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going for the eggs in the middle of the night

This book is a beautiful piece of work.
Kate Wild, Cordite


   

This self-published debut collection has sold more than 1300 copies and attracted reviewer comparisons with Julian of Norwich and St Teresa of Avila.


The total effect is of a first-rate artist at work.
Kerry Leves, Overland



adrift


ever since that first night
when you let me share your peaceful tent
you have found something in me that I like
you have cooled me with your pure, clean, silent light
your gaze shines in my blood
like the moon on the water
and somehow everything I do, I do otherwise since you

your bed is like a lighted boat
that sails when my mind is calm:
a boat from an ancient country, whose oars dip
quietly into the dark water's silver
the stars float on the sea like bread
and in the wake the dim fish rise, seeking company
I want to cast myself adrift:
I know now I am almost all water

this body is pining in me for its home
that seats its hollow floor with ships, swinging and sighing,
surging and sighing
like birds with weighted wings
that seeds its lonely untended beds
with salt, to raise the precious produce of the sea
I long back, and long to dissolve myself
back home into the indivisible splendour of the water
that sheathes the burning earth
the dance in its lonely walk




Beautifully printed on recycled art papers and studded with well-timed visual and verbal puns... photographs, collages, found poems (Overland).




   




comb the sky with satellites, it's still a wilderness

Of my two favourite books of poetry, Cathoel's is one.
Sandy McCutcheon


   

The new collection, published 2012 on creamy recycled papers, hard cover, sumptuously bound with salvaged cement bag covers & endpapers. Colour photographs throughout.

Cathoel Jorss is a born poet, her work is original and full of hope, her lines ring with urgency and music.
Robert Adamson


smuggler’s bonnet


the place my fingers gladly guard
snugglers’ cove, my cloven hoof
woody and strong, it toughens me,
a stain that’s impossible to shift

the long chain of life lies down in me
space station that soothes the hemless sea
and the cat likes to sleep on my little headland
this crook, the limb that invented home
this narrow fissure in the bone
above a private beach, and others like it,
domesticate everything within reach

to make a country of myself I swim
but my strokes never stitch the grieving water
albatross wings follow me
like flies tied to a flock of strings

for years I’ve worked my passage home
with the sounds of the sea always chafing the shore
when the moon relinquishes its bone
I lay my eggs above the tide
a country full of strangers

the sleeper cell awakes in me
a dog stiffening on the leash
a meerkat, a ferret could have me now
collapsing the wet sand into the sea
for solitude reproaches
my heart approaches again and again
with charcoal fingers its inbuilt cousin
pushing a flower of soil in my mouth
lining me with humus
like a grave turned inside-out


   




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