It’s funny, as in awkward, I think; the word poet. And the word Australian. I can’t really say I’m either. My family and i came over from Leeds, England in 1988 so my father could work as a sand blaster for a mob down under. That went tits up but my Old boy decided to stick it out and now i work for him under our own banner. So that’s pretty much how my days are. Nothing romantic. Not even average. I crawl in and out of shit pipes most the day removing the spent blast media from the blast pot. Or I paint the steel so it doesn’t rust. I guess that’s pretty cool. If a country could be defined by a colour I think Australia’s would be rust, with all due respect, of course.
Archive for August, 2009
Debbie Berk: the story of life
The daughter of an abusive, alcoholic father Debbie Berk was born in Ohio in 1969 as the oldest of five children. She married in 1992, gave birth in 1993 and 1996. She has two grown step-sons and two step grandchildren. She’s had a lifelong battle with depression and has been writing since childhood. Her writing is a way of coping with the effects of the physical, mental and sexual abuse she endured as a child and throughout her teen years as well as her struggles with depression, anxiety and with the death of her father in May of 2008.
There were times you had to turn to the classics to find good poetry. There where times you needed to turn to names like Ginsburg, Bukowski, Leonard Cohen, … to find a challenge for the mind. All for the sake of finding those few genial sentences that could enlighten your mind.
Now there is a time you can read David Blaine’s ‘Antisocial’, a newly appeared chapbook with Outsider Writers: it ravishes the mind completely. ‘All has been said before’, a slogan so greedily used the last few decades, proves to be wrong. With eye for detail, a huge sensitivity, an original approach and a deep sense of absurdity the author relates his story, his truth to the reader. From his own rather cynical point of view he presents us life as it is, avoiding the infamous pitfall of bitterness. And truth it is …
Do you want to read a delicious chapbook of contemporary poetry and contribute to the emergence of an extremely talented writer? Read ‘Antisocial’ by David Blaine. A copy can be purchased at http://www.outsiderwriters.org/david-blaines-antisocial for a very reasonable price. Enjoy! I know you will, I know I have …
Painters’ Exhalations 471
—after Gustave Caillebotte ‘s Floor Scrapers
contained glory of the ensuing
corporeal construction. As with
much of human encounters, distance
of the future body travels
into open chests of preexamined
endeavors, creating existence of the blood-made
association with existential noumenon. Philosophy of
dedication carves into the hands’ many functions’
reactionary knack, watching the mirror of
myriad movements fog until blur is
causational exertion collapsing in
outcome of concentration’s teleology.
The Rainbow’s End by Lena Vanelslander
The Rainbow’s end is a returning piece treating specific writers, known and lesser known, published or self-published. Each time one writer stands in the spotlight, presented to you through 4 essential aspects: biography, core questions, poetry and a piece on the work of the author.
The end of the rainbow is the place where author and reader meet, in mutual understanding, intrest, ideas and visions. Where they can find each other, both in similarities and differences, under the extravagant assembly of the colours of life and maybe find that common pot of gold, for each other to read and understand.
I hope I can fascinate you with their poetry and writing and maybe even encourage you to read their work, as The Rainbow’s End does give you a full, essential profile of both author and work, concise, to the point and dedicated to you, beloved readers. All comments and questions are welcome, conversation with the author is encouraged!
Jude Dillon Presents: Leslie McGrath
Up, up the steep road to San Gimignano, through high-walled
protection from pestilence, plague, and less lethal enemies
in the darker centuries, we passed up the Museum of Torture
for the small church where a quattrocento artist
had frescoed his revenge in the faces of the damned.
There, the local cleric garroted by the snouty demons
of Avarice. There, the louche blonde of Lust
rumored to have been his neighbor, beset
by something like an elephant’s trunk. Here, the gluttons
in a forced eternal debauch of wine,
dimpled biscuits and a platter of fowl, squeezed
against the table by their green-winged hosts,
not so different from the dank piazza
where we lunched for the second time that day
(tripe sandwiches and a good vernaccia.)
Of the seven deadlies, a few I’d sit in a jail cell for
but Gluttony’s the one I’d go to Hell for.