Sunday, December 31, 2017


 Awarded an ARTErra residency in Lobão da Beira, Portugal - April 2018

ARTErra is a structured artistic place in Lobão da Beira, a village in PORTUGAL, near Tondela, district of Viseu.

ARTErra is a private structure of incentive for artistic creation in a quiet and green small village, which aims to facilitate en­counters between different artists and aesthetic disciplines. ARTERRA is strongly committed to offering the residents a cheerful and productive stay. Because of that, part­nerships have been established with the Municipality of Tondela and Lobão da Beira for reception and possible presentations of performative works,  exhibitions, workshops, lectures, etc.

They offer two distinct spaces: the house where the residents can do the meals, rest, meet other artists. In the other space, the “creation yard”, with different work places, ateliers, sound and image studio (also with recording cabin), blackbox, documentation centre and peaceful gardens.

My Project - the same as for the South of France - AIR LE PARC

The project is titled “Random” a collection of prose poetry that allows me freedom to choose subjects, objects or unknowns, wherever the muse strikes, thus giving the work a sense of freedom and liberation from theme.  Many poems are inspired by nature, the landscape or simple objects that are often overlooked. As part of this project, I place my work as a cross-cultural platform on Instagram with links to Facebook, Twitter and my Blog. This is a way of connecting with other poets on a world scale, increasing an online readership and connection. Ekphrastic poems also feature in the collection. A poem titled “Vase” highlights Portuguese pottery. And poems like “Rugs” and “Canvas” are inspired by paintings by disabled artists. Resident artists would also be inspirational for the work. Therefore, the time and space occupied at ARTErra looking at Portugal’s landscape, the environment (nature), its architecture, and other artforms would not only be inspirational; but also invaluable.
  

I applied with the following elements:
= Project(as above)
– Curriculum Vitae; and Bio
– Portfolio, videos, photos, = 10 prose poems + Instagram screen shots.
– The date of the residency has been accepted as from 9th April to 30th April (with an extra day for travelling).

 I upload my photography (or image) plus the prose poem to Instagram where I have 134 followers.



Thursday, November 23, 2017



I have been awarded a writing residency at AIR LE PARC! Very excited that I can spend time in the countryside of Southern France with the idea of looking at a historic landscape, the wine region, the environment especially its unique architecture.

http://www.airleparc.com/en/e-overAir.html

My Project 
The project is titled “Random” (prose poetry) a work that allows me freedom to choose subjects, objects or unknowns, wherever the muse strikes, thus giving the work a sense of freedom and liberation from theme.  Many poems are inspired by nature, the landscape or simple objects that are often overlooked. Ekphrastic poems also feature in the collection. The poems “Rugs" and "Canvas” are inspired by paintings by disabled artists. “Sklent” looks at old, ramshackle houses and is inspired by a painting titled Leaning Carriage House by Laurel Daniel.

Focus, Process, and Illustration
Currently, I have 40 poems (re-worked at times) and my goal would be to increase the collection to 70 poems. As part of this project, I place my work as a cross-cultural platform on Instagram (with links to Facebook and Blog). This is a way of connecting with other poets on a world scale, increasing an online readership and liaison. Currently I'm working towards these aims, and I am already following a great community of poets/ writers/ artists worldwide @ evangelynepoetry 


Monday, November 20, 2017



A Bottlebrush is not a Brush

More beautiful than a brush that goes inside a bottle. A bottlebrush is a bush, a single hot colour but not a scorpion. Its spikes are fronds, little sticky stamens of pollen, not ordinary but splendidly made. Spring bounces them into houses to spread inside walls - unordered among an order of photographs on coffee tables; windows reflect the wild spread of green leaves, red flowers, it could be Christmas.



