelling my words … examiner insinuating her fingers into … taking distance glasses along Julie Chevalier Broken Hill

The Living Desert

Up above the hills in the living desert there they stand sculpted rocks - a solemn marriage of art and nature: a mother and child a pigeon and a horse a jaguar, keeper of the sun shaped and shapeless silent objects, ignorant of the part they play in a scenery created between human and gods. Like ancient monoliths they stand, guarding the wild and vibrant garden which flowers under the ever changing sky coloured by the red earth. Beatriz Copello

11.

LIZARDS ONLY EAT YELLOW FLOWERS

I am a garden the soil the sun that penetrates your eyes I collect yellow leaves dry leaves like my

soul grains of salt on a wound on a thirsty mouth your mouth a river your mind a coast a desert an

island a bird that takes off at the first noise it hears I am the shadow that travels behind your body

dry leaves leaves in piles on a winter garden emerald green the jungle of my thoughts I am a tree

I am a gardener a gardener a gardener

who with love

tends to her plants plants plants

soft beds await

the seeds I sew

my iceberg roses iceberg roses iceberg roses

don’t have thorns

neither nasty slimy

slugs or snails

destroying my pansies pansies pansies

yet I let the lizards

eat my yellow flowers yellow flowers yellow flowers

In my garden

jealousy doesn’t grow

neither envy or hate

only gardenias gardenias gardenias

to perfume your room

let’s play hide and seek

I’ll be behind those trees trees trees Beatriz Copello

12.

As I paw

In the dark

For the doorknob

I remember

The blind man.

Simon Fraser

13.

Five I Killed a Fat Man

‘Five,’ I called, ‘I killed a fat man. He was hiding behind the well.’

When I was five I killed a fat man, I rode into the road on my tricycle and he swerved into a pylon.

When I was five I killed a fat man made of meringue. I burned him with a magnifying glass he bubbled black and sticky until he glazed the bricks by the pool in glossy gold and black.

The five I killed: a fat man, a grocer, a parking attendant, a pedestrian, and a Labrador I sideswiped turning into my street.

The first five I killed, a fat man told me I should look in the Trading Post for replacements, failing that he suggested that I call UTS.

After five I killed a fat, man it felt good after so much time dry.

Four times five, I killed a fat man, love that micro brewery beer, I added it all up and was about to write it on the quote. I cut another ten percent off and stuck it in an envelope.

Simon Fraser

14.

Raining in Honey Road Not so much rain as a week-long soft cloud pulled down through jacaranda fronds dripping from leaves settling on thistle tops and mounds. The ground lies quiet, as if by staying still, rain will soak through past the earthworms, past the parched roots. Frogs jump over long grass orchids spike new shoots cosmos throw their colour around sung into dayglo by crickets. Waterlilies stand tall shading pregnant fish orris all come hither white stars, purple eyes, red cannas won’t be wall flowers gum trees strip, strut their shimmer and shake. Fuschias bud again two-toned frufrus and pointed toes, tree ferns unfurl two more curls, spreading their fingers in delight. Linda Godfrey

15.

Doing her face

bathroom bright mirror light long blonde fringe pushed away

purple mark emphatic on high forehead

leans her elbow on cabinet edge as if outlining lips in pink

from paper-wrap removes a blade contemplates gaze

slashes along the old scar

C Ann Hobson

16.

TRACKS There’s an eagle on your chest, but I can’t read the message beyond the snarl of your fuck-off eyes as you nod into the window on a train with your trakkies on, skew-whiff, blue and baggy like a cheap commercial for the sky. Your hair is straight and brown and it reminds me of a boy who’s been out playing for too long. Your beauty is formerly attractive. And that’s the depressing part of something else. Maybe the silver grind of the wheels betrays the twilight in your blood? It’s a kind of ghost story under flouros and you half scare me into hating you when I’m not just beating my heart with an invisible stone called ‘the end’. Aboriginal girl, there not here, scratching out a smacky dream, slow and sure on the city circle where you will ride and ride and ride. I’ll leave you in that window, subterranean, in false light scratching at your neck through the closed eyes of a dream tunneling your night. Bird on your own flight. Mark Mordue

17.

