Tag Archives: Trudie Murrell

New Farm Park Ginko: Trudie Murrell & John Wainwright

                                                           garden wedding
                                                           storm clouds bring something
                                                           new to wait for

                                                                           *

                                                           waiting for the bride
                                                           pageboy and crow
                                                           compare suits

                                                                           *

                                                            under the Bay Fig
                                                            a violin plays
                                                            branches dip closer

                                                                           *

                                                            long summer
                                                            boughs outstretched
                                                            check for rain

                                                                          *

                                                             under the fig tree
                                                             crested pigeons fuss
                                                             house proud

                                                                          *

                                                                          poems by Trudie Murrell
                                                                          photograph by Cindy Keong

 

                                                           chattering birds                               
                                                           remove the ear-piece
                                                           when the mobile rings

                                                                            *

                                                           there is but one poem                    
                                                           this time a black ant

                                                                            *

                                                           the woman beside                            
                                                           the pregnant woman
                                                           rubs her stomach

                                                                            *

                                                           autumn breeze                                   
                                                           nothing is still
                                                           but my heart

                                                                            *

                                                           small light
                                                           a spider on
                                                           her web

                                                                           *

                                                                           poems by John Wainwright
                                                                           photograph by Cindy Keong

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Sandgate Ginko: Trudie Murrell

 

                                                             autumn shoreline
                                                             gulls and children
                                                             up to their ankles

                                                                             *

                                                             a storm cloud
                                                             hangs over the headland
                                                             deciding

                                                                             *
 
                                                             kelpie
                                                             on its day off
                                                             herds the waves

                                                                             *
 
                                                             caught
                                                             in the dog’s cocked ear
                                                             children’s laughter

                                                                             *

                                                             silence
                                                             shattered by
                                                             a flock of children

                                                                             *

                                                                              photograph by Cindy Keong

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Pinsky, Poetry & Questions of Division

In my recent trawling of the interwebs, I came across this post, which (initially) explores the question of whether poetry divides people. When faced with this question, I couldn’t help casting my mind back to last night at Confit Bistro and answering with an emphatic ‘no’, as the crowd that gathered was buzzing… brought together by the art of poetry. It was a night where the crowd felt united by the force of the words (and riffs) that resonated throughout the room. In no way, was poetry dividing this room.

And after reading the post in its entirety, I also felt that Pinsky had united the authors thoughts (and the 300 strong crowd of students) about the unique power of poetry. I agree wholeheartedly with Pinsky’s view that poetry ‘operates on the human scale’ and is ultimately ‘a physical thing – the human body the instrument which plays the notes provided.’

And last night, the instruments were playing some fine notes… it was a pleasure to share the stage with Trudie Murrell, Rob Morris and Sheish Money. One of my personal highlights was getting to drum with Rob & Sheish as they belted out a version of the Tom Waits classic, Come On Up To The House.

While I wish I could share with you footage of last night, Tom’s original is a mighty fine way to setlle into the this warm Friday night…

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Filed under discussions, poetry & publishing, who listens to the radio?

Poetry @ Confit Bistro

Confit Bistro has provided another much needed venue for poetry in Brisbane this year, serving up monthly helpings of fine food, wine and words. To round off an incredibly creative year, Confit are hosting one final event this Thursday November 25, featuring one of Brisbane’s finest emerging voices, Trudie Murrell, purveyors of poetic rock’n’roll, Graham Nunn & Sheish Money and Brisbane hipster, Rob Morris.

As an appetiser, here’s a poem from Trudie Murrell:

 

Home
 
Close your eyes, 
travel by moonlight wrapped
in the smell of shepherd’s
pie.
 
Back, through piles of
newspaper, cardboard boxes,
decisions made with numbers,
points on a map.
 
Back to the quiet,
back to the sea.
Your grandmother
waits here
I cannot stay.
 
Your legs will ache hollow
with walking,
keep going.
 
Past the weeping
fig with the whispering bark,
its branches
cascading sympathy
to the steps.
 
Eighteen,
of silver, sun
and wood leading 
up to the blue house.
 
