Pigeon Poetry

August 12th, 2008

My mind is nowhere in particular except with you

Saturday night was a Z.  Saturday night was an A. There were thirteen fellows who are now officially graduated from an Ethics in Leadership course. I am one of those fellows. No, the holding of a framed certificate does not suggest I am an expert in what I ought to be doing but I am more advanced in knowing what I want to do and if I pursue that adventure what responsibilities accompany me. The night was an abstraction of reality. I was seated close to those I love and thus my nerves were lullabyed to a renegade joy – that ‘cease the second’ hysteria particular to speech or stand and deliver moments. The graduation (so American that term) night buzzed with poetry and no acronyms showed themselves. There was much richness, so much that I was, at times, dumb with the opportunities on offer. Two nights have swollen since then and after my body and mind have rested a few more days I shall turn over my motor and begin to drive onwards. Which way? I hear the pigeons, that one lost pigeon cooing, up, this way. So, this blog will begin to refill with stories of cabinets and trees, poetry in Newcastle, Dusty lines and there are some magnificently important farewells approaching, so have the tissues ready and remember that before the adrenaline takes over and instructs me, Lao whispers -

Do your work, then step back. The only path to serenity.

August 5th, 2008

Pigeon Cam are you out there?

I just saw a dog eaten by a shark. It was a scene in a film. I ate a jelly snake. Not, I am having visions of our pigeon cam eaten by a Griffin. I am confident our Cam is resting amongst tall grass and looking at the stars. Fancier, Graham Davison tells me we have a few more days left before we call off the search. The Missing Pigeons Unit (MPU) is currently searching the horizon. Ivy Ireland and I were describing the Sunday event as being magical but all the pleasure is painted deep green not knowing if he flies or flies not. Bravo enters Concord Highschool tomorrow at eleven, perhaps Pigeon Cam will be found pecking icing of the canteen cup cakes?

July 28th, 2008

Differences between short stories and poems, Ms Featherstone.

We discussed the nature of madness in school today and if the definition was as uncomplicated as: thinking outside the square or finding blank walls interesting. How do we classify  ‘mad’. Almost as tough as classifying a poet. One student noted that rationality indicated sanity, the sane had an awareness of consequences and held a clear definition of empathy. Then, being poets, the boys went to war on what ‘reality’ really meant. There was something surreal about us all jotting out dreams and transforming memories into poems for a school competition. One poem is being constructed from the point of view of a cat – what does a cat think of whem a torch is shone at it?

The weekend like all weekends has passed only to return soon. Yet, as my friend mentioned today, this week is pigeon week. Sunday will be fine skies for the poems to fly across. Tamryn has sourced a sourp sorcerer, rolls,  champagne and a map of the south coast. Murray is practicing his pigeon race call. Andrew is playing with pigeon cam and I am practicing pigeon.

The school here is clean, empty of black boards thus dust free. There is an exhausting amount of pink and yellow-yolk pollen sprinkling itself free from the flowers. The sounds of high heels on tiles, metal filing cabinets opening and closing and lovely Jacqueline talking with me about Emily Dickinson.

I was asked about the differences between poems and short stories. I repeat only what I think I know and have found out through writing and reading both form -that definitions tell truths. The word prose comes from the Latin prosa, meaning straightforward, hence the term “prosaic,”.

Whereas Poetry (from the Greek “poiesis”, a “making” or “creating”) is a form of art in which language is used for its aesthetic and evocative qualities in addition to, or in lieu of, its ostensible meaning. Poetry may be written independently, as discrete poems, or may occur in conjunction with other arts, as in poetic drama, hymns or lyrics.

(Oh, I am not certain about anything, except who I love)

July 18th, 2008

Glory Box, Nest Box, Black Box, Red Box

My trapezius muscles and levator scapula tighten with frustration upon discovering (now) yesterday’s blog entry has been eaten up by a coded spam and lost.

