Everything

Lake Ohrid

Tonight a group of eight of us readers at the Struga Festival climbed and whirled around the town of Ohrid. An early evening whim  and we left the hotel and scrambled in a taxi in search of seaside churches and wine; we found these things, and more. Dinner discussions about chaos, Texan vernacular, Swedish conservatism and Alexander the Great’s horses versus elephants battles,  took us into the early morning. And still, the moon is not full.

The days shape at random and although there is a printed program nothing is certain. Events to begin at 9am start at 11am. The crowd can be in the hundreds, with the Prime Minister of Macedonia present, (such as last night) or, an audience of two.

Apart from losing my voice from sleeping with the air con up my body and mind have adapted well to the seaside, iced coffee with whipped cream and lots of poem reading and writing.

There is a snorer next door in 513 but if I think about the mood on the water tonight or the pop corn and fresh corn sold on the nearby bridge, all I can hear is bright, crackling oil with sun on top.

Macedonia, Stuga

On Saturday I spoke at the QLD English Teachers’ Conference, in Morris Hall, part of the rolling hills and plains of Churchill Grammar. Two sessions with about 12 teachers in each, speaking about ‘Poems to Share’ and writing poems, with the teachers. Always thinking about cost, I am pleased to report we sold many sets of our cards, enough to pay for the return flight and a tea or two at the airport. As 2011 looks towards Red Room it is pleasing to be able to offer it up new schools from a range of QLD regions. Home that Sunday night by 6PM, after sprouting a few tears when the horrible attendant at Virgin’s Service Desk said ‘No’ to giving me an earlier flight and then ‘Yes’ after I requested to speak to her superior, Richard Branson if he was around.

Three days later, I write to you from Macedonia where the Poetry Festival is about to begin. Yesterday (s) were in transit; 30 hours through clouds and being force-fed dinner buns and tomato juice by Luftansa. Arriving here day early allowed me a long, scenic trip with Allessandro at the wheel, After waiting for me at the airport, hours late, we moved through the Bulgarian city and then across the border to Macedonia. We stopped off at cafes that served Hamburgers with salted Serbian meet and more to my taste, thick Macedonia yogurt and breadsticks. Stray dogs everywhere. Lots of Macedonia Rock-Pop and Serbian Turbo-Folk. Cows were herded across the roads, billy-goats butting on the side streets and lots of people selling fruit in the dust blooms of highway trucks.

As Allesandro and  climbed the hills and arrived, with Gabi on board now, we arrived at the hotel which boasts a monastery  as part of the architecture. Yet, it is light now and having swum, walked and soon to cycle around the area, I see only contemporary buildings and swimming costumes. The monks must be here somewhere

Sydney Design Week

Lucky for me I don’t believe in rules. If we didn’t have rules it, life, society, wouldn’t be so bad. We wouldn’t be as bad as we expect. Look at all the good eggs about , many of whom I’ve been lucky (that word again) to be yoking with. It being Design Week, there was a panel about Unfettered Imaginations and their links to The Book. This panel was hosted by Suzanne from Boccalatte and featured publishers of words, in a range of forms. Held at Berta it was packed out. The room was red hot and warm with a lot of flirting, that is made possible by red wine and talk of the freedom poetry and art allows us to explore. Then, there was Petcha Kucha held at The Ivy a.k.a The Dry Cleaners (..”if you want to pick up a suit, you know where to go”..) Myself and about 11 other idealists talked to a room of zebra swirls, faux chandeliers and an informed and energetic crowd hungering to be different and popular at the same time. Yesterday, at The Powerhouse Museum, in a make-shift lounge room, I sipped weak tea with Suzanne B, conversing with trio of delightful designers and artists in the foyer of The Powerhouse Museum.  Here, well anyway, there’s not enough time to un-scroll ideas on poetry and death but we had fun talking about the body’s mandate to inform the mind to create and make haste or take slowly, this act.

And now, Israel at the Mac Shop on Glebe Point Road has been with me for an hour restoring my i-phone. He charged nothing and offered only help to the technically lazy. I must say, he did slip in a few pointers about the power of the i-pad and as I think about the QLD journey, tomorrow and then Macedonia on Monday, by back is aching at lugging around 3 kilos. But, damn, $900, is that worth saving a spine and time, for?

Poetry without the gloss

Shared tea and coffee with Don, this morning. He smoked a cigar as I complained about my short hair, and Sydney’s plush Eastern Suburbs passed us by. A lot of toy dogs. A lot of toy cars. A lot of smiling people; their comfortable expressions rather disconcerting when one thinks about reality.The election posters featured the shiny, football shaped head of The Hon Malcolm Bligh Turnball MP, with his glossy smile beaming into infinity. The Liberal volunteers reminded me of women who worked in my old high-school tuck shop : terrible postures and a pesky and aggressive air about them. Not great promotion for the upcoming battle.  It was only a few weekends ago that I had the privilege of emcce-ing an event, at which Turnball spoke on the theme, ‘Moral Courage’. His well-meaning talk was dominated by his feeling sorry of Kevin Rudd’s semi-death and it wasn’t ‘Moral Courage’ that was the focus, it was leadership, empathy and the power of the Individual.