Monday, November 13, 2017


Sunday


The faith was gone, but not the spirit. One Sunday I felt suffocated, among the darkened room of my home, the summer’s heat outside. I didn’t want to be with my friend anymore, so I moved my car, parked it under heavy trees along a lonely road. I walked back with the keys, a little deceptive. Everything changed when I opened my front door. The cautious atmosphere that I felt before, among thick draped curtains, crowded with dust, became a backdrop of forest and river. A gate opened without a lock, and across a field of sunflowers, foraging parrots were pretty in pink feather. A children’s playground in twisted Escher turns bespoke large green ladders to long blue holes. I was able to walk along feeling the tingle of new sounds, the hum of a busy road, and I knew when I drove home that Sunday night, I would sleep well and dream.




Tuesday, October 10, 2017


The Gift

Bought from a nursery, a plant of yellow everlastings, so papery they almost speak. Sometimes you buy a gift you do not want to give. Prior to its wrapping, it sits on your kitchen table, reminding you of garden shows, spring festivals, country roads and fields of flowers like an endless basket, a soothing tapestry. The gift’s previous life tingled with the touch of water, a breeze above its roots; stems reached tall above the variegated pinks, creams and lilacs. The selection sat in a cultivated paddock beside grazing horses, their noses snorting into the wire. The moment the flowers were uprooted from the field they were pruned, pounded and potted. Unperfumed perfection. But you had to give it over. Their green leaves and little yellow faces marked for celebration, the smell of birthday cake. Tiny golden fingers orchestrated inside a yellow pot, budding and growing - open by day, closed at night.

Friday, September 22, 2017


Tom Cox is a writer I have been following recently on all social media platforms. I was first alerted to him by my daughter who insisted that here was a writer to look out for. He especially has a love of cats, and being a cat lover myself, I decided to follow him on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and also read his blog posts.
    Tom is a Nottinghamshire-born British author, now based in Devon. He has published nine books, including the Sunday Times bestseller The Good, The Bad & The Furry and Bring Me The Head Of Sergio Garcia, his account of his year as Britain’s most inept golf professional, which was longlisted for the William Hill Sports Book Of The Year award. Between 1999 and 2000 he was the chief Rock Critic for The Guardian newspaper and went on to write columns and features for many other newspapers and magazines, before quitting print journalism altogether in 2015 to write pieces exclusively for his voluntary subscription website. He also hosts a monthly show on the experimental radio station Soundart. His new book, 21st Century Yokel - “a nature book, but not quite like any you will have read before” which crowdfunded in a record-breaking seven hours - will be published by Unbound in October, 2017.
  Tom Cox posts news of his books, his philosophy on life, family and especially tales about his cats, Roscoe, Ralph and sadly The Bear (who has since died). He highlights his writing with his own personalised photographic record, and sometimes a video of Sweary Cat. His concerted efforts to self-promote have gained him as many as 23.6K followers on Instagram, 69.3K on Twitter and 805,000 followers on Facebook (approx).

Tom's views on publishing his latest book 21st Century Yokel with Unbound.
As I began to write 21st Century Yokel, I could see other potential commercial decisions ahead of me that had nothing to do with whether or not the book ended up in the Pets section of Waterstones. I had sold all of my previous eight books to publishers on the basis of a synopsis and two or three sample chapters. Being sensible and thinking about my own financial security, I would do the same here. But to do so I would have to package the book with a very rigid theme that appealed to a sales department. It would need to be honed: made into a “journey”. Unfortunately, the word “journey” - if used in any literary sense - makes vomit spontaneously appear in my mouth and I enjoy writing a synopsis roughly the same amount that I enjoy crawling about in heavy sleet cleaning up the contents of a split bin bag. I know why synopses need to exist but writing them is, in many ways, the opposite to writing books - or at least all the factors I most enjoy about writing books. It’s unfreeing, self-branding, corporation-pleasing. My favourite non-fiction books are on quite diverse subjects but tend to have one uniting factor: none of them would have made sense as a three thousand word pitch. I do not think it is any coincidence that my worst book, Educating Peter (reminder: don’t buy it), made for the pitch that was most exciting to a publisher. A book needs coherence and rhythm and theme but coherence and rhythm and theme are often a mystery that can be hit on only by doing one thing: writing that book.”
His website : www.tom-cox.com

