If anyone studies at Sydney University or is at all interested in poetry / in the greater Sydney area, Sydney University Literary Society is holding a poetry slam next Friday night, the 12th of September, at 6.30pm. Event details found here - come meet me, and listen to great poetry!
Thistle Magazine (θɪsəl mægəzin), n. An experience of the infinite variety and intimacy of life, its memories and dreams.
Thistle Magazine is something that means very much to me. This is the first print magazine I have ever worked on, and I truly have so much passion and such high hopes for what we can achieve with this wonderful, whimsical, heartfelt magazine. We are running a Kickstarter - that means that we are raising funds in order to be able to print independently at an affordable and fair price, which right now, we cannot do. NOTHING you pledge will be at all taken from you until the 31st of August, and even then, only if we make our goal ($5000) - please consider donating, even a $1 pledge sees you earn a reward, with prizes right up to $1000! It means the world to us, please check us out. (And yes, I will be sharing this incessantly over the next 31 days.)
strange little shrimp.
who lives on the ocean floor,
who has no need of flight.
who tells anglerfish strange dreams
in other languages (that they can breathe,
grow hands, love separately).
who gets lost in elevators.
who asks for names.
waiting for something to stick.
passing straight through.
I want to be your brass compass. Oh, mister,
Just thinking about you curls the ends of my hair.
— "What Rings But Can’t Be Answered", Rebecca Lindenberg
— William Logan,”The Nude That Stays Nude”
I find it so strange when people take a line from one of my pieces, and hold it to their chests, saying, yes, this one, yes, yes. I’m left here wondering what it is about that sentence that means so much to them: is it the words, is it the feel, the smell, taste, hope, meaning? I’m not sure, I’m not sure what I have to offer anyone but myself, and so I put my pieces out and never think that they will touch other people. I write because it means something to me, and sometimes at the end, I think, this is not what it was at the beginning, this is not what it meant to me, but they’re still words, they’re still words, and words mean everything. And then you, dear reader, find those words and you give them milk, and you take them home, and make them feel loved, and that’s what confuses and delights me, because I don’t know what my words mean but maybe, maybe, maybe, you do.
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
— "Preludes", T.S. Eliot, Prufrock & Other Observations (1917)
I am working on a collection. I’m not sure yet what it will be called but I’m doing this. I’m going to publish a book of my works. I won’t be publishing many poems here in the interim as a result, but I will still be present and updating you all.