Tuesday, December 07, 2010

Retrospect

Little do I know, though I'm no Picasso,
I'm about to go through my own Blue Period.
A myriad of things are about to upheave my life
'cause I don't yet know that all is not quite right.

Right now, I think I've got it all sussed out:
got a job, got a plan, got a car and a man.
Within weeks, I'll have watched all these pipedreams burn,
but right now I'm thinking it's finally my turn.
Little do I know.

Though I'm free of my degree, at the age of twenty-three
the rest of my twenties stretch out in front of me.
After years of stringent study, I think I can agree -
little do I know.

My loving boyfriend, I'll find out that he just pretended.
In two weeks, on Facebook he will be defriended.
What I thought was fraught with promise will soon be ended,
but little do I know.

Why I'm tired in the mornings, nearly soldered to my bed,
why I sobbed right through a movie when I should have laughed instead,
why I can't get the hurtful things he said out of my head -
little do I know.

Though I'm no Picasso, I'm about to go through my own Blue Period.
A myriad of things are about to change my life,
'cause sometimes it takes a lot of wrongs to make things right.
But, little do I know.

Sunday, December 05, 2010

Australian Poetry Slam 2010

Read "The Bogan Rap" - the slam piece I performed at the Sydney Theatre Company last night, as part of the Australian Poetry Slam.

It was such an amazing night, with so many moving performances. I felt lucky to be able to watch all the finalists perform. One of the highlights had to be watching Kamahl perform "Invictus", and having him later congratulate me on my performance. And that voice - it is mesmerizing.

The results came in, and Perth didn't win, but as Allan Boyd always says - the real winner was POETRY. ;)

KP

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Nothin' says "gangsta" like a carpark


Heading into the WA Slam Finals.

We're going to Sydney!

Fellow Perth poet David Vincent Smith and I will be representing WA in the Australian Poetry Slam national finals this Sunday! We're flying over to Sydney to perform at the finals, which are being held at the Sydney Theatre Company. I can't wait to see all the poets from around Australia perform; it's sure to be a great night of spoken word. If you're in Sydney this weekend, check it out!

KP

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

WA Poetry Slam finals next Thurs!

Come see the WA Poetry Slam finals next Thursday night - 18 November, 7pm at The Bakery (Northbridge). I'll be performing, along with all the other loverly WA finalists. It's going to be an interesting evening!

KP

Monday, November 01, 2010

KP and Byron, chattin' up the airwaves

Myself and my good friend Byron Bard were invited into the plush red interior of RTRFM on the day of our slam heat, to talk about poetry and spit some words. You can listen to the podcast of the Morning Mag show here (we were on at 11.32am, near the middle of the last quarter of the show - does that even make sense?). Fun times in radio!

KP

Thursday, October 28, 2010

The Bogan Rap (lyrics)

I'm here today to tell you about a man - you might know him.
He is every man lining up for The Shed in Northbridge
and he is every man who still thinks Ben Cousins is a hero
and he is every man with a southern cross tattoo on his shoulder.

He bears the cross on his shoulder but, christ, he's not Jesus
(though he may wear sandals wherever he pleases).
He's crackin' a can of coke and Jack Dan
and lurching at me with his drink in his hand
and I've seen him, leaning out his Commodore,
keening on me like I'm a common whore.
I've got class, man, I like a conversation.
Been to uni and got me an education.
Yeah! This shit's tertiary, bro,
and I think you should know
to use your head
use your head
use your head
use your head.
Like John Stuart Mill said,
SHOW BITCHEZ RESPECT.
Show bitches respect, show bitches respect,
like Johnny Mill said, show them bitches respect.
...Uh, yeah, that's not quite what Mill said,
but you know what I meant,
though using the term 'bitch' was a detriment to my argument....

But I digress. Yes! Express my words with finesse.
Though this bogan everyman is causing me real stress,
'coz he's the loudest and the meanest and he's got cash, too,
and he's traded up the flannel for Armani suits
so he's harder to find. But the state of his mind will divide
him from the other blokes every time that he gets blind.
'Coz in his head, the world is neatly split into two -
so it's me and it's you
it's yours and it's mine
it's black and it's white
it's us and it's them and it's them and it's us
and everyone owes him
and it's not his fault
and his only ambition in life
is to drink every weekend and have a hot wife.
Such is life! I guess this is
the life of his missus -
tradin' her freedom for his seldom kisses.

