Privacy Policy Cookie Policy
  • TABLE OF CONTENT
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 10
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 9
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 8
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 7
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 6
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 5
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 4
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 3
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 2
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 1
  • THE DREAMING MACHINE
    • The dreaming machine n 10
    • The dreaming machine n 9
    • The dreaming machine n 8
    • The dreaming machine n 7
    • The dreaming machine n 6
    • The dreaming machine n 5
    • The dreaming machine n 4
    • The dreaming machine n 3
    • The dreaming machine n 2
    • The dreaming machine n 1
  • CONTACT
No Result
View All Result

The Dreaming Machine

  • Home
  • Poetry
    A medley of artwork from Le braccianti di Euripide collective

    The dolls have pronounced it – Poems by Mohamed Kheder

    Ukrainian Poetry in La Macchina Sognante – In Solidarity with the People of Ukraine

    Ukrainian Poetry in La Macchina Sognante – In Solidarity with the People of Ukraine

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    Three Poems from “The Bastard and the Bishop” – Gerald Fleming

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    God appeared at midnight: Three poems by Bitasta Ghoshal

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    I dream of the tree of silence: Poems by Rafael Romero

    Always another curtain  to draw open: Five poems by Helen Wickes

    Always another curtain to draw open: Five poems by Helen Wickes

  • Fiction
    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    The Red Bananas – N. Annadurai

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    THE CULPRIT – Gourahari Das

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    A very different story (Part I) – Nandini Sahu

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    After Breaking News – Mojaffor Hossain

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    THE THEATER OF MEMORY – Julio Monteiro Martins

    Let the Rivers Speak! – Lucia Cupertino and the Poetry of the Global Souths, by  Pina Piccolo

    Fanta Blackcurrant – Makena Onjerika

    Photographer Sumana Mitra on her street photography and recent explorations of Surrealist techniques

    All the Sadeqs are getting killed – Mojaffor Hossain, translated by Noora Shamsi Bahar

    Photographer Sumana Mitra on her street photography and recent explorations of Surrealist techniques

    Here, Where We Keep on Meeting – Giuseppe Ferrara

  • Non Fiction
    Figures of Pathos  (Part I)- Salvatore Piermarini

    Figures of Pathos (Part I)- Salvatore Piermarini

    Plowing the publishing world  – Tribute to Brazilian writer Itamar Vieira, by Loretta Emiri

    Plowing the publishing world – Tribute to Brazilian writer Itamar Vieira, by Loretta Emiri

    Jaider Esbell – Specialist in Provocations, by Loretta Emiri

    Jaider Esbell – Specialist in Provocations, by Loretta Emiri

    Farewell, Silver Girl – Carolyn Miller

    Farewell, Silver Girl – Carolyn Miller

    Lino-printing fairy tales over Constitutions- The artwork of Mihaela Šuman

    Layers of overlap: theatre, cinema, memory, imagination – Farah Ahamed

    Architectures of Delusion –  Steve Salaita

    Architectures of Delusion – Steve Salaita

  • Interviews & reviews
    The Power of the Female Gaze: On Maria Antonietta Scarpari’s Artistic Practice – Camilla Boemio

    The Power of the Female Gaze: On Maria Antonietta Scarpari’s Artistic Practice – Camilla Boemio

    A new reality needed –  A conversation with Mathew Emmett, by Camilla Boemio

    A new reality needed – A conversation with Mathew Emmett, by Camilla Boemio

    Farewell, Silver Girl – Carolyn Miller

    A medley of artwork from Le braccianti di Euripide collective

    Sagar Kumar Sharma in Conversation with Santosh Bakaya

    Sagar Kumar Sharma in Conversation with Santosh Bakaya

    Sagar Kumar Sharma in a Literary Conversation with Sarita Jenamani

    Sagar Kumar Sharma in a Literary Conversation with Sarita Jenamani

    That’s how war left me alive – Wesam Almadani interviewed by Le Ortique

    That’s how war left me alive – Wesam Almadani interviewed by Le Ortique

  • Out of bounds
    • All
    • Fiction
    • Intersections
    • Interviews and reviews
    • Non fiction
    • Poetry
    M’aidez, May Day – Pina Piccolo

    M’aidez, May Day – Pina Piccolo

    Desperately seeking Marion: A Review of ” Women, Antifascism and Mussolini’s Italy – The Life of Marion Cave Rosselli”, by Isabelle Richet