Put your cool bare feet on the first,
the second, reach the tenth
step, feel the groove in the
middle smooth, warm.
 
Sit, lay your head in your
grandmother’s lap.  Feel the
moon, the two palm trees,
the mud flats all kissed by the
breeze that reaches your face.
 
Know that a woman sat here at dusk,
eating ice cream,
that this is where you came in,
that you are home. 
 
Open the small
bag of sighs I sent with you
and set them free.

 

Confit Bistro is located at 4/9 Doggett St. Fortitude Valley. Entry to the event is free and their tapas menu is not only super tasty, but very reasonably priced. Doors open at 6pm with the poetry & music firing up at 6:30pm.

So if you are looking for something to do this Thursday (November 25) come along and raise a glass (or two)…

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QLD Writer’s Week Feature #9 – Trudie Murrell

QLD Writer’s Week is winding up, but there are still quite a few features to come. Feature #9 introduces Trudie Murrell.

What excites you about poetry?

What’s not to be excited about?  For me, poetry is life, distilled.    The words on a page are exciting, the sound of it spoken, how a poem can change me.  I am excited to have so much poetry in my life right now. 

Living in Brisbane and writing and performing here I am surrounded by poets who surprise me, share ideas, encourage my writing and give me feedback.  I am reading, writing and hearing more poetry this year than I have in perhaps the past ten.    For the first time in my life, writing is not necessarily a solitary activity and that excites me.

When I work on a poem it swallows me up and though I am living, I am living through its filter until it is finished.  I love the feeling of finishing a poem, knowing that it works.  Poetry catches my ear, it makes me look at things closely, it makes me think and makes me wonder.  I find art and discipline balanced in a good poem.  It is a new and joyful experience to find myself with  people who say ‘yeah, me too.’

What are the themes that interest you / that you like to explore in your own writing?

The human experience.  I like to turn things on their head.  I write about things I see and feel and hope that others can relate.

Charles Bukowski once said, ‘poetry is what happens when nothing else can.’ How does a poem happen for you?

Finally my writing is assuming more of a disciplined routine, thanks to external deadlines.  Previous to this I’d potter about until a poem grabbed me by the shirt front and shook me until I sat down and wrote it out of me. Often I’d dream a poem and wake up to write it.  Now days I am trying to make time while my youngest child has her mid day snooze.  I’m trying to sit at a desk and focus while I write or edit.  Although I can still be found scribbling notes on food wrappers while children demand my full attention, the garden grows wild and the house work has to tend to itself.  I find I come grudgingly to routine – but it is worth it.

 

Waking Salome
 
The minutes stilled and folded
into the old chook shed.
On its threshold the girl,
a red plastic bucket,
the curl and release of
fingers on a handle.
 
Mid morning heat
flattened everything,
the breath from her chest,
the chooks on their nests,
corrugations in the roof.
 
A tentative step,
creaking of feathered
disapproval,
her grandfather’s face
nodding her on.
 
She reached the broody hen;
stab and sting at her temple
and the trail of blood
it’s beak had drawn
crossed her cheek.
 
In her grandfather’s hands,
glossy feathers and a half finished scream,
in her grandfather’s eyes.
only her,
full of his cracked open heart.
 
Triumph coursed cool
through her small
body, whispering
he would kill for her.

 

 
About Trudie:

I am a Brisbane writer, raising three children together with my enormously patient and supportive husband.  For the past twenty-five years I have performed and written plays, poems and prose for adults and children. I find poetry sneaks into everything I do. I have been published for the first time this year.

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Filed under interviews/artist profiles, poetry & publishing

Random Questions – Why doesn’t Thursday talk itself into coming after Friday? (Pablo Neruda)

Poetry raises so many questions that poke and probe at the mind. This Lost Shark has been trawling through some of his favourite poems and decided to take some of these questions and throw them out to the big wide world to see how people would respond.

The first question he sent out to the universe is one of many posed by Pablo Neruda in his classic collection, Book of Questions:

Why doesn’t Thursday talk itself into coming after Friday?