London Snow

The first flakes of white, could be paper, drift across your vision, carried by the wind. You wait forty-five minutes, typical, flipping the hood off your gloves to turn the page. Someone walking back and forth, chattering into their phone; realising how cold you are, standing up yourself.

A podgy snowman tells you the District Line is cancelled, people are annoyed. You walk out the front of Wimbledon Tube and see the funny white rectangles on the roofs of all the taxis and on the slanted roof of the bus shelter. You start whistling the old carols, those ones which only used to appear in your head.

You sit in the front seat on the top floor of the double-decker, watching over a landscape where the top of everything gets attention: those brown, wooden, cylindrical stumps that stick up a couple of feet at regular intervals from the frosted blanket of the Common, how there’s these perfect white circles on top of them all. You think that you’d never before noticed that those stumps had tops. You wonder how many other things you’ve missed, just because it rarely snows.

On the way back to the flat you change your walk to avoid slipping: crunching, padding; becoming attentive to the muscles in your legs, how one’s not as strong. How the tips of the blades of grass look like bristles rising out of skin; you wonder if anyone else is thinking that.

You don’t like getting home to the flat, despite the warmth, to those people who don’t say anything, not really, who’ve been out throwing the snow at each other, and they’re In Love now; and they look at you funny: you weren’t there to do what you do, what they did in the London snow. Mark Riboldi

18.

Passing on

Father

Goodbye I say You and Ma stood side by side in front of the house

You are dying

Your skin pale green, shiny with sweat, You lean hard on your stick, exhausted. But you manage one of your crooked smiles.

I kiss your clammy cheek. You squeeze my shoulder with a still firm hand. You say Thanks for coming Be good. Take care.

Son

We sit sat by side in the bus to the airport. You try to put your arm around my shoulder. It barely reaches.

You are eight years old. You say Don't cry. He really does love you. He just doesn't know how to show it.

