Free entry and international submissions welcome…more here.
Originally posted on NZ Poetry Shelf:
Call out: What the Bird Said
Originally posted on tulia thompson:
[Writers like Mila and Marsh] set the scene for several NZ poets who wouldn’t be in print at all were it not for Pacific publishers, leaving old fashioned scribes behind.
Hang on, who we are leaving behind?
The article has already been challenged through a response piece on Facebook by poet Grace Taylor, and poetry heavyweights Tusiata Avia and Hinemoana Baker have left stunning responses in the comment section (you can read them by scrolling down from Botur’s article).
What I want to explore here is how Botur draws unwittingly on a…
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Some of the excellent submissions to the erasure poetry contest we ran last year are now here for you to enjoy.
A big thanks to all the poets!
And here’s one from Ricki Hunsinger to tempt you:
We are very pleased to announce that ‘Orison’ by Alison Glenny has won the erasure
We were truly impressed by the way the poem transformed the original text, and touched by the depth of feeling it drew from the limited words available.
Here is the domain
it is otherwise –
the sycophant compels him
to proclaim aloud
the correlative –
not a thing but
instrumentality of things.
so intimately wedded
to substance even
the opposite –
Thus it is
with the map of
a passion prevents
a simple contrivance
to float in the imagination
from dream to reality
in his own hands.
We have seen
all men are free
so very dear
at any price
soil does not exist
nor soap and candles
shoes and clothes.
The beauty in this
falls to pieces
What becomes of sentiment?
It avails him nothing
the end of the world has come
the absence of all
tout sera pour le mieux
can wash them away
the promised land
the shameless land
lavishing the stream
The only thing that interests us
proclaimed on the housetops –
the fundamental condition
the annihilation of words.
All welcome this Monday 9th December for a sociopoetic poetry reading.
Readers will include Logan Dobson, Grant Duncan, Zita Rose Featherstone, Emma Harford, David Mayeda, Janet McAllister, Tracey McIntosh, Kellie McNeill, and Tulia Thompson.
We also hope to include time for an open mic, so bring your poems!
1. Sociology has broken
my heart many times. I’m channeling Dolly Parton to say this. That’s a distraction.
Conjuring fiddles, blonde electric curls woven out of synthetic thread, and the other jaded objects that bring country music to mind (fake boobs maybe, or the religious right, Alabama, or Desert Road)
You might say Dolly is a grossly rendered icon of the cult of the visual, or the aesthetic commodification of women. Shit, I’d forgive you.
The emphasis for me is the narrative of how she went from trash poor and made it…more.
So How you gonna change the world?
From where I stand, I fear I can’t,
These Saharan sandstorms have ripped apart these hardened hand’s palms viciously
Flipping me with mini mysteries that slip into this limitless subjectivity…more.
The emperor has no clothes
The problem is how to call his attention to the sunburn
Tygers, burning bright!
An iron age of prisons
And men, our tigers.
“Halfway between nothing and no-one”
How does it feel?
To live in interesting times of clouded appeal, reaching out among the mountainous cliffs where our pointlessly pouting fountain spouts are now chilled…more.
Excited about all the erasure entries rolling in!
And remember, there’s still time – they’re due tomorrow…
There’s no applause in this theatre where the feared are gutless vendetta accredited cut-throats attached to government gun-scopes running this humdrum jungle with one pose, dressed in steel-capped black leather foot-tredder shoes, fluorescent vests and re-pressed blue suits
Then it’s “woop woop that’s the sound of da police” arrestin mobs when faced wit people’s faces that aim at takin back what’s theirs through emancipation…more.
Surprises long overdue
Disappointment where one least expects it
The revealing aspects of finding one is never too old to
be horrified by other’s worldviews
The soothing breeze of secret support
An untainted friendship that obliviously grew in the
shadows and on most unusual ground
(You give me hope, D.)
Dreaming of home
Hiding in the world’s furthermost place
You will not find me, no one will find me
is to not
or not to
that is the
I don’t want
be able to
to do things
this is disabling
me I feel
You are a fat people
Aye, even the skinny ones.
Gorged on hubris, thick with pomp,
You have fed upon the suffering of others
And you have grown fat…more.
There are vege boxes outside the tents where straggly herbs compete for coffee grounds and air,
They are nested beneath the curving motorway and beside a cricket pitch.
A stack of cards, awry and angry, or lean-to shacks
woven from recycled wool, bright plastic fibres, faded bunting from a nursery rhyme.
and protest banners…more.
He had her
Almost to himself
It had been an accidental pincer
While he was chatting with the American
Who was good at small-talk
They’d seduced her
With talk about academic writing and the PBRF.
What a coup!…more.
Submissions for the erasure poetry competition are due at the end of this month…you still have time to erase something wonderful!
I got my head checked
by Slavoj Žižek
he said: “You’re such a
They call this happy hour
But no one’s laughing.
We all stare into our drinks
With mourning faces
We’re the ones
Who are dead.
I died years ago.
We contemplate cocktail napkins
With grave countenances
And stern eyes…more.
Within the convict’s skull, Lombroso beheld
The biology of criminality.
Fail’d evolution would shake opinion held,
That all men bear full responsibility..read more.
As long as the land was under water, the Malos moved on it, it
was theirs. The moment it has floated above water, it has
become the farmers’. They will plant seeds here, they will
harvest and take home the crop. This right will always stay…more.