I’d described an outing to The Red Box Gallery at The Royal Botanic Gardens ‘Herbarium’ at which aesthetics and science were perfectly connected in a rich and spiritually prickling exhibition of Botanical Art. I re-try but am changed having slept eight hours and writing beside sun, not moon glow.

A yesterday memory follows.. The Red Box was entirely ours as all but one (dread-locked security human) of the staff were striking. Globes popped light and the etchings of plant life in the Top End of Australia began to wiggle up from their parchment into the room’s atmosphere. Myself, my companion fell into the frames and were watched the entire time by hundreds of stories and souls stored in the Red specimen boxes beyond the open door to our left. Although the Herbarium drawers were shut the powerful presence of the stems, leaves, veins and buds all stored in red drawer upon red draw(er) was surreal and another world to where we had just left and were soon to return.

I and my companion contemplated the buzzing flecks of goldfish orange and deep grey ink (‘Fertility’) charmed into an exquisite stillness that fell about the body as eyes and toes became transfixed with the workings of other bodies – that of the plants and their configurations of mind, lineaments of language.

In the restaurant afterwards Pilgrims shovelled along the garden path whilst attempting to catch (then kick) a disorientated ibis. The pigeons were nowhere, perhaps too much prayer traffic in the skies? Instead, a boa beautiful feather with a clean, sharp nib gracefully lay itself in the middle of the floor. For my companion I fetched this artful talisman of light and height to accompany him on a car trip to a place of many plants.

April 19th, 2008

News in bibs and blue overalls

Friday night and I was contemplating stars in Braille, waiting for my friends at the Lord Dudley pub. I was fetched from the upstairs, taken to the downstairs, where three delightful humans and I discussed pigeons, privacy and piracy. Two of my table companions ate brains for dinner. I ate fish and scalps (also known as ‘scallops’ but always pronounced after a sip of red wine as ‘scalps’ and thus sharing my fellow diners craving for thoughts). Scallops taste strange because each mouthful and you feel they’re in the moment of swapping from male to female, being hermaphroditic and shyness encased in rough.

As we playfully debated microphone techniques and the ethics of buying second hand books I contemplated what my own brain would taste like? If a brain, being fuller when older, would taste more succulent and spiced in the future than a younger brain, less experienced in sucking up life. I decide yes, that I should wait until then (the future) to fork the core of my ideas and identity and only when I’m sure of it, will I swallow myself well, digest my mind wholly.

Following the fairy-star lit dinner we left by the front door to the car door, me almost being crushed by the pub crowd of men who were so large muscled I can’t imagine how they’d fit on a rugby field, let alone stand knuckled to knuckle on dainty Paddington foot path.
Sky rained atop the car. Four brains driven to a secret plant on the out pantaloons of Sydney.

By this time, it was half past 7 time, then 8:30PM and we were surrounded by thick leaves and scrub a blue glowing glass fronted factory pressed, punched, printed and powered into the night, into the morning, to your fingertips.

At Sydney Morning Herald printing plant ..

I discovered a series of black and white photographs, one in particular printed into my memory gallery – that of Bogle-Chandler case on the banks of Lane Cover River. The photograph depicted inspectors and others crouching about a nettle and twig nest, in search of bodies that were never to turn up.

The tour of the printing plant of course had my mind thinking about the publication of poems in national newspapers but more so, about the font and typography of imagination and lies. A day earlier I was an audience member for the launch of my cousin’s story book album ‘Death’, pondering a similar thought – what would be the final poem or last letter I ever write be and to whom would I write it?

I’m farewell this sentence to go write a poem or, if a bad poem, then a glorified list of words that mean more than they seem.

April 14th, 2008

Wow, those pigeon wings!

Photo Library - 633.jpg‘Blue Lady’ flew home safely. Her cool silvery breast rested mid way to rest, to flutter free some rain drops. Minutes later she feathered north into nebula and bravely into a sky, potentially, full of hungry predators (due to strong head winds and falcon food hunting time). A few hours ago, Graham Davison, Australia’s most respected pigeon fancier and racer told me ‘Blue Lady has landed’ 60 kilometers later, in her wooden pigeon coop, in Mt Ousley.