England and my Grandmother seem from another lifetime, me in another ‘book’ as a friend and I were referring to life changes as. (Books, not chapters symbolising massive internal upheavals that, once experienced, mean you cannot live the way you were, in the previous Book). Here, in Sydney, The Red Room Company, is moving into a daunting and powerful project with NSW prisons; the project direction is part of the ongoing search for meaning, possibility and change. Many of the projects I had planned for this year have had to change in a reaction to the countless poetry initiatives that the literary scape is surrounded by. It is terrific that other poets and organisations are delivering readings, engaging with popular collaborations, promoting festivals and administering business inspired courses, but what’s the point of all this production and promotion? With all these action there has to be reflection and reason. So, now, Red Room has little choice but to engage in the randomness and risk of imagination. What comes next, no one knows, but it won’t be what is expected of us.

Join us in our Dry July

This is one of your last chances to be part of The Red Room Company’s team for ‘Dry July‘. We think the cause, which raises money for adults living with cancer, is a worthy one and we hope to raise awareness and money through ‘Dry July’. As the name suggests, July is a month off alcohol.

We’re currently in the top TEN ‘teams’. Help us remain there and even poetry our way to Number 1!

1/ Join our Red Room team! The team I’ve set up is called The Red Room Company To join, all you need to do is head to the Dry July website www.dryjuly.com, go to the sign up page, select the ‘Join a team’ option, enter the team name above and away you go! (Note. If you haven’t already signed up as an individual, you’ll need to do that first). ’I can’t go Dry  every day!’ : then, you can always purchase : ‘Golden Tickets‘ which allow you to have a night off (or on) for the cost of a small donation.  Or, if you’re enjoying the beers and wines too much then you can always donate a few coins, which (I hope) will go to helping the adult cancer patients across Australia:

2/ Donate

http://www.dryjuly.com/groups/theredroomcompany

Thanks for listening and if you are already participating in Dry July, good luck and I recommend Elderberry Cordial as a good alcohol substitute.
Please do invite other individuals who you think would be interested in being part of our ‘Dry July’ team.


Leaders

Hastings’ version of ‘King Prawns’ is not the same as those at home, in Australia. I ordered them for dinner and so small they were, I almost couldn’t see them. Food, however, isn’t on my mind as I continue to move from the Nursing Home to the Internet cafe, hour after hour as my Grandmother sleeps. A strange guilt takes over when I begin to work, as if all activities should cease whilst another person whom one loves, suffers. It is not the way, though. Instead, I find myself working furiously on Red -ness and enjoy the diversions of emailing, not to mention researching for our next set of projects. I am filled with happiness as the team back home, Patron included, update me on the poetry landscape and the activities of my colleagues, peers. Reading a lot of English poetry and although I find the musings of the English Romantics do not hold my attention when I know ‘Blood Meridian’ is waiting on my bedside table, poetry continues to replenish me. I cannot end this post without welcoming Julia.

Lindsay Tuggle describes her workshops with Brisbane Water

Canals and fans in Orange are far away as I write to you from the bedside of my Grandmother, who is in a Nursing home, in England. That’s about as personal as I’ll get on a public blog so, let’s talk about one of the most exciting programs Red Room is running, our ‘Papercuts’ education program. This recent post, below, is composed by poet, Lindsay Tuggle who has been working with the school, Brisbane Water. Lindsay’s poetry is featured in the ‘Poems to Share’ sets and she was a feature poet in ‘Dust Poems’.

From Lindsay:

“ Last week I had the privilege to spend two days with Ms Genelle Farquhar’s year eight students at Brisbane Waters.  I was meant to teach them something about what it means to write and read poetry (to whatever degree it is possible to teach these things . . . . I tend to believe, as I hope I conveyed to my fellow poetry students, that poetry is a way of seeing and being present in the world. Poetry to me is the absolute freedom to mould language into whatever shapes the mind conjures).    In the end, they taught me so much that I can only hope to have reciprocated.  After writing and reading alongside them, I have emerged with an altered view of how to write, read, and listen to poetry.  I am so grateful to Genelle and all of the students for these new insights.

I arrived at Brisbane Waters relatively exhausted after a semester of intensive teaching and on the heels of submitting my doctoral dissertation. I felt a profound sense of honour and responsibility to invite these students to see the world through the ever-changing eyes of poets.  I was anxious because  I felt so far away from my own identity as a writer of poetry; it had been months since I’d written a new poem.  By the end, I had awakened again to my own poetic interiority, and am intensely proud and honoured by the collection of work that was produced throughout the Cabinet of Lost and Found workshops.