Wednesday, September 20, 2017


Vase

In some obscure town in Portugal the potter left his mark. When did he finish it? Where were the fields of yellow daisies? When the object went into the kiln, did he think of the blue sky he once laid under by a river with his lover? The potter had enthusiasm for its shape and contour; tall and robust, small neck like a woman. It appears to have something that men think about. And men think about fields, country roads, edges and woods with the strong scent of spring. The vase will be thirsty for his plucked yellow daises, valentina, or gold acacia, for her table.


Tuesday, September 19, 2017

To be published in Plumwood Mountain Journal

Flute of Milk by Susan Fealy
Perth, WA: UWA Publishing, 2017.ISBN: 9781742589398

I recently visited a small country town in Western Australia and attended Saturday morning markets. I bought a small plastic tray for $3. A memento I assumed from the seller by visiting the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam. It’s amazing when serendipity occurs. Imprinted on its surface is Johannes Vermeer’s painting the Milkmaid. after The Milkmaid’ is an epigraph in Susan Fealy’s first poem titled Made in Deflt, and perhaps the first line conveys a museum visit, where ‘White walls melken the daylight’.  

Ekphrastic poems loom large in this collection. However, as a reviewer I’m not here to praise how well Fealy defines these works as an inspiration for her poetry. They are merely a backdrop for her visceral language that creates a kind of Droste effect; an image within an image, or her words over art-form: the map of the world / has been painted over.  

Only a woman, blond
Light from the window,
Her wide-mouthed jug
And bread on the table
One can almost taste the milk
Escaping her jug.    Page 15

An emotional response to this work might be through an ecological valence. The poet responds positively to coloured environmental objects, cultivating Henri Matisse’s blues. A certain blue penetrates your soul is a quote from Matisse and used as an epigraph to the poem A Confluence of Blues. Colours are conveyed in sensual language and are a visual experience for the reader. Fealy uses the sense of sight (even sound) to convey her unique expressions of blue; ones that indeed penetrate the soul.

Blue
The frequency
of light that lies
between violet and green
Arthur Dove once said
Painting is music of the eyes.
A fleet of blues flute violet
others oboe green.       Page 18

This collection published by UWA Publishing is enriched with Fealy’s use of known-mediums such as Literature, the Melbourne Museum, The Oxford Dictionary, a Sculptor, as well Australian Artists and Poetry. All are referenced as “Notes” on Pages 75-76. Michael Sharkey suggests in his review of the work. ‘Fealy’s references “go beyond description of the objects and processes of each object or art-form she considers, to suggest an interest in the causes of artistic inspiration across all the modes of art that strike her eye and mind. On the face of it, her poetry is provoked by surprise confrontations with arresting verbal accounts of events and phenomena, and with artistic work in other modes than poetry. Visual art, plastic arts, film, flower-arrangement, ceramics … they’re collisions of eye with object.”

These lines are highlighted from For Cornflowers to Sing (Still Life with Cornflowers, Brett Whitely). And The Vase Imposes.

For cornflowers to sing
each line must scar
its making

There must be light
and the idea of a window   Page 65
………………………..

The Master of Flowers respects
the economy of nature ─

confines them
in slim vessels, quells
a mad thirst with still water.  Page 66


The Milkmaid (on plastic)



to be continued when published ......


Wednesday, September 13, 2017

Elvis Presley's Pink Caddy

50s Cars

You saw them go by. Sometimes on the spare-tyre back carrier – an immobile army of kids.  50s cars moved through the town with chrome headlight bezels and concave grilles. Some were toothy tail-finned dream machines. The Oldsmobile, with flying colours, 202 horsepower engine, went like a Rocket. The powerful Pontiac proved performance with pleasure and profit. Elvis cruised in a pink Cadillac, crooning a tune in cool leather seats. The Buick convertible thrust manual transmission, while wolf whistles followed its swerve through the streets.
    Under a clearing of clouds on a blue day, people waited at the top of a hill; a convoy of expressions as midday shutters went down. An FJ Holden drifted into town, whitewall tyres, classy black-and-white upholstered seats, green roof top, a shimmer of chrome. At the other end, a Chevy gurgled and shifted its dicky seat. The men looked up and down the street at one another, displaced dust in the rumble of engines. Kids lined the sidewalk, thrusting arms. It was a strange form of experiment, a game, a massive attack of bravado and wheels – entertainment for everyone!