    Desperately seeking Marion: A Review of ” Women, Antifascism and Mussolini’s Italy – The Life of Marion Cave Rosselli”, by Isabelle Richet

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    Tim Ingold’s “Correspondences” – Giuseppe Ferrara

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    But for plants there is no delegating: Seven Poems by Achille Pignatelli

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    Skjelv Du På Handa, Vladimir? / Does Your Hand Shake, Vladimir? –  Transnational Solidarity Project (Odveig Klyve)

    Skjelv Du På Handa, Vladimir? / Does Your Hand Shake, Vladimir? – Transnational Solidarity Project (Odveig Klyve)

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    The malice of desires feeds the power of my imagination – Poems by Mubeen Kishany

    Alahor in Granata: A Forgotten Opera by Donizetti – Fawzi Karim

    Alahor in Granata: A Forgotten Opera by Donizetti – Fawzi Karim

    EARTH ANTHEM : A eulogy of the Earth, its beauty, its biodiversity – Abhay K.

    EARTH ANTHEM : A eulogy of the Earth, its beauty, its biodiversity – Abhay K.

  • News
    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5:  Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5: Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE  FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

    OPEN LETTER BY A GROUP OF BLACK ITALIAN WOMEN

    OPEN LETTER BY A GROUP OF BLACK ITALIAN WOMEN

    Crowdfunding for [DI]SCORDARE project

    Crowdfunding for [DI]SCORDARE project

  • Home
  • Poetry
    A medley of artwork from Le braccianti di Euripide collective

    The dolls have pronounced it – Poems by Mohamed Kheder

    Ukrainian Poetry in La Macchina Sognante – In Solidarity with the People of Ukraine

    Ukrainian Poetry in La Macchina Sognante – In Solidarity with the People of Ukraine

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    Three Poems from “The Bastard and the Bishop” – Gerald Fleming

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    God appeared at midnight: Three poems by Bitasta Ghoshal

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    I dream of the tree of silence: Poems by Rafael Romero

    Always another curtain  to draw open: Five poems by Helen Wickes

    Always another curtain to draw open: Five poems by Helen Wickes

  • Fiction
    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

    FLORAL PRINT FLAT SHOES – Lucia Cupertino

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    The Red Bananas – N. Annadurai

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    THE CULPRIT – Gourahari Das

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    A very different story (Part I) – Nandini Sahu

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    After Breaking News – Mojaffor Hossain

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    THE THEATER OF MEMORY – Julio Monteiro Martins

    Let the Rivers Speak! – Lucia Cupertino and the Poetry of the Global Souths, by  Pina Piccolo

    Fanta Blackcurrant – Makena Onjerika

    Photographer Sumana Mitra on her street photography and recent explorations of Surrealist techniques

    All the Sadeqs are getting killed – Mojaffor Hossain, translated by Noora Shamsi Bahar

    Photographer Sumana Mitra on her street photography and recent explorations of Surrealist techniques

    Here, Where We Keep on Meeting – Giuseppe Ferrara

  • Non Fiction
    Figures of Pathos  (Part I)- Salvatore Piermarini

    Figures of Pathos (Part I)- Salvatore Piermarini

    Plowing the publishing world  – Tribute to Brazilian writer Itamar Vieira, by Loretta Emiri

    Plowing the publishing world – Tribute to Brazilian writer Itamar Vieira, by Loretta Emiri

    Jaider Esbell – Specialist in Provocations, by Loretta Emiri

    Jaider Esbell – Specialist in Provocations, by Loretta Emiri

    Farewell, Silver Girl – Carolyn Miller

    Farewell, Silver Girl – Carolyn Miller

    Lino-printing fairy tales over Constitutions- The artwork of Mihaela Šuman

    Layers of overlap: theatre, cinema, memory, imagination – Farah Ahamed

    Architectures of Delusion –  Steve Salaita

    Architectures of Delusion – Steve Salaita

  • Interviews & reviews
    The Power of the Female Gaze: On Maria Antonietta Scarpari’s Artistic Practice – Camilla Boemio

    The Power of the Female Gaze: On Maria Antonietta Scarpari’s Artistic Practice – Camilla Boemio