Me neither. But you did.

~~~~~~~

You were away a long time. You came home for Christmas. There was a party. After a few drinks, I look around the room full of people. There is a man with his back to me. I don't know him, But he looks sort of familiar, like one of my long dead uncles. Not tall, but trim, broad shoulders fill out his shirt nicely. His dark hair is thinning a bit at the back. He throws back his head, mouth open wide. A deep rich laugh comes out.

This man, it's you. It's like a shove in the chest.

I'm so glad you are here.

Juliet Richter

19.

Night train Border check, midnight. Saisoniers mark time stamp a cold ennui down corridors: dark caps, blank faces chiaroscuro with a flick of a match. At Delft, a hoar frost freezes land to sky: Breugel figures on a stiffened field, ink spots on a winding page of snow. Roof lines, fences crisscross black on white Abstraction: Mondrian in the window of the train.

Brenda Saunders

saisoniers = foreign workers

20.

Little Sound The woman stands, strong, sweaty, determined above her happy nine year-old who drives while she balances, heaves feed to the wind not knowing he’ll be the one who survives the terrible lurching, great wheel spinning as she gasps, plunges back, face to the sun. He kills the motor, choked, tears beginning wishes himself hardened, years beyond fun when he sees her still, pinned by the rollbar. I’m sorry, a voice in his mind repeats. Breath bursts in his chest, his dad can’t be far over their hills yellowed by drought and heat. A man turns from welding, his heart hovers. The boy sobs his news, his world tipped over. Ian C. Smith

21.

The soul & its counterparts for Robert Adamson The tide-line is stained with flecks of effluent. We sit here at this filthy edge among the essence of eucalypt leaves, their scent mingled with seaweed and the stench of a passage through. Here is between the crowded coastline bush, its subjugated colours; the sea: mirror, beyond depth, beyond. The wind trawls in on an overcast sky. Waves cast indiscriminate white into this equation of shades we live & churn up ochre-rich soil beneath the sand. The sun is muted, an old war-wound overhead. A salt-grained mist approaches from the South. I must step back to shelter. James Stuart

22.

Sunday afternoon, Glebe They have that puffy not-long-out-of-bed-hair look and four save-the-planet-for-a-dollar shopping bags his two boxy green, hers hot pink and yellow. At the bus stop he straddles her they lock lips while across the road a woman in dark glasses sips her long black pretends to examine the cake fork on her used plate. In the café’s thin bricked outhouse she has just now imagined the touch of a spider’s leg from beneath flaked paint old dust and bare bulb unable to lock the door the kitchen hand smoking on the step below. In the phone box opposite a bloke thumps the glass, black skin stands out in this town. Down near the shop that sells only chairs a red faced man is walking two gold-in-the-sun greyhounds their tails a pair of elegant curls the clear plastic muzzles glint.. Bloated and wheezing he stops to rest as the bus wipes the street of people. Kate Waterhouse

23.

He Slinks Around He is a slight man Suited for slight loves, slight successes He slinks around. His every word’s a murmur; Think of his voice as smoke which wisps before it coalesces, Never daring to fully form. Wenee Yap

Wild Violets

Wild violets, yellow centers

Peeked from underbrush of green burnt grey

Fringing the rust-red railway

Four hundred metres from Lidcombe

Wenee Yap

24.

Sunday Involves a recently renovated church candles and crosses inhaling thick smoke - a stale smell drowning pine and earth strong spirits on old men’s breath as they whisper in my ear.

It means

being encircled by old theas ushering me inside to light candles and to find a seat squeezed between them and their bloated breasts while listening to the whine of the Papa and the shuffle of new shoes. After, sweet doughy balls are served in paper bags. Everyone eats with their fingers and smokes heavy cigarettes while I stand detached in a tight corner of the yard watching the coloured glass blinking back the sun’s ray Malinda Zerefos

25.

Prize winning detective poem

The Assassin The phone jangles a tobacco and plonk voice… News I don’t want I scatter traffic Chicken and champagne picnic random victims fall I’m too late I sprint towards blue smoke hanging in the air he raises his rifle I raise my pistol. dav and bev dkibbke@hunterlink.net.au We have been unable to contact dav and bev to notify them of their prize. Please contact Cathy Cole at UTS. - the editors

Additional poems entered in the detective poem competition

Arrow pins English prof. to tree: Prize student says "It wasn't me!" Prof's relatives express surprise, Her colleagues proffer alibis. A smart detective runs through roster, Unmasks the student as impostor. "How did I know he was the guy? He should have said 'It wasn't I'!" Jon Jermey

26.

Bludgeoned with his own Laptop Dead! The reporter from the Village Chronicle. Motive? A recent story? " Vicar with a Taste for Ripe Choristers" ? " Wildflowers Stripped from Reserve by Local Florist" ? " Love-Child for Countess they call Lady Muck" ? " Beth - Blackmailing Hostess of the Swan & Duck" ? ( who all agree is sassy and a damn good squeeze) John Carey

Socks Where do all the odd socks go? This puzzle is a washday woe. Each washing day I start off well, See the washer turn pell-mell. When I take my socks to dry One has always said goodbye I search the washer, inside out Dumb machine is just a lout. Jill Baggett