I did wonder when Graham warned the pigeon to watch out for ‘predators, he meant ‘falcons’ or (as we were in the land of shares, sky rises, consumption and spending) maybe predators was the blue glow of sadness and stress of the shiny shoes running madly around the buildings chasing Losers, Winners and Indices.
Photo Library - 630.jpg

Today was the first time Red Room has staged a media launch in the hope that all newspapers in the world would cease reportage of Buckyballs, the Milkshake Murderess and Cate Blanchett’s 3rd son and profile pigeons and poetry. We did reasonably well ; about 6 media faces recorded Robert Adamson read a stunning poem about peeling prawns alive. The various crews, some more aggressive than necessary at a pigeon-poem launch, collected great close-ups of pigeon ankles, pigeon liberation and the crowd expressions when the pigeon flew in the ‘Wrong Way Go Back’ direction. Far away from where she was meant to know to go.

The Domain was an ideal place to introduce an intimate group of media and general public to this unique project that is now officially looking for poets to submit poems and individuals or groups to parent a pigeon. The rain held itself for an hour of perfect poem pigeon behaving and then streamed into the grass as the crowd gathered their heads together to return to office, home, car or internal crisis. Robert drove all the way home to The Hawkesbury, I drove with photographer, Prudence Upton, to flash the windows of The Australia Council and the pigeon, by this moment in rain was spanning her way out of the Big Smoke.
Photo Library - 631.jpgJust as I was packing up my life so far a young boy emerged from the shadow of the figs. He’d travelled from Campletown to Pigeon town in order to find out more about poetry, pigeons and Red Room. Hours later a review, by an observer, of the media launch arrives in my computer, as quick as a slow pigeon, here it is for you:

but its my way of seeing things…
……………………

The rainbow coloured umbrella a few meters away from the pigeon box under the sun between the clouds where 4665 will venture into, mimicking the hopeful rise of poetry in education. 4665 a year old pigeon with blooming feathers covered in oil to protect her from the rain and cold, she has her name and d.o.b on one ring and the other ring to keep a track on her whereabouts. The pigeon master tells that they can clock over 100km/h while the TV crew prepares to film and the gentlemen in suits are reading through the media release.

A modest crowd for a modest attempt to create an interesting project for poetry; the poet flicking though his book to find what to read, the camera man focusing on the pigeon that will carry the poem in to the sky. Morning joggers, mums with kids passing through The Domain are looking side ways to a crowd that has gathered around a pigeon and a man with crazy white hair in the center.

Boom is set
Camera angled
Crowd ready
and we start…

One reason after another it is explained that why poetry is important and why this project has a green light. The pigeon master tells us that it takes time and effort to master the art, we think the same for poetry and understand the significance and symbolism of such gathering.

High ISO with low aperture clicking away and documenting the speech that introduces the ideal poem to the crowd when it is morning before sunrise through his life for the grandfather of the poet. Not knowing for certain but hoping where the pigeon will fly on a day that is not so perfect puts a smile on the people waiting near by, then the count down 3….2…..1 and 4665 goes east, “away from the predators€ the pigeon master says. South it shall go later…

An experience and a creative attempt to get a bit more of the much needed exposure to poetry; the pigeon is on its way to Wollongong when the crowd is amused and set to leave knowing the next date (August 3) for 8 pigeons, 8 poems and 8 poets and fair bit of a distance to go for Australian poetry.

… O.K

April 11th, 2008

Monday 14th April, Media Launch: Real Estate as a wood coop and nothing soars higher or drops lower than a poem.

pigeon.jpgEpic everyday. Last blog was underworlds and wars before today. ‘Nightwriting’ is mooning quietly as Pigeons flutter into media spotlight and our Pigeon Poetry project is top in the pecking order of Red day.

On Monday 14th April 2008, at 11AM (forecast pigeon perfect blue skies not monsoon), grass, ants, beetles and fig trees in Sydney’s ‘The Domain’ will make their environment into a stage for our poetry and our first ever media launch.