Thursday, August 31, 2017



Cups

Beside the plastic, one by one, in order of country, are the cups.  There have been more cups ruined emptying the dishwasher. Right now, the quantity of cups keeps increasing, squashed in, at the back of the cupboard. They’re like friends visiting one another. The Guernica cup (Picasso) from Madrid abuts the English Wren from Shrewsbury.  Black as Guinness, an Irish mug with a Dublin shamrock, sits beside a Japanese Noritake. These cups dressed in bright colours have travelled extensively. It’s privileged porcelain!
    There are two cups that are almost identical, one in green stripes, the other purple. The green states, The Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler; and on the purple is scripted, A Room of One’s Own by Virginia Woolf. A ‘his and hers’ literature collection – owned by one.

Wednesday, August 30, 2017



The Lamp
       First be a magnificent artist and then you can do whatever, but the art must be first.  
            (Francisco de Goya)

A young father buys a 70s Beetle fender that houses a chrome front light. The man radiates the glow of restoration, but barely has the funds. He posts the finished photograph of his invention for his son. There it sits in its separateness, still, upright, neat in a corner window, balanced on a block, polished, grinded, painted to look so perfect in its skin, its dim lighting. In the darkness of a room, now a renovation, the lamp-fender glows with a dual switch of light. Low beam for warmth, or high and bright as a car might shine on a midnight run. It’s deft, intrinsic work.
    Perhaps in the lateness of night, when all is quiet, the lamp groans into ignition, twists itself away from a boy’s restless dream – grumbles, just a little – to purr toward a great expanse of naked road.

Monday, August 21, 2017


Op-Shop

In a quiet suburban street, ladies visit the aisles of secondhand clothes. Hands separate racks, touch other lives that have come before.
    The young girl, sitting on a bus, straightens her blue pleats, and just around the corner, as if time hasn’t passed, wears a black leather jacket with studs. Later, she buttons a pin-tuck shirt for the insurance company, and on her first date, in that long-legged netted look, zips up her high-heeled boots. At the military ball, she awards the dance floor and all that gaze on her in desirous ice taffeta and strappy, silver stilettos.
    You don’t see the girl now, but the garments are laid out. The pleated skirt, the black leather jacket, the pin-tuck shirt, the taffeta ball dress, the stilettos, and tan knee-highs; all racked and marked in the same display, looking out the same window for a new owner, a new life.


Monday, July 31, 2017


Cushions


Cylindrical cushions rest beneath the intent of breezes from circling fans. An Indian décor lifts them to ornate couches where the room is a long passage to prayer. The man in the turban carries tea to guests, while an image of the same man looks on. Both men know the same room; one will walk past three couches spread with purple, yellow and pink cushions, while his mirrored image will pour tea for guests in the next room. 

Thursday, July 20, 2017


Rugs

The streets seem less hostile, save for the mud. Nothing is left of the artist’s hut, all doors and walls are missing. In a state of exhaustion, he leaves his worthless home. The road to another town, a battle of wagons. The streets converge. There are more streets than he remembers. The man looks out and all he can see are colourful blues, ochre lines and carmine. His whole perspective changes. He goes down into the richer shades, away from the battle of his life. Inside the brilliant hues of wool and cotton, the rugs soften him, as a child might play in the tunnel of their weave. When he comes up again from his hiding, he is smiling, embraced by the warmth of this beautiful kingdom of rugs.