27.

The Transcriber

A holding-cell, Windowless. Microphones record Two suspects, Whispering. Elsewhere, Clarke Transcribes. From the cell, A blast. Carragher Investigates. Suspects: Deceased. Gunshot wound And cyanide. Carragher questions Clarke. Clarke types:

Can’t hear/speak Gunshot Burst eardrum Murder-suicide Carragher scans The transcript’s Final couplet: [BANG] Suspect2: It ends here.

Carragher smiles: “Arrest Clarke”. Luke Harding

28.

Biographies Sarah Attfield’s first collection of poetry, Hope in Hell was published by Five Islands Press. She has a particular interest in representing working class life in her poetry and is currently undertaking a PhD in contemporary Australian working class poetry at UTS. Jill Baggett lives in Mudgee NSW. She has had over 80 short stories, articles and poems published in Australia, England, USA, Canada and China. At the moment she is mainly concentrating on playwriting. All five plays she has written so far have been produced. Melissa Bruce is both studying and teaching writing at UTS. She was an editor for the 2006 UTS Writers’ Anthology and her work, in various genres, has been published – most recently in the Cardigan Press 2006 Anthology, “Allnighter”, to be launched at the Melbourne Writers’ Festival. joanne burns is a Sydney poet. Her latest poetry collection ‘footnotes of a hammock’, Five Islands Press 2004, was the joint winner of the 2005 ACT Arts Judith Wright Award for a published collection by an Australian poet. Her new poetry manuscript ‘an illustrated history of dairies’ is to be published by Giramondo Press. She taught Creative Writing at UTS in the early 1980s. Michelle Cahill is a Sydney poet whose first book The Accidental Cage is winner of IP’s Best First Book 2006. She has an Arts Major in Creative Writing from Macquarie University. John Carey is an ex-teacher, ex-actor, sometime performance poet and page poet, published in Blue Dog, Meanjin, the Canberra Times. Julie Chevalier is a published poet and short story writer. Her work has appeared in Southerly and Blue Dog. Dr Beatriz Copello, a published poet and fiction writer, is an ex-student of UTS. Simon Fraser is currently completing a MA in writing at UTS. Linda Godfrey has published poetry and short stories. Once upon a time C. Ann Hobson was brave and adventurous – travelling, living in the desert, falling in love. She was a truck driver, radio presenter and acapella singer. Somehow she settled and now writes poetry, dabbles in painting and listens to jazz.

Jon Jermey is an indexer and computer trainer. With Glenda Browne he is the co-author of The Indexing Companion, due from Cambridge University Press in 2007. Mark Mordue is the author of Dastgah: Diary of a Headtrip (Allen & Unwin, 2001). He is an internationally published writer, journalist and editor. Mark teaches Narrative Writing and Non-Fiction at UTS and is working on his M.A. and a novel. He is also guest editor for the October issue of the literary journal Meanjin themed to 'rock 'n' roll'.

29.

Mark Riboldi was born and bred in Sydney, and is currently living there too. He has worked a lot of jobs in a lot of places, met more people than he’s forgotten and owns far too many books that he’s yet to read. He looks forward to retiring. Juliet Richter is nearing completion of her MA Professional Writing. After years of writing memoir disguised as short fiction, she discovered that poetry lets the un-writable to be written. Brenda Saunders 2005 Poetry Crimes, The Red Room Company, NSW Writers Festival

Reading and CD, 1st Prize poetry, FAW Manly/Peninsula Literary Competition 2006 blue giraffe magazine no.32, blue giraffe press, Hobart Ian C Smith’s work has appeared recently in Blue Giraffe, The Dalhousie Review, Descant, five bells, &, Meanjin. His next book is Memory Like Hunger, Ginninderra, 2006. James Stuart is a poet, editor and new media artist. He is completing a Masters of Creative Arts concerned with the material expression of poetry. www.c-side.com.au Kate Waterhouse is a New Zealand born poet living in Sydney with her partner and two young daughters. Her work has appeared in journals in Australia, New Zealand and the UK. Her book, Keep Breathing, was published by Five Islands Press in 2006.

Wenee Yap was ten when she first declared her literary aspirations to her anesthetist just before passing out. Now twenty and a fully revived UTS Writing/Law student, she has published and won recognition for her work as a Newcastle Poetry Prizewinner (joint 2nd)

Malinda Zerefos is currently completing her honours thesis in communications at UTS. She has always had a crush on poetry.

30.

Announcements Congratulations to Niobe Syme who has been named as a finalist for the Florida Review’s Editor Award for a selection of her poems. Niobe graduated with a MA Writing by research in 2004. Her thesis was largely a collection of short stories, one of which, ‘A Sort of Nostalgia’, was published in Antipodes in 2004. Another, ‘The Sowings of the Seed’, was Commended in the Society of Women Writers Inc. (Tasmania) Short Story Competition 2005.

LIVE POETRY READINGS AT SAPPHO BOOKS

Second Wednesday of every month: reading from a Guest Poet and open

mic competition. Free entry. Sappho Books & Espresso Bar, 51 Glebe

Point Road Glebe, Ph 9552 4498 from 7pm- 9pm.

Now in its sixth big month! The newly refurbished and revitalised Sappho Books & Espresso Bar is again filling a vital niche in the Sydney poetry scene with monthly readings from acclaimed Australian poets.