    A new reality needed –  A conversation with Mathew Emmett, by Camilla Boemio

    A new reality needed – A conversation with Mathew Emmett, by Camilla Boemio

    Farewell, Silver Girl – Carolyn Miller

    A medley of artwork from Le braccianti di Euripide collective

    Sagar Kumar Sharma in Conversation with Santosh Bakaya

    Sagar Kumar Sharma in Conversation with Santosh Bakaya

    Sagar Kumar Sharma in a Literary Conversation with Sarita Jenamani

    Sagar Kumar Sharma in a Literary Conversation with Sarita Jenamani

    That’s how war left me alive – Wesam Almadani interviewed by Le Ortique

    That’s how war left me alive – Wesam Almadani interviewed by Le Ortique

  • Out of bounds
    • All
    • Fiction
    • Intersections
    • Interviews and reviews
    • Non fiction
    • Poetry
    M’aidez, May Day – Pina Piccolo

    M’aidez, May Day – Pina Piccolo

    Desperately seeking Marion: A Review of ” Women, Antifascism and Mussolini’s Italy – The Life of Marion Cave Rosselli”, by Isabelle Richet

    Desperately seeking Marion: A Review of ” Women, Antifascism and Mussolini’s Italy – The Life of Marion Cave Rosselli”, by Isabelle Richet

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    Tim Ingold’s “Correspondences” – Giuseppe Ferrara

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    But for plants there is no delegating: Seven Poems by Achille Pignatelli

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    Skjelv Du På Handa, Vladimir? / Does Your Hand Shake, Vladimir? –  Transnational Solidarity Project (Odveig Klyve)

    Skjelv Du På Handa, Vladimir? / Does Your Hand Shake, Vladimir? – Transnational Solidarity Project (Odveig Klyve)

    Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo

    The malice of desires feeds the power of my imagination – Poems by Mubeen Kishany

    Alahor in Granata: A Forgotten Opera by Donizetti – Fawzi Karim

    Alahor in Granata: A Forgotten Opera by Donizetti – Fawzi Karim

    EARTH ANTHEM : A eulogy of the Earth, its beauty, its biodiversity – Abhay K.

    EARTH ANTHEM : A eulogy of the Earth, its beauty, its biodiversity – Abhay K.

  • News
    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5:  Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    REFUGEE TALES July 3-5: Register for a Walk In Solidarity with Refugees, Asylum Seekers and Detainees

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    IL BIANCO E IL NERO – LE PAROLE PER DIRLO, Conference Milan Sept. 7

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE  FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

    OPEN POEM TO THE CURATORS OF THE 58th VENICE BIENNALE FROM THE GHOSTS OF THAT RELIC YOU SHOULD NOT DARE CALL “OUR BOAT” (Pina Piccolo)

    OPEN LETTER BY A GROUP OF BLACK ITALIAN WOMEN

    OPEN LETTER BY A GROUP OF BLACK ITALIAN WOMEN

    Crowdfunding for [DI]SCORDARE project

    Crowdfunding for [DI]SCORDARE project

No Result
View All Result
The Dreaming Machine
No Result
View All Result
Home Poetry

So, listen: it’s morning now and the sky’s as blue as it’ll ever get”- 8 Poems by Mark Tredinnick

May 1, 2019
in Poetry, The dreaming machine n 4
The Poet Attends a Writing Workshop, or Summer in Spoleto – Carolyn Miller
Share on FacebookShare on Twitter

 

Fire Diary

 

 

Fire has stormed the mountains of his sleep, and he wakes in ruins.

There is ash

                                                     on his workbench; the six stories of his bookcase have collapsed

 

Into one, which lies on the concrete floor, and from it splay the broken

bodies of poems, leak

the lexical souls of reference books. He is a fireground, after.

 

Nature, he thinks, is bipolar and worsening with age. Manic,

one day, she spikes high

into the forties and runs naked, blazing with ideas, through

 

The foothills. Down again, the next, she looks out from under her hair

at the wreck she’s made

 and cannot think where to go from here. For days she weeps.

 

Is it possible, he wonders, to mourn like a forest? Like a house

that’s just a tin roof now?

For that is how he feels in the blue-black morning, but he hasn’t

 

Earned his sorrow. His is only risk fatigue—the shadow side

of beauty. Fire is the madness

                                                     in us all. And with it, periodically, he torches all his dreams

 

Of safety and starts over. When the future comes, if ever she comes,

she’ll speak, he knows,

a new species of language, in which one word for love will be fire,

 

And the other will be rain, and he will sleep like silence on the black terrain between.