Tuesday, June 20, 2017


The Pinnacles are a weird limestone forest situated near Cervantes, about two hours drive from my home.  When you walk around them they have very unusual shapes, and are almost Gothic like a parade of old souls, esp. at dusk when we took these photographs. I don't think I would have liked to stay after dark! Many have characteristics of human beings. There's Darth Vader, Astronauts, Aliens (big & small), Greek Gods, an assemblage of Monks, The Great Hulk or an Egyptian Pharaoh. The more you travel around them, the more they become people. You begin talking to them and imagine these stone monoliths like those on Easter Island. These individual rocks were not placed there by some ancient ceremony, apparently they were seashells in a deep and rich marine life. The shells were broken down into lime-rich sands that were blown inland to form high mobile dunes (Wikipedia).

The Pinnacles

You need two hours to notice them
like a parade of souls
the shape of weather

They appear like rock
shaped, perhaps placed
but are not

Some stand large
like astronauts, yet the surface
is sand, not moon dust

Sunset on a windless night
figure and shadow
line ready

as if
to march on.






Monday, June 19, 2017

This is a tongue-in-cheek post. I thought it high time to reveal the trials, tribulations and struggles to get Cat Boss aka Shibby to come and go through her "Sureflap". What is a Sureflap?    
The SureFlap DualScan Microchip Cat Door is suitable for multi-pet households to control the access of your pets both into and out of the house. The DualScan Microchip Cat Door allows you to restrict some pets to indoors-only, while others are allowed outside and back in again. Any intruder animals attempting entry are kept out.  A surefire solution to stop rogue cats entering while you are at the supermarket, away on weekends, or on your overseas trip. Reviews reveal that most cats take to the door straight away. After all, many cats like to eat and eat constantly. A bowl of food or biscuits for these hungry little moggies will be temptation enough to enter this clicking, plastic door. However, some are very slow to learn, like Cat Boss!

Interview with Cat Boss
HH:  Was this cat flap a good idea for you?
CAT BOSS: Um, I didn't get it. I had one in the laundry flywire door. I was happy coming and going through that!
HH: So, you don't like change?
CAT BOSS:  Nah. I'm only a little short-stop, you know, I have a thin svelte body, not much meat on me. And then I had to navigate this heavy plastic door, duh!
HH: But other cats go through it easily. Why couldn't you?
CAT BOSS: Well, at first, it scared the life out of me. This thing was click, click, clicking you know?
I didn't know if it was locking, out of order, or whether it had a time bomb ready to go off. It's an old saying, but "scaredy cat" is quite true of cats. That's me!
HH: Why was it a struggle, since it was designed for you and placed inside the kitchen window for easy access, with pot plants around for privacy!
CAT BOSS: I suppose you could call me a difficult cat. Or maybe because I'm getting on in years. It's a bit like - 'you can't teach an old cat, new tricks'.  That's me to a "tee". I didn't like it. I wanted my old door back (which you taped up). I know, I know, neighbourhood buddies can get in the old way..I get that, but there should have been a flywire Sureflap. That's what I wanted all along.
HH: You might not understand, but the Sureflap is new technology. It works by reading the chip in the back of your neck. It can only let you in with that chip number and no other cat. Hence, your neighbourhood buddies (ferals) can't get in and eat your food.
CAT BOSS:  I wondered what that last trip to the vet was all about. He kept fiddling with my neck skin.  Oh, now I get it. I'm carrying a wire, like a secret agent, whoa! You mean, "Mean Ginger" the local Tom can't get me?
HH:  That's right!  He can't get you, because you can race through and escape any fight or confrontation. Now, do you like your Sureflap?
CAT BOSS: I guess. But hey?  Update, dah, dah!  I go through, now. Whaddya think about that!
HH:  I am pleased. What changed your mind?
CAT BOSS:  Oh, come on. You know.  You kept me hungry "all day"  and 'cause it was winter I got freezing cold outside. Just wanted to get in and get my gourmet tuna with crab strips. Guess, you were a bit fed up after 6 months of training, hey?
HH:  Any owner would be.  I tried everything. Posting you through (that didn't work). Calling you with food the other side. Tried tempting you with your favourite cheese. Opened the flap in increments, first leaving it open and taped up, then propped up with a plastic water jug and then the final straw was a bulldog clip. I nearly gave up!
CAT BOSS:  Oh, I'm just difficult, but you spoiled me!
HH: I spoiled you because you were a stray.  I also thought you were smart, but stubbornness is something I wasn't expecting. Then I took advise from everyone, using what's called "Tough Love". It worked, thank goodness.
CAT BOSS: I butt the Sureflap with my tiny head. Just want to get my biscuits and stuff.  

