This Saturday 2pm in Brisbane, The Hideaway will again host SpeedPoets for more Open mic poetry, local and interstate feature artists Matt Hetherington, Chloë Callistemon and Simon Kindt, music from Clinton Toghill and Mr Ocean, and Free SpeedPoet Zines.
Of course there’s CallBack poet for the month (so pack an extra poem in yer pocket in case you’re called up) to join Feb and March winners, Andrew McGowan and Savanu in the November final.
Here’s some more on our feature artists:
Matt Hetherington has just moved to Brisbane, and is loving it like icecream. He writes and reads, and also chases dj work and the odd dog.
The Sexiest Look is Up
from a book’s hidden
title, from a stranger
in a bookshop you can’t
afford, and she’s in some section
like ‘cooking’ or ‘law’
that you never go in
and you’re both not wearing black
all over, and someone’s drinking coffee
somewhere else where you heard a laugh come from
and you figure you may as well ask
if they have any anais nin
just quietly enough
and one of you looks
just a little bit too long
ok, it’s you
PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED IN ‘PASH CAPSULE’
Some need no introductions. We like her lots. She’ll be there somehow.
Perched high on the road, I
rumble through the desert.
The world is dusted
the colour of apricots.
A cow lies, legs in the air —
gas-fat, skin dried, drum-tight.
Once-orange work vests
flash sunburnt white.
In the silence post-4WD,
lizards rattle pebbles.
Sun soaks my camp, stains
a pool of sky.
Stars brand the night, hiss
through sweated dreams.
Dingo howls circle, noose
sound and reason.
Today’s sun rises through rotors,
beams slicing ridge tops.
Mudflat dragon-tails snake
away from twisting rivers.
Climb sandstone to reach
Scratched and tanned. These rocks
feel like home.
Simon’s work explores the sublime and the ordinary in the colliding territories of landscape, the body, and the whole human mess. He has an open, gentle performance style, a generous grasp of human emotion, and a willingness to carefully peel back the seemingly ordinary to reveal what lies underneath.
When I am a landscape I will say
what clear lakes you have kissed into me,
what sweet water your fingers have poured in,
what birds I see circling in your mouth,
what elegant feathers unfold across your arms,
what light this is that dances over bones,
that moves through skin grown thin through winter,
when these lakes reach up to break ice open
and all your swans come thudding home.