So take your coke and your Jack
and a big step back,
'coz if you're crackin' on me, I feel sorry for ya, son.
I got 99 problems but a bogan ain't one.
Hit me.

Through to the WA finals!

Last night I (and my gold jacket) won a heat of the WA Poetry Slam, for my performance of "The Bogan Rap" (I'll post it soon). It's the first slam I've ever won, so I'm pretty stoked! Now I'm through to the WA Finals, which are happening at the Bakery on Thurs 18 November.

Joining me at the Finals will be my esteemed colleague, The Byron Bard. I urge you to check out his website, as he is a master craftsman of words. http://www.myspace.com/a_damn_good_thrashing

Werd,

Kaitlyn

Monday, October 11, 2010

Video of my first Cottonmouth gig!

Check out the video of my Cottonmouth spot here.

It features my poems "No men are islands, but some women are", "Spheres", and my first ever original rap.
I am most proud of my gold jacket, which I think is the classiest item of clothing I own.

Check out all the other rad performers on Cottonmouth's blog, and seriously, go to Cottonmouth, it's a great event.

KP

Monday, April 19, 2010

No men are islands, but some women are.

John Donne may have stated that no man is an island, but I’m sure that many women have felt like islands: lonely specks on the horizon, being lashed by rough seas. Gazing out across an empty ocean, waiting to be rescued. Ladies, if we could just see far enough, we would see that each island is just a stone’s throw from another. We are a sprawling archipelago of single women.

John Donne was right, though. No man is an island. Not the single men, anyway – they are driftwood. Floating in the seas, free but equally alone. Sometimes they wash up on an island, at the feet of a stranded female. Tired of the monotony of her empty beach, and of always drinking her coconut juice alone, the woman may be tempted to grab onto whatever piece of wood floats by. But we must be resolved. We must busy ourselves about the island, cooking fish over an open fire and even talking to volleyballs, because it’s better than settling for an eternity of drifting in the cold ocean, clinging uncertainly to a slippery bit of driftwood.

Sit on the beach, light your signal fire, and wait for your ship to come. Ladies, your ship is coming. And even if it passes you by, at least you’ll still be on your very own island, standing on solid ground. It may be lonely sometimes, but it’s yours.

Spheres

He pushed the cup around the counter.

‘Of course I like my life,’
he told the tabletop.
His grave eyes narrowed,
imploring me to stop.

He never smiled with all his face.

Opened up his law-books
and recited every word.
I put to him a question,
my zeal yet undeterred.

‘Don’t we all want something better?’

'On this flawed bit of earth,
in this bit of human mire,
isn’t everything we do
motivated by desire?

'A higher realm, a holier place…

'Some medieval men
saw the universe in spheres
that ground out divine sounds
too perfect for our ears.

'No one said that heaven was here.'

He shrugged and shook his head.
I knew my point was lost.
Deep dissatisfaction comes
from a chasm never crossed.

He never thought that heaven was here.

Wednesday, April 07, 2010

Driving

I can feel sleep creeping upon me,
threatening with oblivion.
My mind fights it like an ageing despot
refusing to retire, to become irrelevant,
convinced that the world will
fall to pieces in its absence.
I lean back in the passenger’s seat
and my mind whirrs on, unchecked.

Clouds sail on an urgent wind,
in the middle space between
the human scale and the infinite.
A shadow leaps onto a wall,
and for a moment all the lines are clear.
Then it is snatched away, and there is
only the blur of concrete.

We drive until it is dark,
until the street lights wink on.
The river’s black water betrays
the fluorescent inverted world.
Ruby, sapphire strata
stretch down to the depths,
spearing away from the land.

The overhead lights stripe
the dashboard yellow, flicking along
with metronome precision.
At the sound of street rushing
past beneath my feet,
my eyes close and I doze
like a fussing baby held close
by a tired mother.

Between slow, lengthening blinks,
I peer at the scenes swinging past.
A couple weaves its way
towards the city centre,
pinky fingers linked between them.
They have the languid gait of lovers.
Seagulls are wheeling in the air,
rising like a pale cloud
behind the darkness.
A man runs a hand through his hair,
standing with feet apart at the bus stop.