Orchestrated by Mr Graham Cassidy, this event is a call out to You to take part in ‘Pigeon Poetry’, an extraordinary project featuring flights into the literature of birds and humans.

What the racing pigeon journals say:

Arrive at The Domain, Art Gallery Road (opposite NSW Art Gallery) at 11AM.

Our first poet selected so far for this project is Mr Robert Adamson. Inside Out to prawn boats and bird calls, Robert will read to you. Then, as all poems do, a Monday another day transforms into the opening up of a week with a pigeon flight, Pigeon fanciers. All of us present to talk to an audience about how poems, possibly yours, possibly by a poet you want to support, will be attached to the ankles of pigeons, in August, this year.

Monday will be your chance to be part of the making of great Australian poems and an artistic production that combines being a poet with being a parent of a pigeon with being a reader of words beyond the bank statement, newspaper or board room minutes.

Take your 11AM breather by walking to poetry; laces away from board room tables, photocopy fumes and the mobile phone by supporting Australia’s most cutting edge poetry company where a Red Room becomes whatever the poems want it to be – on Monday a room that will liberate pigeons and punctuation.

March 29th, 2008

Daddy long legs in bed

HALL-Fiona---Medicine-bundl.jpgOutside, garden tables have joined together, a neighbour hosts a banquet laughs that have brassed up as the sun brasses down. A light bowl holds a candle and flickers peach across my wall, in preparation for Earth Hour. Reports today moan that lights off does nothing for the environment, but what a limited definition of environment they must think within; the importance of your community all joining flames at the same time for the same purpose has endless benefits.

What a freedom that today I am not limited by how I feel. I felt like bed-blogging and Bed Red Room-ing from my bed and I am.

Today has been me in a joyously feral state. I had a Happy Birthday lunch with mother then spent hours travelling in and around pockets of my home. The Daddy Long legs are taking over the lounge room corners, so I violently thwacked my walls with tea towels until the spiders all fell down. My walls! I repeated to their length. I wonder if their insect eyes saw who their attacker was and, in revenge, will cobweb me as I sleep too soundly of a night in the near future?

Reversing the memory wheels to Thursday this week (voooo wheeeat!!), I was walking around the Quay water, to meet Annette, part of the exuberant team at The Sydney Writers’ Festival. (Still, a year later, no sign of my pearl, red coral, gold necklace the wind stole). Each time I chat with Annette she reveals a wonder; last talk it was her fluency in Sanskrit, this meet – her explanation for my feeling of peace I’d found walking by the water : Peace, Annette offered, because I am surrounded by water, embraced by a substance profound, endless, beautiful and waiting on and for me.

At the festival, Annette and I were scouting for a new installation space for Nightwriting. The one we’d hope on is riddled with Health and Safety issues. While I go wild with happiness at things which involve risk, un-certainity and possible failure, it seems councils support only safe, dependable and harmless projects; three qualities the antithesis of poetry, creativity. Lucky for Red Room, Annette mediates and moulds a space for us within the prison of local, social rules.

[Incidentally, we are looking for a set designer to work on this project].

Having found our space, in the Bangarra Studio, I had an hour to spare before meeting Mr and Ms Cassidy to discuss Pigeon Poetry and our media launch, planned for April 14th. So, I immersed into the surrealist sardine cans and Coca-Cola baby clothes, created by Fiona Hall.

Leaving but soon to return to the MCA I noticed an elegantly dressed woman in her seventies looking for a way to somewhere, but unable to find it. Instead the woman had forgotten how to reach the doors of the museum. As I guided her under the sticky sun, she claimed she was lost because she was old and being lost is a constant preoccupation with old people and because she’d drunk too much wine at a lunch with Australia’s Governor General.

January 30th, 2008

Purr Fect

DS_Web_Thumbnail.jpg Cosmic rain in pain and desperate to shriek out for its freedom. I am writing with the door wide open and only hot, repressed wind punches its way into the room.