When Grey Lynn swam in primary colours
I used to twist my hair into a knot
Play touch with all the giggly kids
No shoes rasta patterns pineapple pie
Aunty cooking up the dalo
now I wear op-shop jeans
jandals on my giant feet
even in the Grey
Least you’re not tralalaing over graveyards
chewing up the headstones
says my grandmother
swinging her own bare brown feet out of the sky
but she’s singing Isa Lei and I
only have a poem.
I could sell you a rosary from the beads on my ovaries.
shiny / secret / circlets shaped like nits
strung on a thread
they might shine in the moonlight.
To die in the womb or to be burnt alive for dowry;
To get raped, or killed in the name of honour, or to be treated as subordinate;
Is this her fate? Or is it man made?
She irrigates her family with love, joy, devotion, and care…more.
Originally posted on Beradadisini:
One of the reasons why I love second-hand books is this: because sometimes–when I get lucky, I’ll find one with hand-written notes inside of it.
I am always fascinated by such random collision of lives; knowing that the book I am holding once belong to someone else; given as an act of love by the people who are/were close to their hearts. Reading those hand-written notes, I can’t help to wonder who these people are, what are their stories, and why those books find their way to greet me in some random bookstores in different parts of the world.
So, I guess the idea has been occupying my mind since then, leaving me questioning:
“What will happen when you leave hand-written notes: a poem, a prose, a flash fiction–anything that is close to your heart, to be found by random strangers?”
Last Saturday, together with my soul-sister, Ollie, we…
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The Robert Frost Foundation calls for poems in the spirit of Robert Frost for its Annual Award. The winner receives $1,000 and the opportunity to read at a Frost Foundation event…more.
(Deadline 1st February 2014)
Jefferson said that tyrants’ blood
Must water the tree of liberty,
—Here comes the water, here comes the flood.
For you, my friend, are our enemy…more.
Diva emerges from stage right
Moves to room’s centre
Shining on chirruping cellphone…more.
He was an ancient Emeritor
And he stopped one of three
“Oi you tweeded up old loon,
Why have you stoppedeth me?”…more.
When you ask me if I bought myself a scallop shell
In St Jean Pied de Port I tell you
No, I took the one left on my plate
From Carey’s Bay a month before I left…read more.
So happy to see a new poem by Aaron Robertson, inspired by Chapter 33! He’s made new words by deleting some letters from words in the text…
Originally posted on Wordwhittling:
For a few different reasons I’ve recently been exploring the possibilities of found poetry, two examples of which are to be found below. Each involved quite different degrees of ‘finding’.
The first, Triolet Linguistique, translates a phrase from Chapter 2 of Histoire de la langue française by Mireille Huchon (6th edn., Le Livre de Poche, 2009). I’ve arranged the clauses slightly differently to make grammatical sense in English, but otherwise just divided it into eight lines to achieve the end rhymes. The end result is surprisingly close to a strict triolet, originally an eight-line form of medieval French poetry that uses repeated lines and two end rhymes.
From the 12th century,
the digraph ou
(that would become the mark for [u]
when the diphthong [ou]
monophthongized in [u]
in the 12th century)
developed to transcribe the diphthong [ou]
derived from the vocalization of [l].
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I share a moment of horror
I earn a home term for a baby’s abuse
I am in custody after a tot was slapped
I drink to death for a pool table…more.
I fail to cope with a baby
I am not blamed for a newborn’s death
I defend a boiling water charge
I drive on drugs and I am sentenced…more.
This weight on my shoulders keeps runnin’ me down
Knockin’ my spirit right into the ground
Yeah, you know what I’m sayin’…read more.
For emerging and established poets, with no style, thematic, or length restrictions…more.
(Deadline 2nd January 2014)
The sociologist cum socialist
St. Albans saw us coming
Our man Geof
Atop a dead horse
And we flogged
Naked she stands
Before the mirror
The Other woman glares back
The roll of flesh around her waist…more.
Run up some curves, he said
Run up some curtains, you said
A bourgeois prick…read more.
Hey James where ya been?
Ya moved from K-rd and I havent seen ya James
We asked your sad, lank mate up at the Albert Park Bandstand
Texted your cell but its long lost in that tree they cut down last summer…more.
First prize includes $1000 and the publication of a poetry collection…more.
(Deadline 31st December)
Originally posted on NZ Poetry Shelf:
Anne Kennedy has many strings to her writing bow. She writes fiction, poetry and screenplays, and has gathered wide readership with her ability to draw upon a keen intellect, empathy, humour and a musical ear. This year she won the Poetry Category of The New Zealand Post Book Awards, with her collection The Darling North (Auckland University Press, 2012); a decision that delighted her poetry fans (Sarah Jane Barnett, who was also shortlisted, sung the praises of Anne’s poetry in a Listener interview). Anne’s debut collection, Sing-song (AUP, 2003) won The Montana New Zealand Book Awards and her follow-up, The Time of the Giants (AUP, 2005), was short-listed. Very few New Zealand poets have received such sustained honours (perhaps Cilla McQueen?). This year also saw the release of her critically acclaimed novel, The Last Days of the National Costume. Anne has spent a number of years teaching fiction and screenwriting…
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We should probably do something.
You see, we have this dream, it has been centralised
But I’ve never been one to blindly abide or step aside,
When I’m repeatedly told that’s just the way it is from now until the end of time…more.
Come along for a free evening of live poetry readings, featuring a diverse line-up drawn from those writers published here on sociopoetic, along with other special guests, on Monday 9th December 2013, 5:30-7pm. See the details.
At the conference by James Burford
At the conference
Like gates unhinged
In a storm…continue reading.
New works from sociologist and poet, Karlo Mila, are in Blackmail Press.