I can learn anything, duh!
 

Monday, June 12, 2017


Almost Human

At night there's the limbering
the extended stretch

Off to bed at ten
to her side, which is
your side surrendered

In the middle of the night
an unexpected weight
aligns the warmth of pillow

A cat will enter your silence
be silent, until a nasal breath
enters your ear

A partnership co-exists
each one knowing some little thing
about the other

A cat knows how to fill a void
when to comfort, yawn or stretch
to be
almost human.


Sunday, June 11, 2017


 



 


This is a tribute to my male cat, Buddy. Gone now for 2.5 years. It has taken me until now to write about him, as at the time, of course, I was very sad, but I had also lost my partner of 12 years. I realise now what a real treasure my boys were. Especially, Buddy. He protected the property with such zealous determination that eventually it got the better of him, winning most fights with other tom cats, that he died of cancer - a feline lymphoma lump that developed near his neck. I put it down to a series of bites. He was a little tiger at times, and often came out worse than his opponent.

Wednesday, June 7, 2017



Kangaroos at Donnolly River Mill

Sundown marks a gravel expanse, the warmth of ochre lines. Kangaroos gather round, and like a painting of an old town, the open space is their space. The backdrop is the old mill, almost down, an historic treasure not known, a timber mill hailing a gold mine, soon to be ground, not preserved, unkempt, not kept, renegated to its knees. Roaming emus grumble, try to please. Small to junior joeys encircle, nudge close as if you’ve food. They’re in arms reach, a trick they’ve learned from passing tourists. How many? Approximately eight or ten. Further up, large does and bucks join the group, to form a troop. It’s affectionate protection. Movement is slow, when food’s a no show. It’s a leg up, back prised, the way forward is a soundless bound, an amble with no scramble to other tufts of grass. It’s a country juxtaposition! This court of roos moves freely among trees, towards fences, cross corrugated gutters, the gravel of an old track. It’s a poetic trifle, a zoological trick. The old mill, a security risk, is encased in razor wire.


Artwork: Arts Centre Cafe by Daniela Selir (1994)

Entering this competition as part of my writing practice. My story is a bit bleak, however the artist Daniela Selir would have known about the Fremantle Arts Centre as a historic women's lunatic asylum (1865-1901). A blue figure on the top right hand dormer window is not there by chance. And so I have capitalized on this, the knowledge of the cafe, its history and because I teach there each Friday fortnight. The cafe being the writers' favourite place at midday.

The 2017 City of Rockingham Short Fiction Awards offers more than $5000 in prizes.

