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poetry

I settle up with Mother Sugar My rent for the winter is one confession, the deposit for the suit is a letter to the man who requested I wear it The bell is free (my own burden)   1 To open it, is to experience an event of whiteness, what Bachelard wrote about the almond of a wardrobe’s insides My heart is an almond, lost all its colour Don’t come upon it suddenly, it is very jeune fille, very little fellow, not for the opening   2 Dear […] I didn’t know I was a dog you didn’t want The dog’s religion: You whistled and I came
Extract from 'The Marriage Bureau'

Prize Entry

November 2017

Harriet Moore

In memory of Sandra Bland and Philando Castile   #1   Remember back in the heft of 2001? 7,227 items were delivered   to an old C&A in Oxford St – Landy sets up   a conveyor belt industrial shredders drills, saws clawhammers the violence of it and in them he puts his jeans his socks old shirts a stuffed toy bear family photos his car artworks his passport   he becomes       unidentitied              un-thinged   by white-gloved handlers   who place his belongings              gently into the shredder   or throw them into the trash compactor, joking              as if they’re on a production line   and they are, in fact, on a production line,              and then he is mediated by blades   and then, when he is              six tonnes of rubbish   it’s as if he has never              lived   all he can feel is his body his blue overalls   shock of cold air              on his neck   his eyes open his mother’s disappointment his father’s sheepskin jacket                           gone how could he he did afterwards,              his scalp is a buzz-cut tingle   his feet are holograms              he has never felt such who is the self where is he he is there and he is not there he is disappearing              the way men are always disappearing   in novels, and in pregnancies and here, in the gallery a man looks into his own life from outside dissolving – He makes a book              lists all the things                           300 pages a life he exhibits                           words
Breakdown

Prize Entry

November 2017

Seraphima Kennedy

BROOD   after Goya’s Pinturas Negras   Saturn never expected to devour his children,   his fingertips digging into their ribs, light   -headed Didn’t start out weeping, or sense   as he hid in his winter bath on that murky morning   up to his eyes gazing over   the loosely level surface that healed   its holes as his knees withdrew And he didn’t   remember it later that night, even after   he found dried blood in his nails The steady rush   was all he recalled, a creek after rain, a head slumping   forward, a riddle resolved One son he had raised   to the light like a t-shirt he’d worn   every day for weeks on end for a band   he could no longer stand             GROUNDED   if                                                                                                                                   then they                                                                                                                            climb nod off                                                                                                                your roof as static                                                                                                          hail a cloud drowns the anchor’s voice     

Poetry

November 2017

Three Poems

Eric Berlin

Poetry

November 2017

BROOD   after Goya’s Pinturas Negras   Saturn never expected to devour his children,   his fingertips digging into...

Proposition: The limits of our social imaginaries mean the limits of our worlds   1 Perhaps new forms of being require new forms of relationship   11 What is being anyway but gesturing towards an indefinite assembly of unknowable qualities & quantities   12 Categories of being are obstructive & injurious both to those who touch the social imaginary & those who don’t   13 Categories of literature are obstructive & injurious both to those who read it & those who write it   14 Concepts like ‘genre’ & ‘style’ are made-up words   15 Concepts like ‘female’ & ‘male’ are made-up words   16 New forms of being require new forms of thought, such as “that the distinctions between the beautiful and ugly, if made at all, [be] made arbitrarily”[1]   17 I have finally been turned on in the sense that “[i]f one of my works were to be turned on it would destroy itself”[2]   18 Perhaps the attempt to acquire reality through anti-illustrational action is the only meaningful endeavour   19 Francis Bacon says of Rembrandt’s Self-Portrait (c1659):   If you analyse it, you will see that there are hardly any sockets to the eyes, that it is almost completely anti-illustrational I think that the mystery of fact is conveyed by an image being made out of non-rational marks[3]   110 Perhaps belief in the necessity of sacrifice is the utmost achievement for all people at all times    111 Gabrielle Civil says:   Art of all kinds is not just the practice of making, it’s the practice of being in the world a certain way It’s a certain susceptibility, and it’s also sacrifice – the offering up of everything with only a few strings attached[4]   112 Perhaps being arrives through a sustained engagement with the act of thinking as embodied practice   113 If being requires a theatre of the social imaginary do we, the audience, bear responsibility for being’s staging   114 If gender is a “variable cultural interpretation of sex” perhaps our facility to intervene in gender’s [being’s] context(s) is likewise mutable & indefinite[5]   115 What is the difference between you & the thing that eats you – is it the fact
Three Poems

Poetry

October 2017

Amy McCauley