 

 

Lotus Pond

 

For Major Jackson

 

If you want heaven, start in mud.

                            Begin transfiguration

Where you’re stuck. Take your pilgrimage standing

Up to your ankles in sludge.  And if the ground binds

                                     and if your boots stick, and if you step

Out of them when you set off; if the odour

On a summer’s day, when the water ebbs, is noisome

                                     where you begin, so much more pure

 

 

 

Your thoughts will be when they flower,

                            so much sweeter the garden’s scent when

You  breathe it in, so much more like birdsong

Your voice when you begin at last to speak.  Start underwater

                                     if you want the sky. Start in the abject

Underworld, if you want the lighted Earth; start among

The throng of ears that cannot hear. Sink in detritus, seed in

                            the strife that your life, and every life,

 

 

Falls into now and then: Serenity

                            springs from squalor; love is only love if it

Can bear the badlands out. These wastes—good for nothing more substantial—

Bloom light and outshine day. The lotus pond,

                                     a repurposed wetland well south of its days,

Is a perfect picture, empty, of the imperfection of your soul,

Helplessly in love with the vulgate particulars

                            of the secondhand world; in flower,

 

 

The pond is your Buddha self

                            at her ease; the Christ of St Thomas come down

From the cross. Freedom starts, but refuses to stay, in want;

Literature takes its first steps in slur and slurry.

                                      Put down roots where no one

Else can, in the compost of loss, in the suspect terrain

Of the only life you may ever get to grow in.

                            Nothing is wrong for long

 

And hope cannot stay lost,

                   if beauty can walk from the wreck,

And the lotus can raise heaven

                            from the dreck and the dross.

 

 

Notes:

  1. Christ of St Thomas: the Cross of St Thomas features a lotus
  2. well south of its days: “South of My Days,” Judith Wright

 

 

 

Cleave

 

Last night I sat on the seawall and watched a woman in a purple bra,

slow black hair falling past her waist, dancing alone in a lighted window

two storeys up at midnight. She danced mostly with her arms, as if she

were climbing a rope, her body twisting behind her. There are things

I cannot turn from, and this was one, a study in muted abandon, probably

 not meant for me. But hey. She was still dancing when I walked away

 

Like a thief. I live my life in curves, my love, and you live yours in fractals.

I hunger for form the way a martyr hopes for heaven. As if the shape

of things might fail if I don’t look on them and hold them close and write

them tenderly down. I long for the body of the world with a purity

that would shame a mystic. Sense is salvation. Men fall in love, they say,

through their eyes; women, through their ears. Which is lucky for me.

 

So, listen: it’s morning now and the sky’s as blue as it’ll ever get. Walk with me

around the point. Let’s see if we can piece the shapely world together again

out of its vivid geometry of chaos. Hear how the shalestones in the cliff wall

behind the beach want to teach you silence; see how the sea wants to preach

you wildness and fire. Beside the path between these two points of view, a

white moth flies from one yellow flower to the next, making up its slender

 

Mind. Below us, the rock shelf, a petrified map of several city blocks, is losing,

decorously and imperceptibly, its eternal argument with time. Out beyond

the whitewater, a hundred surfers, so many recumbent monks, bob their liturgy

of thanks for the first decent swell in ages, and two slick silvergulls play their

plangent voices out behind them down the break. Thirteen tankers wait out

the weekend along the horizon, and above, a small plane slopes insolently

 

South. The Bogey Hole looks like a Raymond Carver story waiting to happen

            to three men staring down the implacable sea, and a blue cattle dog behind

them chasing a lime-green ball, and a brownhaired girl wavering at the edge

of her mismatched bikinis, her breasts escaping no one’s notice. But we turn

and leave them short of their denouement, the sun a klaxon in the catatonic

sky, a blaze in your flaxen hair. The tankers have drifted together now like a pod

 

 

Of whales, a convivial moeity of heavy industrial behemoths passing judgment

on the current account. Down on Wolfe Street, a violin walks a chromatic scale

upstairs from the basement of the redbrick terrace at the corner, and a rogue

            tanker crosses the street below us at double time and a half—business that can’t

wait till Monday. But the world can wait till Tuesday, at least, to get its story straight

on us. At the docks, two cranes slowdance with midday, arms above their heads.

 

 

 

The Birds of Qionghai

 

 

ACROSS the shallow waters of Qionghai,

The shorebirds of Xichang send out their shot

Silk cries, bittersweet falsetto lines cast

In borrowed time and sung in tongues as wise

As other worlds, as plangent as the plaints

Of love.