A Brush with Blue

I wanted the day to go faster, the morning to take its course. I walked by the comfort of the ocean, over the bridge, past the cubed design. I reached my favourite place, the Arts Centre Café, had a glass of mulled wine. It was soothing and delicious. I never made it at home. I couldn’t put a finger on it, but there was something peaceful about the complex: vintage rooms, very gothic, artists mingling, the general public enjoying exhibitions, as well as the coffee.
      I told the receptionist about the cardigan I’d left behind, and that I’d return the keys so she wouldn’t worry. I knew where the window was. Found the dark room, eased open the latch, lifted the frame slowly and climbed out onto the roof. Not much point rushing things. Midday under the blue canvas umbrellas, and the courtyard was packed mostly with women, laughing, chatting over tea cups. Probably been to an art class; pastels, water colours or ceramics, something like that. I wanted to do oils once, before the baby.
      I was too young to have a baby. Alex, my boyfriend, was passive and wouldn’t help, or discuss my desire to terminate the pregnancy. When I went full term, my parents doted endlessly, pleased about having a grandson, the little fellow’s fuzz of black hair, running in the family. Said his little ears sat like pressed cauliflowers alongside his head. Father laughed at the bright twinkle in his opal eyes. Like stained-glass windows or more like a bright morning vista, rising over the hillsides.
      At six months, I couldn’t believe he was real. The birth certificate stated he was real. And all the baby photographs that lined the window coffee table showed little grasping fingers touching everything; a padded bottom sagging in blue leggings, spring bouncer hanging from the doorway.


An empty space left.  I put the bouncer in the recycle bin. It had lifted the paint, leaving two holes in the lintel.
      The handyman never turned up.
      I couldn’t bear to look at the photographs any longer, so I shoved them in the bottom drawer.
      Alex didn’t feel sorry for me. He blamed me. ‘I told you, over and over, get some help.’ That’s all he could ever say, when he was around. Three nights a week he went out, down the pub, to a card game or to footy training. He never even changed a nappy. He didn’t like the crying. I didn’t get any sleep, either. So I don’t miss his nagging. Blah, blah, blah! ‘This is wrong, that’s wrong, what’s to eat?’
      He wasn’t going to marry me anyway. Good riddance to bad rubbish.
      I had a suitcase packed for a long time. Just wanted out, too many questions. Why this, why didn’t you do that? The baby looked so still. I couldn’t see the colour of his eyes anymore. All babies’ eyes are blue, aren’t they?  
      Father said I needed to rest. I wondered about the severe conversations with the doc outside the door. I think they said I wasn’t to mix the vodka with the pills.  Ha!
      I know I had the baby, but I didn’t recognise him as a baby. He was Conrad. Conrad wouldn’t stop crying. I screamed at him. I screamed at this creature, this vile creature. Screamed and screamed at the blood on the wall.
      Oh! the headaches, my temples pounded. My parents only nodded and cajoled, but they didn’t understand. They couldn’t help, and they wouldn’t answer their phone, but that was when mother got sick. At the time, I grew afraid of the dark. I know that sounds stupid, coming from a grown up, but the dark side scared me.


I cried like a baby when mother died. One year after Conrad.  Father stayed barefoot and remained in his dressing gown all day.  I waited for his voice to return. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t. He got all choked up.
      Last night I went to the river. The waterfront was not considered a safe place because of other drowning victims. Hundreds each year took the long plunge off the bridge, and hundreds more simply waded into the water. I thought it would be easier there as despair collects in the night’s veil of humidity. I thought I heard someone scrabbling up the bank, and there was a trace of a foul, brown odour. I guessed mud or detritus. But it was as if the river had regurgitated one of its dead. Late into the night, it wasn’t uncommon to see writhing shapes caught in the tidal stream, or the black symmetry of heads bobbing in the little hollows of waves. I had to tell myself they were just shadows made by the pattern of the moon’s glow.
      I had to get out of there. I walked towards the Town Hall. It was late, but I managed to grab a newspaper left in front of a newsagent stand. There was nowhere to leave any money, so I figured I owed them.
      The river was a horrifying place, that’s why when I woke this morning, the idea of sneaking through that window at the Arts Centre occurred to me; a curtainless window high enough on the second floor so that I could look out over the lawns, treetops and gardens. An old historic building, peaceful in its repose. I knew I could climb higher if I had to, secure myself behind a chimney stack before finding the right ledge, the right footing. The secret is, you never look down, only up or sideways.
      I had been there an hour when I heard a loud siren. It scarred the life out of me, but I managed to hang on. Some sort of fire drill, I assumed. I could hear voices closer to the windowed room, then a series of muffles and thudding shoes descending the stairs.
      One o’clock and classes seem finished. Not the diners in the café, though. I wanted all the women to go home, I wished really hard that they would all go home.
      What? What a commotion! Hey!  What the…? One of the women, who I spotted earlier under an umbrella, butted out her cigarette, her puff of smoke aimed towards me. The café waiters, three in all, had gathered in the courtyard, their necks craned upward. Someone pointed at me, calling out a nasty profanity. Another café patron arched his hands like window shades over his eyes, his face askew.
      The air burst an arrangement of shouts, ambulance and other sirens. Not again, I thought. It happened last year, and the year before. They’ll show my diaphanous dress on the seven o’clock news. They always spoil things for us.
      I heard the constant, crazed megaphone pleas. Now a man in uniform raised the window higher, held his hand out towards me. I couldn’t believe that such a large body could squeeze through that tiny space. So this time, I decided to move around to the east wing. Down below, there was a man in a white coat, other uniforms, someone calling. I spotted six or seven firemen guiding a white trampoline into position, and this policeman barely able to walk over the slated roof, reached out again, begging me in a silly voice, the five fingers on his right hand splayed out, wavering them back and forth like he was trying to grab my fragile, svelte body.

