Monday, January 31, 2011
Paradise Anthology Launch
Two of my poems, Syd and Harry, are to be published in the Paradise Anthology. Sadly the Paradise Anthology website is no longer functional, but you can check out the flyer below or go to the St Kilda Festival website for more information about the launch.
Monday, January 24, 2011
archive: City Girl
City Girl was first performed as a short play by the Riverina Theatre Company in 2005. It has since been read as a poem at various poetry readings, including the Travel reading at Mart130 Cafe.
City Girl Being Morose in a Rural Landscape
In this place they always assume that I want a middy instead of a schooner, and the people act like it's something to be proud of, or something odd, to be a girl who drinks beer.
In this place the bands are so talented that the covers they play sound exactly like the CD.
And the pubs are full of people who seem to be satisfied with handshake friendships.
Are full of people who seem to think that this dancing's fun.
Are full of people who look like people from back home.
And I'm that creepy new chick who keeps staring.
In this place my mum's cooking makes me fart more and shit less.
I know no one but old acquaintances, who send me back to high school depression. Whose faces I remember, but whose laughs I've forgotten. Who I recognise through hair colour, not by the way they walk.
In this place the sky is a different colour. A greyer, dust laden, shade of blue. And the horizon is longer and thinner. A bony thin landscape. Lethargic and dazed.
Not like my voluptuous flamenco dancer of a city back home.
In this place it's too dry for mould to grow on the walls, and the snot flakes from the sides of my nose like paint in too much sun.
Because the sun is everywhere, even up there, and I think I know how the brits felt, coming here to this prying heat.
In this place that calls the river a beach, but where people can die without seeing the sea, can die without seeing my singing smoggy coast, in this place friends are an e-mail, and a battle with a modem-stealing sibling, away.
And the beauty I've become used to is even further.
In this place I need to learn again that the ants will bite your feet as you peg if you don't dance around the clothesline, and that grass has to be watered to be green. And I need to learn to drive to live a life.
This place that I left because a conversation about theatre might turn into a debate about whether those two girls should have kissed on stage.
And there's a risk of enjoying being a checkout chick, and a risk of being a sullen one.
This place where suddenly supermarkets are lonely places.
Where I'll take up moshing again, even though I left it when I left this town of a city.
Because it's only here, in this place, that I need it to beat out my frustrations.
This place where change collects on my bookshelves and I can't walk in my room for the childhood souvenirs. Where I have Billy Holiday and twenty-eight hats and a clothes dummy and family.
In this place where leaving is the only thing to do, sometimes I feel at home.
© Laura Smith 2005
City Girl Being Morose in a Rural Landscape
In this place they always assume that I want a middy instead of a schooner, and the people act like it's something to be proud of, or something odd, to be a girl who drinks beer.
In this place the bands are so talented that the covers they play sound exactly like the CD.
And the pubs are full of people who seem to be satisfied with handshake friendships.
Are full of people who seem to think that this dancing's fun.
Are full of people who look like people from back home.
And I'm that creepy new chick who keeps staring.
In this place my mum's cooking makes me fart more and shit less.
I know no one but old acquaintances, who send me back to high school depression. Whose faces I remember, but whose laughs I've forgotten. Who I recognise through hair colour, not by the way they walk.
In this place the sky is a different colour. A greyer, dust laden, shade of blue. And the horizon is longer and thinner. A bony thin landscape. Lethargic and dazed.
Not like my voluptuous flamenco dancer of a city back home.
In this place it's too dry for mould to grow on the walls, and the snot flakes from the sides of my nose like paint in too much sun.
Because the sun is everywhere, even up there, and I think I know how the brits felt, coming here to this prying heat.
In this place that calls the river a beach, but where people can die without seeing the sea, can die without seeing my singing smoggy coast, in this place friends are an e-mail, and a battle with a modem-stealing sibling, away.
And the beauty I've become used to is even further.
In this place I need to learn again that the ants will bite your feet as you peg if you don't dance around the clothesline, and that grass has to be watered to be green. And I need to learn to drive to live a life.
This place that I left because a conversation about theatre might turn into a debate about whether those two girls should have kissed on stage.
And there's a risk of enjoying being a checkout chick, and a risk of being a sullen one.
This place where suddenly supermarkets are lonely places.
Where I'll take up moshing again, even though I left it when I left this town of a city.
Because it's only here, in this place, that I need it to beat out my frustrations.
This place where change collects on my bookshelves and I can't walk in my room for the childhood souvenirs. Where I have Billy Holiday and twenty-eight hats and a clothes dummy and family.
In this place where leaving is the only thing to do, sometimes I feel at home.
© Laura Smith 2005
Sunday, January 16, 2011
archive: Soft Furnishings
Published in Teetering on a Highwire in 2009.
Soft Furnishings
First week on the sewing machines
learning about dust on her teeth
and not to wear loose sleeves
Hannah got her thumb in the way of the foot
and needle-punched it
nail to print.
When she twitched her hand away
the needle broke off at the shaft:
pierced through her thumb
from nail to print.
And her thumb became a needle
the wound an eye
the yarn
threaded through the point of the needle
and through the eye of her thumb
was still yarn
to be threaded and stitched.
From other machines
came quick hands
used to threading,
took Hannah's thumb
and drew the yarn out.
Like every needle
her thumb felt the tug
of the thread
inside
and like every machine
her inner works
shuddered
but the needle
was steady.
In her shuddering world
Hannah was the needle
her mouth
the eye
that the thread of her cry
was drawn through
and, like every needle
she was steady.
© Laura Smith 2009
Soft Furnishings
First week on the sewing machines
learning about dust on her teeth
and not to wear loose sleeves
Hannah got her thumb in the way of the foot
and needle-punched it
nail to print.
When she twitched her hand away
the needle broke off at the shaft:
pierced through her thumb
from nail to print.
And her thumb became a needle
the wound an eye
the yarn
threaded through the point of the needle
and through the eye of her thumb
was still yarn
to be threaded and stitched.
From other machines
came quick hands
used to threading,
took Hannah's thumb
and drew the yarn out.
Like every needle
her thumb felt the tug
of the thread
inside
and like every machine
her inner works
shuddered
but the needle
was steady.
In her shuddering world
Hannah was the needle
her mouth
the eye
that the thread of her cry
was drawn through
and, like every needle
she was steady.
© Laura Smith 2009
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