It's like a chain mail this site. My friend in Italy was one of the five recommended by another poet and I was one of the five recommended by him - and I made sure i recommended five Australian poets. In a year or so the people in america who run it - will look at making a book. cheers - jen ----Original Message Follows---- From: Alison Croggon <[log in to unmask]> Reply-To: Poetryetc provides a venue for a dialogue relating to poetry and poetics <[log in to unmask]> To: [log in to unmask] Subject: Ars poetica Date: Tue, 16 Jan 2007 10:43:54 +1100 In connection with Jon's posts, this Ars Poetica blog is pretty interesting http://www.logolalia.com/arspoetica/ I expect most of us have an ars poetica poem. This one is mine: Ars Poetica It will make no difference. But you'll find you can't speak without love although it's an imprisonment. Your voice must be love wrestled to unloving, the lyre at the moment of catastrophe, a silence within which another voice opens. You'll speak as you must, as always, although you'll never know why you're listening through the elisions of your stuttering heart. You'll long to finish, although nothing has happened, although you haven't begun, as if your mere being hurt you with abundance. No one will explain. There are wounds that blind you, sudden voices splitting into winter, toothed windows, terrors sifting through white slumbers of corruption, the wraith that greets you with your shrinking face at dawn, anonymous and violent, waiting for Virgil. Because you have tasted your salt in the blood of another's mouth, because a small flower is eating the history of stone, because you are asleep and all possibility tilts on the edge of your vision, because you are nameless and are called, because you know nothing - a possible music lifts through the panic of dismay - it's the blue of all the flowers of your body, the brain stem, the clitoris, the tongue, the wrist vein, the channels of the heart, the dying lips, reaching to their likeness in the sky, in the sky's waters - you can't lift it out of your flesh because it won't exist, but it flowers past you. It opens the places you've always been, house, fire, glass, bed, water, tree, night, the child's glance which strews your transparencies across a field of colours you have no name for, the profane ash of touch darkening your tongue, the dream of imperishable silver which wakes to another dream, a boat departing from an unmapped shore, and your crumbling words, unable to hold even one drop of light. -- Editor, Masthead: http://www.masthead.net.au Blog: http://theatrenotes.blogspot.com Home page: http://www.alisoncroggon.com _________________________________________________________________ Advertisement: Fresh jobs daily. Stop waiting for the newspaper. Search now! www.seek.com.au http://a.ninemsn.com.au/b.aspx?URL=http%3A%2F%2Fninemsn%2Eseek%2Ecom%2Eau&_t=757263760&_r=Hotmail_EndText_Dec06&_m=EXT