I read Andy Jackson's mash up poem 'Unhomely' in his anthology, 'Human Looking.' Andy Jackson chose to alternate lines with Randolph Bourne's 1911 essay 'The Handicapped.'  Flowing on from this focused reading I find myself keen to also explore this poetic approach. I have subsequently chosen Jaan Kaplinski's 'The Washing Never Gets Done' to do a little word weaving of my own.  Each Of Us Is In A State Of Becoming Alternating lines with Jaan Kaplinski’s 'The Washing Never Gets Done' Bob Dylan contends we are never complete Existing in a state of forever becoming, Always becoming Something new, something different All around Hanoi people continually tinker, install and rebuild, continually- The washing never gets done Resolution and completion seemingly less important than action -Action matters more The furnace doesn’t get heated, Books never get read, Incomplete buildings appear everywhere, Construction in an obvious state of flux ...

 Our poetry is informed by the here and now and also by memory and mood surrounding  events past. Those memories are often quite vividly recalled due to the impact they have had upon our lives.  My year in Grade 5 all those years ago was no doubt, memorable. Memorable for all the wrong reasons though. Still, it continues to provoke the poetry within. I am grateful for the therapy it delivers. I keep saying it, but its true- poetry is about the mud and the flowers. Be brave and consider all your rich and informative memories -the perfect and the problematic. Beware Of Wrong Answers In those long passed days, back in Grade 5  A lot of our time was spent With our hands on our heads All because our teacher, Ms Dungeon  Didn’t like fidgeting. She taught us to be afraid of wrong answers And to count in our heads -never our fingers She taught us how to write a letter But never let us send it -something I find strange even now. She introduced us to subject and predicate...

 A chance conversation about eating healthy foods delivered me back to the bountiful garden my father created all those years ago, ensuring we ate well. Fruit and vegetables were plentiful and varied in our humble household. It was economically and gastronomically a sound investment. Garden to plate was seamless. Sometimes the fresh produce never made it to the plate. My favourite fruit trees in the mini orchard were the nectarines.   That's where this juicy little poem finds its essential spark in a memory regained. A conversation delivered a moment in time, now captured in words. Nectarines are not in season at present, but they are front of mind for me at least. Anything can be the focus of a poem-even nectarines. Poet's respond. A Morning Bounty Of Ripe Nectarines   I heard the footsteps on the back veranda Then I heard the fly screen door swing shut Wrapped in the turned up hem of his old jumper My father nursed a bounty of freshly picked nectarines Plucked from...

 The neighbourhoods in which we live, are full of diverse characters. People with stories to tell. Unique individuals, quirky and idiosynchratic. They fascinate us. They puzzle us. They arouse our curiosity. They challenge the norms. We celebrate their difference. This poem about Keith is a composite of several individuals. It is based on people that lived in the town I grew up in and people I live amongst now. It's a character sketch, using a rich trove of information. I weaved those observations together in the creation of Keith.  An Incomplete Portrait Of Keith   Keith is a handyman Fixes all manners of things -even poker machines Learned his trade up north Speaks with a slow Queenslander drawl And often says, I reckon At the end of his sentences.   Sometimes smokes rollies Wears an old felt hat all year round Lives in a small, lightly furnished flat With boxes of old records and a cupboard full of cowboy shirts And plumber’s singlets. ...

 I recently purchased a copy of Robert Wood Lynn's anthology, 'Mothman Apologia.'  The poems within are narrative poems of love and grief, built from a storytelling tradition. Taken together they encompass the poet's experience of growing up. As well as appreciating the narrative thread,  I found myself noticing the various structures used in the presentation of these poems. The layout of these narrative poems made me keen to try out both structure and form. Robert Wood Lynn provided the reader with a range of  layouts. The turning of each page invited a consciously different layout for his words and I appreciated the visual variety this afforded me as a reader.  I based my narrative poem on a personal experience during my childhood. The layout owes a debt to Robert Wood Lynn A Summer Blaze       During my fourteenth summer a January bushfire tried to erase our small town. It poked its flaming head above the ridge line, consumed a pine plant...