      I didn’t want another man, touching me, ever again, so I jumped.


Copyright (c) 2017

Thursday, June 1, 2017


Reflexive Writing Lesson Workshop
Ideas for Prose Workshops

In the past I have uploaded first drafts of my writing, including poetry, flash fiction, short stories and novel chapters.  I have had some success as a published poet, however, writing like most artistic pursuits does not attract an income. On my new blog, I have included "Creative Writing Lessons" for sale @ $5 (via DDT/email) or $8 PAYPAL.
All my lessons are structured, highly researched and readily available for the conscientious writer/tutor/teacher, and your support would be most welcomed.
Check out these lessons at Writing at the Centre -
http://writingatcentre.blogspot.com.au/

Email @ hagemann_helen@hotmail.com for a DDT
OR
PAYPAL: Note PayPal also has Credit Card facility

Monday, May 29, 2017

https://www.instagram.com/helenhagemannwriter/

Social media has its benefits for the writer. I especially like Instagram where I can upload all my photographs of nature, the cat, holidays and the like. I decided to reveal my true identity on all social media channels. After all, what is the point of hiding under a pseudonym or a moniker of your initials. I am Helen Hagemann, mother, grandmother, friend, nature lover, editor, reviewer of poetry and amateur photographer. I also write! To date, I have several poetry books, two novel manuscripts and I am writing a third novel called 'The Last Asbestos Town'.  This latest novel is about the eradication of  "ALL" asbestos from the world. So it's set in the future when there is public enemy No. 1. In other words, too many people are dying from asbestos related diseases and the commodity has to be destroyed whether in pure or established form. My novel focuses on one town, "Farmbridge" and is loosely based on Collie, WA. Fortunate for me, having visited the town many times I have the perfect building. The local Girl Guide Hall - a perfect setting for a murder, a ghost, and a building that wants to be saved!



Wednesday, April 5, 2017



Kangaroos together in the zoo, and

As the clutter grows and people mingle, they

Nuzzle side-by-side. They're

Ground feeders, finding food,

A close pair, too close to part.

Rumps jump, a travel stop. Is there

Offspring in the pouch?

Oh yes, one leg hanging out.

Bounty

Bounty
Prose Poetry

The Five Lives of Ms Bennett

The Five Lives of Ms Bennett
A Family Saga

The Ozone Cafe

The Ozone Cafe
White Collar Crime

The Last Asbestos Town

The Last Asbestos Town
Available from Amazon

Evangelyne

Evangelyne
Published by Australian Poetry Centre, Melbourne

of Arc & Shadow

of Arc & Shadow
Published by Sunline Press, WA

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Helen Hagemann MBA (Wrtg): ECowan

Helen Hagemann MBA (Wrtg): ECowan
Author & Poet

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