Sydney Notes

So, into Sydney for the poetry competition...

First stop, Redfern and Newton.
I see chalk markings all over the street - "Picket the Senate!" "Vote for a Left Leaning Student Union!", etc, etc.
Student politics - as irrelevant as ever!

Next, Pulp Books in Newtown to drop off some zines. I'm eager to see this new addition to the Newtown bookstore scene - (ah, many was the time as a penniless student that I spelt lingering in the King Street stores!) I'm also eager to meet blogger Nicholas Carvan.
Nicholas has a nice little business up and running, and he's managed to do much in a relatively little space. I particularly liked the 'One Dollar Books Shelf' - exactly the sort of thing designed to appeal to penniless Uni students. Everyone, call in and pay Nicholas money in exchange for books!

Next, on to Town Hall.
I notice on the way down this sign plastered on every post outside the University of Technology:

Marxism - Here

Question:
Is this sign:

a) Referring to a lecture series
b) The most accurate and honest description of University students that I have ever read?

Then after visiting Galaxy Books and getting a copy of Andromeda Spaceways (small-time Australian sci-fi magazine, often funny and all-round good publication) I meet up with my mate Aaron and we go off for some beers.

Multinational Count
I notice, as I go through Sydney, that the multinational corporations are extending their reach: I spot at least four Starbucks, and one Gloria Jeans and Oportos. This means more jobs, more business, and more choice for EVERYBODY. Excellent!

On to Balmain and the main event with Aaron and his girlfriend Lucille!
Much that is interesting. But I would reserve serious criticism for the Canadian poet, who made political statements in his poems and in the process left himself wide open for political disagreement. His poem about WMD, for instance -

What Massive Deception!
Whooosh! Mash! Dash!

(every word starts with either 'W', 'M', or 'D', geddit???!!!???) was an extreme oversimplification of a complicated political issue. Some good poetry, though.

But on with the Poetry Slam finals. I'm competing against 17 others from all over NSW - including two other poets from Newcastle, several from Sydney, three from Thirroul, one from Melbourne (looking very pretentious in his bohemian glasses, beard, and hat) and one from Canberra. Five judges are randomly selected from the audience - one who turns out to be Jennifer Compton, a much-published Australian poet/writer.
I can't comment too much about the other poets performances - I don't go to much performance poetry stuff, and I have a very short attention span. Still, much that is good - one of the Citizens of Language has a witty piece on his attempts to be a 'tragic' poet, but fails to get into the top three perhaps because he doesn't end strongly.
I'm the second last poet. Herewith attached is the poem I read out, complete with descriptions of my actions. I begin in hushed vocal tones with imitation Jack Nicholson-style smile plastered all over my face :

The Madman in the Garden

“O come into the garden, Maud,”
Whispered the psychopath,
“O come into the garden, Maud,
For I am getting very bored,
And little girls can ill afford
To incur my wrath.”

(Here your faithful blogger assumes the demeanour of a Victorian child, and replies in a prim, high tone:)

“O no, o no,” sweet Maud did say,
Through the little cottage door,
“Before I come to you to-day,
Before I come to you and play,
You must first put that knife away –
Of this you can be sure.”

“Come out into the garden, Maud,”
The psychopath said then,
“Come out and see my little sword,
Come out, come out, my most adored,
Most sweet, most precious, gentle Maud,”
The madman said again.

“First you must sheathe that sword,” she said,
“Ere I come out to you:
And lay it in the garden bed,
For little girls who are well bred
Do not mean to end up dead -
It’s not the thing to do!”

“Come out into the garden, Maud,”
He said in rising tones,
“Or with this knife and with this sword
And with this axe I will maraud
Your cottage here, and be assured,
I’ll dine upon your bones.”

(That last line growled in a menacing manner. At this point I have begun to froth and foam at the mouth)

“Then do your very worst!” said she,
“The cottage door is barred,
And if you wish to come to me,
You’ll have to cut through padlocks three
And three strong bolts of ivory –
Methinks you’ll find it hard!”

