New video! Ezz Wheadon (with her production company A Mighty Fine Shindig) and I have been turning some of my poems into videos. This one was filmed at my favourite chai spot, Roost Coffee.
I hope you like ‘Spheres’! Please leave comments, let me know what you think.
xx
Now I’m really catching up on old news. My poem ‘Mulled Wine’ was published in SpeedPoets vol. 11.7 (launched in September). SpeedPoets is a cool Brisbane publication – it’s quick, tasty and to-the-point. To-the-poetry. I am honoured to be included.
Here is the poem:
Mulled Wine
Thrown together with spices
and cinnamon sticks,
we simmer in a saucepan
on a small kitchen stove.
Mulling too long,
we’ll soon turn bitter.
This is just a drink for winter.
The cold drives us in together
and loosens up our hearts.
Warm hands and cool heads
will swirl us and stir us
and finally pour us
in a thick-bottomed glass.
Drink us now,
for winter’s soon passed.
Sip us slow; we cannot last.
In this untitled poem, a cafe poet struggles to justify the last hour and a half she spent staring at a wine rack.
It’s good to have this time to write
each week; not waiting ’til the time is right
but sitting down and spitting out some rhymes.
I’m of the opinion that it’s a sin to have no discipline,
so this time has a lot of merit. But I think that I could bear it
much better if I could just think of something the f**k to write.
…
I did draw a pretty nice picture of a wine glass.
The second poem I’ve written as part of my National Young Writers’ Month writing goal (10 poems before 30 June).
WHAT IS SHE
What is she when she’s at home?
When she unwinds her scarf, when she pulls off her shoes,
what is she when she’s on her own?
Is she a stockbroker, or a dancer?
Is she a cheat, or a chancer?
Is she a tomboy who drives a Lancer?
What is she when she’s on her own?
While she wipes off her make-up, is she surviving a break-up?
Is she someone who’d take up
with a guy who’s no good?
Is she a stuck-up bitch while she looks through the fridge?
Is she unsure which major to take?
Is she good to her mum? Is she someone who bakes?
What is she while she fills up the pot?
Is she a five, or a ten? Is she officially hot?
While she shakes pasta into the boiling water,
is she the dux of her alma mater?
Is she waiting for somebody to call?
Is she painting her house?
Is she having it all?
Is she nice to people who don’t deserve it?
While she stirs in the sauce, is she really “worth it”?
Is she kind, or is her heart a stone?
I want to know what she is when she’s on her own.
What is she while she eats her dinner alone?
Slow down, honey,
honey, slow down.
I don’t want to race you
to the finish line.
I’d rather slow the pace you set
and let you lap me,
let you lap me up.
As performed today at the Perth Poetry Club.
My Self, who art in my head,
hallowed be my name.
My wisdom come,
my will be done
in life as it is in my head.
I give me today my daily fun.
Self, forgive me my sins
as I forgive those who sin against me.
Lead me sometimes into temptation
and deliver me a cheese pizza.
For my person,
my power,
and the glory are mine,
now and forever.
Ah, me.
The woman crossed one thigh over the other.
One red pump sat on the floor
while the other rested in the air.
Slowly, she slid her naked heel
out of the hard, sleek shoe
and slid it back in.The man reached behind his head
and grabbed the fabric,
pulling off his jumper.
For one moment his shirt lifted too
and exposed
the soft skin beneath.
After all the photos had been filed
and the passport carefully stowed away
and the last bag unpacked
and the last shirt washed and folded,
she stood in her bedroom and looked around.On instinct, she picked up her keys
and turned to go home,
half a second before she remembered
that she was already there.But sitting on the edge of her bed
with the sheets she’d picked out
and her books on the shelf
and her pictures on the wall,she’d never felt more homesick in her life.
Published on AustralianReader.com
She chequered the cards on the fold-out table
and spread them wide before me.
Choose five, she said, watching close.
I wondered what I was choosing.Eyes on my face, she told me my fate.
Shuffle, shuffle. New job, new home.
Travel. Puzzles. Shuffle. Shuffle.
I nodded along; nothing was wrong.I see a new man is dealt in your hand.
A lover, a saint. A hospital stay.
A car crash, a hero, a Taurus, a Leo.
A puzzle. A puzzle. A shuffle. A shuffle.Happy! She said. And I twitched my head.
You will be happy, she piously said,
no doubt a line for every person she read,
but still I wondered.
Kaitlyn Blythe 