Glancing to my right,
I watch the capable hands
guiding the steering wheel.
Then, just the right song
crosses the radio.
The world eases by outside,
confident in itself.
Reassured by the constant motion,
my mind gives up control, slows,
and finally drifts into oblivion.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Written at Janet Jackson's Poetry Workshop

The TV starts to blur as my brain fizzes
with the bleak thoughts of a quiet Saturday night.
Tipped sideways on the couch with a downturn mouth,
I wish I’d gone out.
Over the soft sounds of Star Wars,
the Chinese New Year roars from my housemate’s room.
Deep in my personal gloom, I swallow the bitter taste
of acrimony. Because he’s really alright,
and he sat up all night with us on our New Year’s Eve.
I quickly shovel biscuits into my face
to stifle the growth of protests in my throat,
and reflect that Empire really is the best.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

the woman / the man

The woman crossed one thigh over the other.
One red pump sat on the floor
while the other rested in the air.
Slowly, she slid her naked heel
out of the hard, sleek shoe
and slid it back in.

The man reached behind his head
and grabbed the fabric,
pulling off his jumper.
For one moment his shirt lifted too
and exposed
the soft skin beneath.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Home

After all the photos had been filed
and the passport carefully stowed away
and the last bag unpacked
and the last shirt washed and folded,
she stood in her bedroom and looked around.

On instinct, she picked up her keys
and turned to go home,
half a second before she remembered
that she was already there.

But sitting on the edge of her bed
with the sheets she'd picked out
and her books on the shelf
and her pictures on the wall,

she'd never felt more homesick in her life.




Published on AustralianReader.com

Tarot Lady

She chequered the cards on the fold-out table
and spread them wide before me.
Choose five, she said, watching close.
I wondered what I was choosing.

Eyes on my face, she told me my fate.
Shuffle, shuffle. New job, new home.
Travel. Puzzles. Shuffle. Shuffle.
I nodded along; nothing was wrong.

I see a new man is dealt in your hand.
A lover, a saint. A hospital stay.
A car crash, a hero, a Taurus, a Leo.
A puzzle. A puzzle. A shuffle. A shuffle.

Happy! She said. And I twitched my head.
You will be happy, she piously said,
no doubt a line for every person she read,
but still I wondered.

Before

Before we were together
I never realised
how many cars on the road
look just like yours.

Tuesday, February 09, 2010

Luxury

We climbed out of the 4WD
and I was thinking about my shoes
or my hair frizzing in the humid heat.
I don't remember the drive there.
I was eighteen.

The locals gathered shyly, hovering
in the shade of their dirt houses.
I felt awkward, morbid
with First World guilt.
The adults hung back,
speaking only to my father.
The men crushed each other's hands
in Ghanaian grips, smiling fraternally.
Their teeth flashed white,
the colour of money.

But the kids.
The kids clustered forwards,
with their dark dark skin,
and their milky pale palms
creeping cautiously into mine
to examine my white white fingers.

The smallest boy stood in front of me,
looked me square in the eye
and grinned.
Gaping, rotting gaps greeted me;
a dentist's nightmare.
Staring at the stalagmites
in the cavern of his mouth,
I wanted to cry. I wanted to hide.
But he was still standing there,
grinning.

So I reached down to pat his head -
those coarse, tightly-wound curls -
as if in gentle benediction.
Then: TAG! I yelled and sprinted away.
The word meant nothing to him;
he'd never seen American movies
with plump children playing chasey,
but he knew what it meant
when I giggled and ran away.

Together we ran around the huts,
scattering chickens,
and the other kids joined in our play.
We chased each other under those trees
where cynicism is a luxury
and the flesh of the cocoa bean pod
is the sweetest treat.

I was eighteen.






Published on AustralianReader.com

Monday, February 08, 2010

New Year's Day

Speeding out of the sunrise,
on the first day of the year.
Eyes burning with hope,
eyes burned a hole
in the side of the road.
There lay a dog.

On her side, straight-legged,
neatly placed there by someone
who felt the thud, the crumple.
Who looked into her fading eyes
and sped into the cold night.

I waited with the body
until a car pulled up beside.
The man stooped over her, stared,
ran a familiar hand through her fur
and lifted her inside.
Her legs stuck at right angles;
I turned my face away.
In the rear view, the man grew
as he approached our car.

She's scared of thunder,
he began, as if to explain,
And fireworks too. New Year's Eve...
I swear I locked the gate.
I swear I locked the gate.

Her body shivered in my mind.
The world was booming and smelt wrong
but the ones she loved were all asleep,
all out of reach,
so she ran, escaped, across the street.




Published in dotdotdash, Summer 2009.