Sydney Poetry

A social site for poets in Sydney.

Hello SydneyPoetry

Hello,

I'm William Zappa. I'm an actor, and have written (I call it) poetry for many years. Not much success in the publishing department but the urge keeps on coming. I'm also a lyricist and playwright, amongst many other things.

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Comment by Dermott Ryder on December 31, 2011 at 9:34: Good Morning William

Welcome! What an interesting and varied career you have established. I look forward to reading your work on Poetry Sydney.

However, I am a little curious. Are you the William Zappa with a website containing many images? [I particularly like the one with the gun and the grimace.] If you are not the website William Zappa which William Zappa are you?

If are the website William Zappa will you share an image with us [members]? After all an actor’s [and sometimes a poet’s face] may be part of his or her fortune. Why would a creative activist seeking the attention of an interested audience choose to face the world as an anonymous blue avatar?

Your use of the dreaded blue avatar begs the questions, Are you really William Zappa - actor, director, movement coach, fight arranger, tai chi teacher, lyricist, playwright and poet? Or have you purloined his identity for dark and devious purposes? Will the real William Zappa show us a photo and present us with a poem?

Regards

Dermott Ryder

Comment by William Zappa on August 4, 2012 at 11:08: Hi Dermott, I haven't been on Sydney Poetry for a while and just saw your comment.

Yes, I am he and here is a non blue avatar

and here is a little contribution:

Tsunami - The Tears Of Fish

It was called a wave

a wave

has a front it has a back

ocean swell determining thickness

ocean floor height.

A wave

has a front and it has a back.

It was called a wave

but what we saw was a rising

as if the whole ocean had decided

to be deeper all at once.

It simply rose

and kept on rising

no front no back

no Hawaiian height,

no Bells Beach break

no curling tunnel through which to race

to touch the blue and beat the foaming white.

A gentle slope really,

It was called a wave

and it was black.

A black wave rising

which flowed

or rather

pushed

its way into where it shouldn't have been

into schools and car parks

villages and fields, kitchens and toilets

factories, hotels and bedrooms

into people's lives

into families. Sweeping,

or rather

smashing

all

before its frightening face,

ripping hands from gripping hands

tearing hearts

turning them into shocked organs of despair,

leaving them high and dry

splintered caked with mud

soaked and cloaked in the heart of an ocean

washed away in the tears of fish.

Two days later through piles of school bags

a man searches for memories of his children.