Welcome to Sydney Poetry!
This is a social site for Sydney poets to get together, knock heads, start groups for general and picayune interests alike, shout-out about opportunities, to thrash out issues and debrief bungles, to share events (festivals, readings, launches), photos and ideas, and generally stay informed.
The objective is to bring together some of the various Sydney poetry tribes, get some discussions going and provide a way for people both old and new to poetry in Sydney to find out what's going on.
As you can see the place is still a little bare, but it will grow and develop its own community and feel as time goes on. So join in. Comment on a forum topic
or even start one. Check out the groups
and if you don't see one for you, start a new group
. Add your poetry events
. Invite your poet friends to join
. For those interested in publishing poems here there is also a Members Poetry section
There's no membership fee and no middlewoman – there is though just a
bit of moderation
to keep it clean and on-topic.
The idea is based on the successful model of Sydney Cyclist
unlikely inspiration you may feel, but if you want a sense of how the Sydney Poetry site could work head on over there
to witness a vibrant social site in action. For the geeks amongst you the site is built on the same Ning
So once again, welcome aboard. The site is a work in progress, but if it's anything like other Ning sites, we could be in for a lot of fun.
Mulla Mulla Press
A Lifetime of Poems
“Prayers waiting for God” by David Barnes, edited by Janet Jackson and published by Mulla Mulla Press will be launched at Perth Poetry Club on Saturday 25 June 2 -4 pm at The Moon Café 323 William Street Northbridge.
Spanning a lifetime, crafted with care, spoken in David’s inimitable, gentle Australian voice, these are poems of the stark spirituality of nature, the meeting of eyes, hands and souls, the joy and bewilderment of birth, the tearing grief of premature loss and the horror of abuse. This is David Barnes first and last book of poetry
David Barnes was born in 1943 in Paddington, New South Wales; he was moved to Victoria as a ward of the state.
The effect of this upbringing has been a shadow on his life however it did not dim his determination to seek love and success which he chronicles in “Prayers waiting for God.”
David’s poems have been published in many magazines and anthologies both in Australia and overseas, and he has been involved in the Perth poetry reading scene.
He has been particularly active online, working and talking with poets all over the world.
In 1997 he established the online journal ‘Numbat Poetry Downunder’, named after the animal emblem of Western Australia.
Leaving school at age 13 he worked for 11 years in the carpentry trade.
He worked in Melbourne, then at the Woomera rocket range, and finally in the Northern Territory building aboriginal housing.
At 18 he took up folk singing and fingerpicking guitar and began to write. In his twenties he travelled, working at various jobs - driller, trench digger, stockman, petrol pumper, cook and playing at folk festivals.
David met his wife, Libby, in Alice Springs. David worked as a real estate agent until 1996, when Libby passed away.
David, living on a disability pension, was left to raise their young son alone.
For much of his adult life David has lived with a debilitating spinal injury.
If only I had known her
was the photo that arrived
on January 4th, 1999,
corners curled, brown with age.
In the photo
a young woman held a child—smiling,
rosy cheeks, blonde hair,
brown eyes gazing,
holding teddy—in her arms.
She had a gentle face,
rich auburn hair
curling around her neck,
a dress of deep blue velvet.
On her wrist
time stood still... captured.
Leather band, gold watch
on white skin.
She smiles, radiant, at me.
On the back:
Mum, July 1944,
David, thirteen months old,
11/11/1923 to 15/6/1994
David Edward Barnes.
It was me, a child.
It was my mother, a woman I never knew.
She was beautiful.
If only I had known her,
held her in my arms, wept upon her shoulder—a man—
and said, ‘I love you, mum.’
It's too late.
The photo came too late.
pale city lights behind him,
pink lipstick on that cloud.
tall & thin those canvas shoes
make no sound,
he stands still before my headlights
& stares back into me.
i could drive over him
(would it be murder?)
our street rolls out behind him,
a long tongue of forever.
He hasn’t shaved for a week:
what questions does he ask?
the whites of his eyes,
no moon, the darkness.