I've been reading a lot of articles this week concerning education and the increasing complexity surrounding the role of teachers.  This teacher -feature co-incided with the 85th Aniversary of my old High School. All these occurrences prompted me to think about the teachers I encountered along the course of my particular learning life.  Teacher Feature My teachers, -the best ones Shone the light of learning Upon our young minds They unfolded wonder And shared the power of understanding They taught me that a platypus Is also called an ornithorhynchus  They taught that the Amazon River Is the lungs of the world They taught me how to dissect frogs And the role of subject and predicate They taught me to play the recorder And how to use long division They taught me about the water cycle And how to spell hippopotamus They taught me the power of verbs And where the hypotenuse was located They taught me how to hurdle correctly And to appreciate Australia’s tyranny of distance The...

 I am sharing another piece of verse emerging from my recent travel adventure in Vietnam. We were fortunate enough to spend a week in Hoi An, a UNESCO heritage city. It was our third visit to Hoi An. It is a city with an intoxicating charm.  This special place also has much to motivate the writer within me. The daily produce market adjacent to the historic quarter of the city is a bustling space, rich with poetic potential. The market visitor needs to perfect the essential art of looking without betraying their potential retail intentions. Not an easy thing to do among such practiced observers. On several mornings, I strolled through the market, prior to breakfast. My early morning walks provided valuable research for the words that emerged... Hoi An Market 7.00 AM In the steaminess Surrounding Hoi An’s market The palpable energy of local traders Competing for buyers attention Courses daily through this busy corner Of the ancient city Pungent aromas swirl about Amid a ram...

  Who can tell when inspiration might strike and what may prove to be the catalyst. We just have to be ready and willing to respond when it comes calling.  A recent chance sighting of a goat was all it took to bring a memory flooding back from a much earlier time in my life.  A memory not to be denied. And so I began to nourish words and memories  in my mind, and a quite unexpected poem emerged.  The One And Only Lionel When my father astounded the whole family And purchased a goat It signalled the end of his lawn mowing desires. For several years  I had dutifully fulfilled the role of lawn mower man for the family plot. -But now,  I was moving away to study teaching and my father made a sudden decision  to replace me with Lionel, -as my father referred to the goat Lionel came with certain obvious advantages -he cost little to feed -worked longer hours And generated less noise. Lionel had to be tethered, of course To save my mother’s hydrangea and...

 Across  the course of our lives we can expect many significant moments. Some directly impact our lives, while others happen on the world stage and impact indirectly. Sometimes, we recall exactly where we were and what we were doing at a precise moment in time. Our recall often remains crystal clear on these events and not others.  It is amazing the memories we retain.  We often hear the question -where were you when...?  This poem is a narrative poem in a docu-poetry style.  It forms part of a collection of anthology of poems I am writing celebrating events that occurred during my fortunate teenage years growing up in the semi rural town of Monbulk situated in the Dandenong Ranges approximately 60 kilometres from the city of Melbourne. This poem contains  a sense of history and nostalgia. Reference has also been to certain items which with the passing of year have become obsolete.  You will note  a few Australian references have been include...

Let me introduce Lily. Lily is a student at Sunshine Heights Primary School. She is a young writer with a passion for poetry. I will step back now and allow Lily to tell her story... I'm a young poet, as many of you know. I do like to write poems as you will be able to tell... and here is a display board telling you about my life as a poet. When Did I Startt To Write Poems? I was a young girl and I was in Grade 2. I was about eight years old at that time. What inspired me was the author, Alan Wright and the poems from his book, ' Searching For Hen's Teeth. ' So then after Grade 2 when I was in Grade 3, I decided for the rest of my life, I would write poems and I would have to write many poems as the years past by. In Grade 5, which I'm currently in...it was after lunch time and Alan Wright came in, and that was the time the spotlight hit me and he made me feel like I could be more creative in my writing. Why Do I Like Poetry? I like writing poetry...

Today I want to introduce another English poet, Kit Wright, (born 17 June 1944 in Crockham Hill, Kent). Wright, no relation, is the author of more than twenty-five books, for both adults and children, and the winner of awards including an Arts Council Writers' Award, the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize, the Hawthornden Prize, the Alice Hunt Bartlett Prize and (jointly) the Heinemann Award. After a scholarship to Oxford University, he worked as a lecturer in Canada, then returned to England and a position in the Poetry Society.  His books of poetry include 'The Bear Looked Over the Mountain' (1977), which won the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize and the Alice Hunt Bartlett Award, and 'Short Afternoons' (1989), which won the Hawthornden Prize and was joint winner of the Heinemann Award. His poetry is collected in 'Hoping It Might Be So: Poems 1974-2000' (2000). His latest book of poetry is 'The Magic Box: Poems for Children' (2009). He currently li...