courtesy of Andrew Vincent Photography
Shared the poem, BRONTE and PLEASE SOUND HORN.
Which led to the response, “we saw it all and we could ‘smell’ your poetry, especially the ‘attack on the senses” that is India, and the blinding, peaking ocean that rolls into Bronte.
CJ Bowerbird, in action, in a line-up, spoke to Lisa Dempster, who later posted this on the MWF blog:
That poetry is WORK. That we must always believe in the link between creativity and value. That there is worth in this kind of work, that there is a direct link between the imagination and the quality of our experience, and in the wealth we create. The health we make. Creativity and profitability, how the two are actually entwined. That they are not separate. That there are lines out there in which we lose the will to live – that people will buy the WHY and not the WHAT. And in this kind of dialogue, the WHY is a poetry capsule swallowed whilst looking ahead, waiting to pay, purchase or pass. And the capsule has little bits of meaning in it, and meaning makes for motivation. And moving on.
Again, this concept of value- of valuable work linked to creativity. Not long now till we can link creativity and profitability in Education? And in our own value system? Not long now till we can forge a way through our strife using our imagination and it need not be instead of, or alongside, or beside, or because of, work. What is worth waiting for? What are we waiting for? What worth can we wind into waiting?
Long after a line up, Angela sent me this email. What I spoke to those in our queue cluster about, at this moment, was what I call a kind of ‘competitive positivity’ that I found myself immersed in having dropped into Sydney again. A kind of well-being one-up-manship, contrasted swiftly with being so long in Glasgow, where the conversational currency is more about including the dark AND the light- two ends of the one stick we could call Life. The surface level of Sydney, something so attractive because it also houses such a possibility of healthy heart, mind and body – was touched on in the poem that followed:
Sydney writers’ Festival has a shuttle bus which is full every time a session opens its doors. Qpoets came on board to share some words on the short journey to the Quay. I wasn’t able to stand up on mine due to OH&S regulations. A punter wished me ‘good luck’. I sat there clutching the program and a poem in my belly. Silently. A few words on a ticket stub, if curious:
q poetics 