We began by each writing a poem from the perspective of an animal of our choosing.  The work that emerged from this exercise overwhelmingly addressed the countless ecological crises that surround us.  Many centred on the lives of animals marked by impending danger and habitat destruction; the students spoke the language of diasporic species with startling fluency.  We then broke into pairs, and I asked the students to combine both of their poems to create a new poem, and therefore a new creature.  The resulting poems were both disturbing and hauntingly beautiful.  Many spoke of mutation and the aftereffects of the imposition of human agency on other entities.  The creatures that arose from their collective imagination were almost entirely “alone in the world,” left behind to suffer the consequences of genetic mutations that often left them unable to navigate their environment, such as the “crocobird” whose feathers and scales rendered her unable to fly or slither, and the flying leopard, who circles, endlessly “mutated,” “searcing for an abandoned site.”  I hope that the poems that comprise this tragic menagerie will be included in the Cabinet, for they truly are both lost and found.

We spent most of our remaining time together discussing the talismanic objects contained in our collective Cabinet of Lost and Found.  This eerily mnemonic, and often profoundly sad, collection of artefacts offered a wealth of material for writing exercises and draft poems.  I am deeply honoured to be trusted with the writing of a poem that contains, in some way, elements of each of these objects, and very much look forward to returning to Brisbane Waters to hear the final drafts of all the students work, and to read my own.”

City parks

Before heading off on a tour to the countryside, I found a little Japanese hole in the wall, about the size of a sushi roll, from which I purchased lunch. Not having explored any of the local parks yet, I set out to find one that had a canal, benches, flowers and, preferably, a statue. Five minutes or so, avoiding those foul ‘rich strips’ of Armani clothes and inspired eateries etc, I came across a little grotto. I took little notice of the other park dwellers and although they were nattering and laughing reasonably loudly, ate in quiet. Then, off I went to leave, only to notice I had been eating in a park full of vagabonds and slightly crazed faces; majority of them drunk and in rags and eating from a small hand -out-food operation. All of them  watching my every motion. I could have time zoned back to the 17th Century and me being the out of town, ignorant traveller lost amongst the outcasts.

Amsterdam – Poetry

I am amazed I didn’t end up on the Amsterdam Missing Tourist List, after my four hour bike adventure around the city, today. I hired the orange machine this morning and set off to see an incredible exhibition featuring, amongst many Greats, the work of Henri Matisse. My luck couldn’t have been brighter as hanging in the central room in all Red glory imaginable was one of the paintings that inspired the name, ‘The Red Room Company’. It was Matisse’s 1908 ‘The Dessert, Harmony in Red -The Red Room”. Ignorant to the fact the work was housed in the Hermitage (Amsterdam) meant I nearly fell over with Red delight. And the pigment Red that the canvas lived with, was, to these eyes it was the Red of deep Pink with a Purple beat to it. I imagine this is because it was originally blue and Matisse, without asking his Patron’s permission, felt the Blue to be too that and so, Red it became. It is. A masterpiece. I hadn’t noticed the beauty of the window in the top left, until today. Following the exhibition I decided to cycle to a far away park for lunch. Far away indeed as I ended up off the map with only a Kebab shop owner to guide me back to the central canal. It took nearly an hour return journey and along the way a few near misses of my bike almost hitting a car, a tram and a pram. Suffice to say, the ride was exhilarating but I am dangerous on two wheels and the bike is back in the shop, as tired as I am, I imagine.

Back home, in Sydney, the Red space thrives without me. Our Patron visited today and engaged in poem writing activities and lots of talk about future projects and what will they be? They will most certainly contain spokes and bridges.

Fiona Wright at Wanniassa School

Our education program has been driving towards the A.C. T, to Wannaissa School. The workshops that are re creating the ‘Toilet Door Poetry’ project are being led by Ms Fiona Wright, who most recently, read at our Sydney Writers’ Festival event, ‘Poems to Share’. Fiona, in the Old Days, was a dedicated part of our team on the ground and was one of the first poets who participated in the original Toilet Door Poetry, funded at that time, by the folk singer, John Butler. Here’s Fiona’s reports on the first workshop:

Crisp city, it curls its boulevards

and scatters roundabouts like concrete confetti.

You call its CBD ‘Civic’, and we see

space enough for whole apartment blocks

within the median strips.

Perhaps there’s a bureaucrat buried deep in my poet’s heart, but I fell in love with Canberra in autumn. It’s a place that fairly crackles with the season – the air is cold enough to sting and the poplars are gloriously auburn. I met Waniassa High’s poetry club early on Monday morning, and they were bounding with ideas for their guerilla poetry projects. They loved the idea of adopting a nom de guerre to safeguard their identities from schoolyard scorn, and of secreting their poems in the most unexpected of places – inside sports lockers, between the pages of library books (take that, Twilight!), as an unexpected condiment inside lunch order bags. Their guerilla poems will be stealth fighters, transforming their school into something less toilet door than portal, where you never know just what lies on the other side…