Next two stanzas recited very loud, and at great speed, by your rabid poet:

He reaches down, picks up the axe,
And with an awful roar
The insane psychopath attacks!
He hacks and hews and hews and hacks
‘Till all that’s left are splinters, tacks,
Of the little cottage door!

Face twisted in an hideous glare,
He comes at her in a run!
He seems, axe waving in the air
A sight the very dead might fear!
But Maud returns a fiercer stare –
And shoots him with her gun!

I actually considered bringing in a cap-gun for this part, but eventually decided against it. As fond as I am of the Right to Bear Arms, it mightn't go down so well with the gentile folk of Balmain.

He stops – and stumbles to the door –
She shoots him once! And twice!
He falters – falls down to the floor –
She steps amongst the blood and gore -
He’s done for; dead – but too be sure –
She shoots the madman thrice!

See, girls? Violence sometimes can be the answer! But here I assume a third voice, that of Maud's father. (Imagine, for these lines, Maud perched upon her papa's knee while he of the handlebar moustache and stern countenance frowns back down at her)

When Maud was very young, you see,
Her papa said to her:
“If e’er a madman come at ye
With axe or sword to murder thee,
Then take this gun and one! two! three! –
You shoot the rotten cur!
And KILL THE SCOUNDREL, SIR!!!

The authorities had to be called in at this point and shoot me with needles before I got out of control.
Tiebraker followed - I recited another piece of mine, Unrelaxation Tape. Won't include it here (not unless you really really want it) since it's too long. But I can always mail you a copy - it's published in local youth magazine InZine. Anyway, to cut a long story short -

-second place
-100 big fat dollars to me.

Who said poetry didn't pay?

After performances, meet with Gem - you were there! - and have an all-too-brief chat about blogging and poetry. Hope to see you again soon, Gem! Also there is Henry, a one-time philosophy student who once featured in a short-film directed, written, produced, (and still unedited) by me. It's about a man-eating jelly, and Henry played the social-worker who finally got the best of the jelly.

After poetry - To Chinatown with Aaron and Lucille to get some dinner.
I fumble over a pair of chopsticks for mere seconds before Aaron gets fork and spoon for me.
Then back to their flat in Neutral Bay at 2.30 and - crash.

Sunday - Ah, 7.00am, an excellent time to go back to sleep.
Ah, 8.30am, 'tis a fine time to begin reading Andromeda Spaceways.
Ah, 9.30am, hopefully they'll be up soon and we can all get some breakfast.
Hmmm, 11.00am, for some reason I'm thinking about chocolate. Maybe it's those chocolate bars on the table over there? Mustn't take without asking! Stop it! Get back to your magazine!
Hmmmm, 12.00pm, best not wonder what the hell they're doing. And stay away from that chocolate...
12.30pm, okay, just two. Maybe four. Probably more.
1.00pm - Aaron gets up and promptly crashes on couch. Lucille comes out shortly afterwards. We can hear her slippers slide officiously on the floor, shhhhp shhhhp shhhhp shhhhp shhhhp shhhhp shhhhp as she goes about performing various homely tasks. Why yes thanks Lucille we'd love some lunch!
2.00pm - lunch, one of the four most important meals of the day! Damn, I like what you did with those mushrooms, Lucille!
3.00pm - Lucille crashes on couch finally. Yes, it is good to be lazy.
4.00pm - Should I get going soon?
4.45pm - HAILSTORM! Aaron comes out from brushing his teeth and says, 'Seegh? Haigl!' and makes himself sound like a Nazi.
5.00pm - We go out to have a look what happened, slide in the streets, etc.
5.20pm - To the bus stop. Aaron makes himself look like a Nazi again when he salutes the bus-driver. We all look out the window as we go past the parks, white with hail. It's like - well, it's like Christmas in September! There are kids, parents - there's even a couple smooching.
6.20pm - Newcastle train - and home.

Now I sit here blogging, replete with pizza and good cheer, and you have the whole story. Do with it what you will!

Update - I tell a lie. To be perfectly accurate, I scored the runner-up prize (one of two). Click here for a review.