Among spent lotus leaves, the mist

Sleeps late. Upon the pier, night heron bows

Her head as if the morning were a wake.

I punt still waters with my love, my friends.

We slice a silence ages deep, and calm

Descends, and mist relents and gives the sea,

 

Captive here among tall hills, back to all

The freedom of the skies.

In the middle

Kingdom of my years, like bamboo I bend

And—like the bird-belled silence—do not break.

On winter limbs six or seven shags rest

Like children spent from swimming all fall long,

Waterlogged as afternoons sluiced by squalls

And sad that holidays, like all things, end.

All things but the silence of the heavens

And the earth, given second birth in song

Across the shallow waters of Qionghai.

 

 

 

But Did You Ever Feel

 

For Lucy

 

 

But did you ever feel

more like a species

Of happiness, an inhabitant of tides, an oystercatcher among oysters,

Than you did late that day standing in the undertow,

lifting your small daughter high—

                                                           her cries an ekphrastic kind of weather

 

 

Pealing all the way out and all the way back—flying her high over sun-drunk waves

     that came like laughter and would not stop?

And no two syllables of that rising tide connoted anything like the same sea

Twice; each wave a child of the moment’s mind, each swelling

a telling of your whole life—and of the child’s life—

                                    a joke at death’s unceasing

expense

 

 

Inland

 

I

West of the divide smells like

sadness and eternity,

smells like ancient history

and forgiveness. Smells like red

gravel and white spinifex.

 

II

I take the plane’s rear stairs out

into the aftermath of

rain down onto slick tarmac.

Canberra. Brindabellas.

A good sheep station ruined.

Not far west, but far enough.

 

III

West of the divide, the land

smells like itself, not the sea.

It smells like country, old, old

rain, like cattle and granite.

Inland the air has the tone

of sheoak and cockatoo,

dry creek and geology—

a dry peneplain of doubt.

 

IV

Wherever you are, the smell

of rain coming or just gone

is the smell of the same rain

locally inflected. Here

it’s limestone and politics,

paddocks and poplars and grief.

 

 

V

West of the divide smells of

lichen and salt and dryness

itself, bore water and wheat

silos, crows’ cries and distance.

A continent of long time.

 

VI

West of the divide smells like

where you’d want to come from if

you knew who you really were.

 

—Canberra, November 2005

 

 

 

Splitting Wood

 

“Enemies—

Part of a world

Nobody seemed able to explain

But that had to be

Put up with.”

—Seamus Heaney, “A Herbal”

 

Splitting wood, I think of my enemy.

It seems to me a useful kind of striking

Back, feeding, as it does, fire with a better

Kind of fire: it’s an upcycling of lost limbs, a judo

Of redemptive violence, and it leaves no one

Very much the worse

for wear. I raise the splitter

High and swing it low, baffled by the poverty

Of my enemy’s soul, so very like my own,

Sorry to have been the cause of such banality

Of thought and word, but very, very certain

 

Of my aim: not at the log,

But through it. And when this afternoon—

Thinking of the head, in particular, of the one

Who’s chosen me as his work, and libel

As his play—when this afternoon

    I brought my splitter

Down, and brought it down hard, on what

I’d thought would be the toughest round

Of all, it split like a pumpkin and spilled a million

Termite larvae, pale unheavened angels, across

The rainy and all-hallowed end of day.

 

 

 

MARK TREDINNICK—whose many books include Almost Everything I Know, Egret in a Ploughed Field, Bluewren Cantos, Fire Diary, The Blue Plateau, and The Little Red Writing Book—is a celebrated poet, essayist, and writing teacher. “One of our great poets of place,” Judy Beveridge has called him. His honours include the Montreal and Cardiff Poetry Prizes, The Blake and Newcastle Poetry Prizes, the ACU and Ron Pretty Poetry Prizes, two Premiers’ Literature Awards, and the Calibre Essay Prize. The Blue Plateau, his landscape memoir, shortlisted for the Prime Minister’s Prize. He travels and teaches widely, in schools and at festivals, through Australia and in the US and UK, and he works with the corporate sector to explore the truths and graces poetry gives access to.

 

The Italian translation of these poems appeared in La Macchina Sognante N. 14. A special thanks to Lucia Cupertino for introducing us to this very thoughtful poet.

