Poetic Licence @ Mildura Writers Festival

Our Poetic Licence event at the Mildura Writers Festival was a huge success.

The Art Vault was the perfect venue, the jazz singer was brilliant and the musicians (violin and flute) were beautiful.

Here is one of the poems I performed:

Double Stacked Shelves

My torn pair of Dunlop shoes
Walks over cobble stones
Slippery from a misty, lazy rain

My meat pie stained denim jeans
Rub against a lamppost
That may or may not
Lead to lands of Narnian persuasion

My Target brand T-shirt
Sporting curry stains and chip oil
Catches on a spiked door handle

Sporadic air vents warm my bristling arms
That laments a forgotten jumper
That laments a forgotten jumper

Book mould fills my nostrils
Building mould fills my pores
Pipe smoke fills my hair
My eyes fill the room

Braying for a bargain that will not break my budget
Braying for the mystery
That the hunter and the collector
Search for each time they leave shelter

The grey LCD display on my K-mart watch
Tells me to take my time
Tells me to take my time

I fall to my knees
Beneath double stacked shelves
Where old boxes that once held cans
Spill postcards on the hallway carpet
Of my misspent adolescence

Praying at the altar of bowed shelving
I know my time has come
To make a suitable offering
To the leprechaun bookstore owner.

© 2009 Barrie Janson

Now, as a bonus "extra" I will include the story that goes with that poem:

Postcards
Gloucester/ England/ 1998

There was a light misty rain making the cobble stones slippery.

It had become a habit for me to walk the long route home via the old wharf. The industrial days of smithing and ferrying are past. The cobble stones by the jetty now hold the weight of tourists; the lamp posts are used to shine light on their maps and the buildings house antiques. As the rain thickened I began to look for somewhere to shelter.

Walking quickly amongst the myriad of converted warehouses I discovered a secluded bookstore, as one so frequently does walking the back-blocks of old English towns. Every time I find one of these stores I can not contain the excitement that quickens my step even further.

Inside, the store was unremarkable. The entrance was forced beneath a stairwell, the carpet was old hallway carpet, the shelves were makeshift, the books were double stacked and the air was thick with cigar smoke.

It was the perfect place to rest and wait for the rain to ease.
I found a particular bookshelf that had several titles that piqued my interest. Grabbing a handful of books a sat down beneath the shelf to skim read for a while.

It was then that I noticed an old box tucked away on the bottom shelf. There is nothing more enticing that an old box hiding itself on the shelves of a second hand bookstore. Pulling out the box I discovered that it was full of most amazing postcards. They were elegant, periodic and something that I simply must own.

Turning to man at the overflowing ramshackle store counter I asked him how much they were. The man looked liked an ex-wharfie. He had a side beard/moustache of mammoth proportions, his clothes looked like they had grown on his body, his cap was eschewed and his pipe like it had been in the belly of Moby Dick himself.

“Two pound,” he gruffed.

“Two pound for the lot?” I replied incredulously.

“That’s right, me lad.”

Without hesitation I bought them and without hesitation I give one to you.