I have been rightfully chastised for not updating the blog for a week. Sorry.

I and the Red Room have been packing more hours than a day can take, into the day. At this time the details I wanted to write to uncover each day are of no consequence now, too late. Although, the best poems and often feelings of most intensity follow later, days, years, lives after the event. I want to be clinical in my details of Red Room news and I want to write without constraint because the last week has trapped my senses in a screen of graphics which are necessary for grant applications. I am unable to decide which mood to outfit.

Amanda Muscat, designer of the upcoming exhibition at The Australia Council, has transformed glass and carpet into a Red Room and Shaun Tan extravaganza. Not so much you can’t take in the illustrations, not so little it isn’t worthy the label of retrospective. The opening is next Thursday at 5.30 PM and it is invitation only. The exhibition will be alive for a long and delicious 3 months. If you’re walking out suit creases, then make sure to pass Elizabeth Street.
PIGEON_Web_Thumbnail.jpg

Pigeons are to be released on the first Sunday in August, so keep that date for feathers only and details about how you can sponsor your own winged wonder will be here shortly. Editor, Andrew Garrick, is pasting and weaving trophies and a pigeon narrative into a video we will fly about the internet, to promote the project.
Our 2008 program is almost complete. Changes are driving me into a rabid state and it is a task to describe the future perfectly when it is by nature, imperfect. Imperfections which oil the mind, keep it mindful of being free.

You will have loved. Will you have loved? You will not have loved.

Now, before poor punctuation infects this entry and type speed leads to spelling vomits, I leave you with a thought I am unable to share on this blog :

January 19th, 2008

Salt’s influential role in world history

salt.jpgNo quietus on a Sunday morning. My frown lines have scored themselves deeply into my forehead having stained my friend’s walnut pepper carpet with burgundy blood red wine, last night. Dream light wool carpet laid for brand new lives ruined by my thighs as they caught the fringe of a table cloth and took my glass for a ride.

Material things, material sins.

Slaves to salt the four of us crawled about the carpet dabbing red splotches. Our lives, my life, depended on a vanishing act and if friendship was to be saved the wine must rise out of the ground into a memory. Propitation, reconcilliation, forgiveness and atonement would be woven into one and I would be without guilt if things were as they were before I sipped the liquid. My contemplation of divine thoughts of the Salt God was successful, I am saved. A text message arrives : Carpet as good as new.

Beyond floor talk, I can’t settle the images in my brain’s archive collected this Friday, whilst viewing ‘Culture Warriors‘, at the Canberra National Art Gallery. This exhibition presents a range of contemporary Indigenous art works, using such materials as film, oils, sound, bark, text and gum nuts. The collection and curatorial eye meant even in the crisp white walled space of a gallery Spirits sang from hollow logs and bark slits, painted wisdoms of yesterday, today and tomorrow turned over in the 2008 atmosphere and psychology and body drifted, was lifted.
For me, the taxidermy wonderland, crafted by Danie Mellor , seduced me, continues to magnify concepts of flight, feathers, second skins and magic for me. Using materials and minerals from nature and factory, Mellor’s installation bewitched a public space into a space where the psyche and physique must think in metaphors, totems and symbols in order to breathe.
In the last few humid storm days reason and fantasy have operated side by side in The Red Room.

..Time capsules, taxidermy and Pakistani poetry, in Canberra. Then, pigeon birthing, braille installations and funding applications in Sydney.

Insects and winged wonders have flown their way into our projects. Pigeons being the focus yesterday, when we filmed our preview film for the pigeon project:
Pigeon family 1.JPG pigeon cards.jpgshoot2.jpgShoot1.jpg

view 1.jpg (top l – r – Graham Davidson, world famous pigeon fancier; pigeon cards; Johanna & David at the loft; Andrew Garrick, Paul Ree and Graham Davidson; view from location, the ‘Gong.)

And today I tap open beautiful photographs a friend sent me, of fallen feathers on misty green grass and smoky Summer skies complete with a fire breasted Robin in the foreground.