 Here’s what people have sent in so far:

 

Thursday has the joy of anticipating Friday – and anticipation is always the best part of the journey.

Jan Turner-Jones

but of course it does!  i’ve never known a thursday that didn’t come after a friday.  some days after, sure…

Bruce Dorlova

Because it is better to anticipate than to arrive.

Philip Neilsen

In the deepening twilight of the order of things, Thursday waits, with sheathed blade and bloody imaginings.

G.I. Lewis

Why doesn’t Thursday talk itself into coming after Friday? (Pablo Neruda)

Because as many times as Thursday
tries on Saturday’s football socks for size,
swishes about in Saturday’s hat (just right for picnics),
Thursday is destined to be a bridesmaid
– a lady in waiting.
Never to be Friday,
the celebrated last day of the working week.
Never to stagger bleary eyed into the scratchy Saturday light.
Thursday is always
to be relegated to late night shopping in suburbia
and a few quick ones after work
–it can’t be a big one, there’s always work tomorrow.
Thursday can see Saturday from where it is,
but it lacks confidence,
it drowns in it’s own mediocrity.
Thursday scuffs its feet with its hands in its pockets,
it can see Saturday but it can never be Saturday
no matter how much talking it does.

Trudie Murrell

Because Thursday holds the promise of Friday.

Sally Browne

Because Friday is too commercialised, and sells so much stuff to us for the weekend, to ever allow itself to be reduced to a Thursday, because if this happened Friday believes Capitalism would not survive.

Paul Wildman

It is the beacon still blinking
on the horizon, knowing this
is not our only hope.
It is the wind in our sails that assures us
we’re still moving.
It is the dream, so much stronger
than the touch.

mr oCean

Surely because Thursday is pay day for pensioners?

Jason Darling

I love Neruda’s Book of questions. I find echoes of them in Cornelia Parker’s installations http://www.artseensoho.com/Art/DEITCH/parker98/parker1.html – Uncurling an unseen world. There is something sublime in melting the solids of concepts like days of the week in your imagination. I can’t remember who asked this first, but I love the question ‘Why do we remember our past but not our future?’ Questioning destabilises. In schools we are taught to answer questions not ask them. To ask these sorts of questions asks us to look at where symbols end and a non-human reality begins. We create systems with which to make meaning then forget they are our creations. Who decided to name the days of the week? Baudrillard said ‘illusion is the most egalitarian, most democratic principle there is, everyone is equal before illusion, whereas we are not equal in front of the world as ‘truth’ and ‘reality.’ Neruda’s questions mediate a way to this space, effect a partial recovery of what is ‘lost’ allowing the world it’s illusions back. So much we search to make meaning from is a non-physicality. Neruda poses questions as a gift back to our imaginations, juicy to think that the unpresentable can only really come forward as missing contents. Now that’s poetry ha!

Amanda Joy

It goes back to the Norse gods and the creation myths. To times when the world as we know it was being born, a time when the foundations of society were forming and truths of the psyche were becoming part of humanities archetypal psychological makeup that have since reached into the present with only superficial changes to the fundamental differences between the men and women who have sired the generations, the previous that bring our forefathers and nay our mothers too into the present day, bring us to an age old point of contention that began with Thor and Freya, the original namesakes of our modern day Thursday and Friday.

Thor: (breathless) I’m trying and trying not to…..

Freya: Oh please just talk yourself out of it, think of me as the witch living at the other end of Valhalla…

Thor: Oh no, it’s too late…

Freya: (Sigh)… Thor dammit, no matter how much you try and talk yourself out of it, it seems this woman will always come last.

Bremen Town Musician

 

I don’t know about Thursday but talking of ol Pablo put me in mind of that Simpsons episode where Bart sells his soul and then finds he can no longer laugh at Itchy & Scratchy..
Bart; “I know its funny so why aren’t I laughing..”
Lisa; “well, Pablo Neruda says that laughter is language of the soul”
Bart (with quiet dignity) “I am aware of the works of Pablo neruda.”
quote from Encyclopedia Simpsonica
The Reverend Hellfire

So what is your response to this question? Be sure to post it in the comments.

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