Recent Guest Poets include Award-winning writer and Meanjin Poetry Editor, Judith Beveridge; peace negotiator and author, Stuart Rees; travel writer and award-winning journalist, Mark Mordue and acclaimed poet and teacher, Joanne Burns. There is an Open Mic competition after each reading, giving established and beginner poets a chance to practise their skills in front of a supportive, poetry-loving audience. And it's all free. So note this date for your diary: second Wednesday of every month, 7pm-9pm.

31.

Poetry Australia Foundation The Poetry Australia Foundation (PAF) was established by Ron Pretty, AM in 2002 to promote the reading, writing, reviewing and appreciation of poetry in all its forms. PAF supports the work of Five Islands Press in publishing books of poetry by established poets. In The New Poets Program Five Islands Press annually publishes six poets whose work has been published in magazines and newspapers but who have not published a book of poetry. For nine years PAF and Five Islands Press have run the residential Wollongong Poetry Workshop at Campus East of the University of Wollongong. The 2007 workshop will be held between 11 – 18 January. The convenor of the workshop and director of Five Islands Press is Ron Pretty. An intensive program of lectures, seminars, readings and workshops will be conducted by six prize-winning poets who are also experienced teachers. This year workshop leaders will be Brook Emery, Grant Caldwell, Susan Hampton, Jennifer Harrison, Michael Sharkey and Lauren Williams. A maximum of fifty poets will be accepted to participate. PAF distributes four newsletters and two issues of Blue Dog: Australian Poetry Journal annually, runs on on-line poetry workshop and has an assessment service. For further information about their programs and services consult the website, www.poetryaustraliafoundation.org.au Membership. To join Poetry Australia Foundation send $40 by cheque or Australian money order made out to Poetry Australia Foundation Inc, or your Visa card, Mastercard or Bank card number and expiry date. Send your name, address, phone, email address, signature and the date, to:

Ron Pretty School of Creative Arts University of Melbourne Parkville Victoria 3010 phone (03) 8344 8713 email rpretty@unimelb.edu.au

Membership includes two copies a year of Blue Dog: Australian Poetry, newsletters, discounts and opportunities.

32.

The Poets Union The Poets Union exists to support poets and promote knowledge and appreciation of poetry throughout Australia. It tries to foster excellence and encourage community involvement at all levels. It has no political or aesthetic agenda and works to encourage conversation and cooperation between all ‘poetries’. Some of the ways in which it does this can be gleaned from the projects and publications described below.

Young Poets Fellowships These annual fellowships provide two poets under the age of thirty from anywhere in Australia with a six-month mentorship with an experienced poet, a place at the Wollongong Poetry Workshop, an opportunity of perform publicly at a Poets Union event, and the publication of a chapbook. Past mentors have included Jordie Albiston, Kevin Brophy, Kevin Hart, Peter Minter, Lyn Reeves and Judith Beveridge. Applications close at the beginning of November; and forms are available on the website or via email or phone.

Five Bells This national quarterly literary journal is the heart of the union. It has regular sections devoted to members poetry (chosen competively by guest editors), announcements of members books, reviews, articles on how poets work, and reports on youth and regional matters. Each edition includes substantial essays on aspects of poetry and poetics. It is sent free to members and sold in poetry friendly bookshops.

TwoandaHalf Bells This quarterly ‘what’s on’ guide to anything to do with poetry throughout Australia is published between editions of Five Bells.

Email Notices Regular announcements of upcoming poetry events are sent to those who have registered their email addresses.

Website The Website contains information about poetry and poetics, essays, notices and links.

The Australian Poetry Festival The Union curates a biennial Australian Poetry Festival, usually held over a weekend in September to coincide with National Poetry Week. The Festival’s centre stage is in Sydney but it also sponsors events in regional centres and capital cities throughout Australia.

33.

The Broadway Poetry Prize Sponsored by the Broadway Shopping Centre this rich national poetry prize is held biennially in conjunction with the Australian Poetry Festival.

The Judith Wright Memorial Lecture Held as a highlight of the Australian Poetry Festival, this is a challenging address by a notable poet on the state of Australian Poetry. Past lecturers have been Dorothy Porter, Peter Goldsworthy and Noel Pearson. This year’s lecturer is Faye Zwicky.

Poets on Wheels Every year three poets go on a railway tour to an area of regional NSW.

Workshops The Union conducts workshops for beginning and experienced poets on an ad hoc basis. If you are interested in participating in a workshop please contact the union.

Members Anthology This is a professionally produced biennial anthology which showcases the poetry of Poets Union members. If you are interested in finding out more about any of these activities or in joining the Poets Union please phone the office (02 9818 5366 ) or email the Union (info@poetsunion.com) or visit the website (www.poetsunion.com). A membership form follows.