poetry
poetry
poetry
 | 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 and endpapers, and colour photographs throughout. I think you are a born poet. 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 |