Johanna Featherstone has put the poems and the miniature essay/lecture from Occasional Poetry up on the web at the Red Room Company web site

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In Brittany
dark grey granite houses
tuck low into the landscape
like rocks
darker hedgerows protect them
from the winds we walk into
along the coast
small red tractors
plough patches of pink soil,
across the narrow road
eschallots burst
from black plastic groundstrips
this is the kind of place
you’d locate a film
but not live in,
Godard made one here
but none of us
remembers it
bleached & tufted grasses conceal
the purple thistle
on the windswept bank
above a glinting choppy bay
a group of hikers
singing loudly
strides by
just outside the house
& here comes Daniel,
with a wicker basket
of saltwater prawns -
back from fishing in the rocks
some of the last beret-wearers
of the 21st century
are on their knees
weeding their fields
at sunset
the rye field blurs
like double vision


Peel me a zibibbo
I could go
in any direction
but it's best that here and now
I remain lesbian,
keep my vanishing cream
sealed.
I'll go south
eventually
to follow the sheen
of your signals,
in the meantime
my problem's like how to
design a wall didact -
serif or not's
a big decision
*
it's October so
the bogong moths
are back
and the koels - the October
crack of dawn racket -
are back again too,
mauve jacaranda petals
are stuck
on the windscreen wipers rubber
*
by now the wall text task
is impossible -
application decreasing,
attention span diminishing -
transparency an aim,
how coded the coding
*
imperfection in kindness
comes with the void,
you need to
choose
the 'I'm feeling lucky' google option
*
drinking in the cemetery
sounds like an early
Nick Cave song
but it's
something-to-do,
it's also the subject
of Paddy Fordham's
drawing
*
should I start carrying
my books
in clear plastic bags
inside
my polyester document bag,
is this a solution ?
16° centigrade
95% humidity
what a precipitate place
*
shouting Shakespeare aloud
to the sea
in Surfers' Paradise
in 1964
after hurling your body down
fine off-white sand dunes.
now it's 2006
you're experiencing thanatos
high up on a Seidler balcony.
if you are in doubt
(slurp over drinks)
what gives the false poet
such confidence ?
*
awake and refreshed
tho with nothing on the page
*
John T phones -
this cloudy gloomy
early summer day
is 'like the fifties' he says.
every day ?
miserable childhood ?
photographic weather memory
à la recherche du temps inclément
*
I was reading
about the sweet potato farmers
of Osaka
living such long lives -
nonogenarians, centogenarians -
when Kurt called in with his new book
Hyper Taiwan
Taiwan - it's 'sweet potato island'
hi Kurt, hi John T,
hi Nick, Paddy, hi Shakespeare,
peel me a zibibbo
would you,
one of you guys ?






























Tourist brochure - Moruya
We stayed overnight in Bega, another dairy farming town in New South Wales, known for its cheese. A town associated, for me, with another friend, the poet and gardener Denis Gallagher who lived there for some time in the late 1970's/early 1980's. As most places in Bega closed for business around six p.m. and the pubs became disturbing sources of Indigenous peoples' loud existential arguing, we opted for dinner at the Bega RSL (Returned Servicemans' League) Club. It was a world unto itself - thick dark curtains covered every window to screen out daylight and summer's late sunsets and to affect, in fact, permanent evening. One huge room with a long bar and a glassed-in Keno booth on one end. The lurid green walls encased a square of rows of poker machines, smoking areas marked simply by a suspended sign that you step under from the non-smoking part of the room to the other, a pool competition with the usual chalk heiroglyphics on a blackboard and a traditional meat raffle in which a large number of locals participated, hoping to win trays of lamb chops, beef roasts and snags. All of this was accompanied by a cacophonous mix of sounds of the pokies, an enormous Sky channel sports screen, a juke box, the raffle caller and half-shouted conversations.
Bega RSL Club, November 2006
Further along the highway there were half a dozen ways of heading west towards a hinterland dairy farming town with the slightly comical, beautiful name of Bombala. The formative home town of two experimental poets Michael Farrell and Geraldine McKenzie. Something poetic in the cow's milk on the southern New South Wales coast ?
Crossing the border into Victoria you enter dark logging forests and soon arrive in the coastal towns of East Gippsland. Almost twenty years ago Laurie Duggan wrote a complex, poetic meta-text about Gippsland, from the dispossession of the Indigenous people during early settlement, gold digging, farming, through the years of world wars, rural industry, the Snowy River and its attendant myths and history, and so on, progressing up until the 1980's. The Ash Range compiles journals, newspaper stories, gold prospectors' and others' letters, historical photos, topographical lithographs and Duggan's notes and poems to construct a prose and poetry epic. The last poem in the book canvasses, in its final stanzas, some of the cultural ironies or clashes of 'civilization' and 'the bush' - I remember the final image of a phone booth in the middle of the bush. That book's packed away with the rest of our books and household stuff in storage in Melbourne.
Lakes Entrance, East Gippsland, November 2006