Article cover image: painting by Carolyn Miller, Missouri Woods – Spring N. 3.

 

 

 

 

Tags: AustraliaMark TredinnickmeditationmemorynaturephilosophyPoetryspiritualitytopography

Related Posts

A medley of artwork from Le braccianti di Euripide collective
Poetry

The dolls have pronounced it – Poems by Mohamed Kheder

April 30, 2022
Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo
Out of bounds

But for plants there is no delegating: Seven Poems by Achille Pignatelli

April 28, 2022
Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo
Poetry

God appeared at midnight: Three poems by Bitasta Ghoshal

April 28, 2022
Hunting for images in Guatemala City: Alvaro Sánchez interviewed by Pina Piccolo
Poetry

I dream of the tree of silence: Poems by Rafael Romero

April 28, 2022
Always another curtain  to draw open: Five poems by Helen Wickes
Poetry

Always another curtain to draw open: Five poems by Helen Wickes

April 26, 2022
Sagar Kumar Sharma in a Literary Conversation with Sarita Jenamani
Interviews and reviews

Sagar Kumar Sharma in a Literary Conversation with Sarita Jenamani

April 24, 2022
Next Post
No roses, thank you – Anna Fresu

No roses, thank you - Anna Fresu

The Dreaming Machine

Writing and visual arts from the world.

Poetry

“Pat the Meek Donkey” – Seven New Poems by El Habib Louai

  Hayat Belkacem (20/11/1998- 25/09/2018) She went swimming to Europe but she felt tired. She chose that way to flee ...

December 2, 2018
Interviews and reviews

The Racial Justice Point of View – Camilla Boemio Interviews Artist Jebila Okongwu

  Jebila Okongwu critiques stereotypes of Africa and African identity and repurposes them as  counter-strategies, drawing on African history, symbolism, ...

April 6, 2021
Poetry

Advice Concerning Politicians – séamas carraher

    Advice Concerning Politicians   Police your politicians police them with the eyes of a hawk, (no less) with ...

November 10, 2020
Poetry

from Duniyaadaari: Selected Poems by Nighat Sahiba

Poems of Nighat Sahiba A Peace Poem You kill people in front of me, I mourn And people kill you ...

May 1, 2020
Poetry

In memory where you dwell – Poems by Helen Wickes

IN PRAISE OF YELLOW   In sunlight through grains of sand and shell, or any small joy, the coherence of ...

April 30, 2021

Latest

The Power of the Female Gaze: On Maria Antonietta Scarpari’s Artistic Practice – Camilla Boemio

The Power of the Female Gaze: On Maria Antonietta Scarpari’s Artistic Practice – Camilla Boemio

May 4, 2022
M’aidez, May Day – Pina Piccolo

M’aidez, May Day – Pina Piccolo

May 1, 2022
A medley of artwork from Le braccianti di Euripide collective

The dolls have pronounced it – Poems by Mohamed Kheder

April 30, 2022
A new reality needed –  A conversation with Mathew Emmett, by Camilla Boemio

A new reality needed – A conversation with Mathew Emmett, by Camilla Boemio

April 30, 2022

Follow Us

news

RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT
News

RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT

by Dreaming Machine
2 years ago
0

3 SEPTEMBER 2020 – DEADLINE FOR RUCKSACK – GLOBAL POETRY PATCHWORK PROJECT   Rucksack, at Global Poetry Patchwork is an...

Read more
  • TABLE OF CONTENT
  • THE DREAMING MACHINE
  • CONTACT

© 2019 thedreamingmachine.com

No Result
View All Result
  • Home
  • Poetry
  • Fiction
  • Non Fiction
  • Interviews and reviews
  • Out of bounds
    • Poetry
    • Fiction
    • Intersections
  • THE DREAMING MACHINE
    • The dreaming machine n 8
    • The dreaming machine n 7
    • The dreaming machine n 6
    • The dreaming machine n 5
    • The dreaming machine n 4
    • The dreaming machine n 3
    • The dreaming machine n 2
    • The dreaming machine n 1
  • TABLE OF CONTENTS
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 7
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 6
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 5
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 4
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 3
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 2
    • The dreaming machine – issue number 1
  • News
  • Contacts

© 2019 thedreamingmachine.com

Login to your account below

Forgotten Password?

Fill the forms bellow to register

All fields are required. Log In

Retrieve your password

Please enter your username or email address to reset your password.

Log In