CJ Bowerbird

A Plea to Open Mic Poets

2012-01-10T20:13:00.000+11:00

Do not introduce your poem. Please.

If you feel you have to say something, at least do not tell me what the poem is about.

You do not own your poem. As soon as one word leaves your mouth on its way to a listener's ears, the poem no longer belongs to you. It is a gift. Each audience member receives your poem as a unique and personal version of what you wrote. Do not spoil the gift by placing conditions on your giving. If you tell us the meaning, you limit the way we can receive your poem.

Like any gift, a poem brings surprise and discovery. Let your audience unwrap your poem for themselves. Let them absorb your words and discover their meanings on their own. Never spoil the surprise.

Please, please, please. Do not introduce your poem.

Warhol's Wisdom

2012-01-07T20:50:00.000+11:00

Recently, I was fortunate to view an installation of Warhol's Shadows, 102 screenprinted and handpainted variations of a photo of shadows from the corner of his studio.

I find a lot of inspiration in other forms of art, but in this case the accompanying Warhol quote captured my imagination and humour:

'Someone asked me if I thought they [the Shadows canvases] were art and I said no. You see, the opening party had disco. I guess that makes them disco decor.

This show will be like all the others. The review will be bad - my reviews always are. But the reviews of the party will be terrific.'

Bridge

2012-01-05T20:46:00.002+11:00

You feel alone, as you climb my steel side,

But you are the same as all the others, all alone,

Who come at night, more often after rain,

To mount my rails robotic in the metal light.

Some jump, some drop, but all fall alone,

Ride silent a moon shaft to the river’s skin,

A muffled shot their end.

The river throws up its arms , always throwing up its arms,

As if to say: ‘Again? You toss another life at me?’

But it never rejects the offer,

Always slides that life inside its cold pocket,

As time rewinds,

The water fingers fold back into place

And the river’s face as if nothing happened.

The river lies.

I know a light just died in a home someplace.

The river never stays to listen.

I am a constant, a coefficient,

I dampen commerce’s restless leg

My backbone carries the current of the city

I take the warmth of rubber and internal combustion

And through my arms and legs on the banks

I bury it deep in the earth.

You feel that, through your feet on my rails,

Your hands on my cables? That mantric hum?

There is more life in me than in that shifting creek;

Beneath its scales there is no buzz

Just a wet muffle,

Where you would be dissolved cold as a fish.

In the river you will stay alone, disconnected.

But my ribs sing to you the world out there.

Step down and press your cheek against my deck

Let me relay your heartbeat

Share my heat with you

And make chords with your sighs.

We Are the Poem

2012-01-01T20:44:00.000+11:00

Listen:

Can you hear it?

We are the poem

It is in our water in our voices streaming its rhythm in our temples beating

It is the dreaming, the metre beats through the soles of our feet in the earth beneath us

Our eyes following birds through sun blushed skies brushed by the flames of beach bonfires

It is holding hands; it is first kisses

3am conversations and shooting star wishes

It is music it is here

As light as babies’ laughter and as dense as old men’s cellared tears

It danced like prayers on Plato’s lips as he rested

The poem is in the way she sways her hips when she walks,

The way the sun sheens as he lays bricks bare-chested

You are the poem

You are a symbol, you are meaning

Each of us a line

Together we make tight stanzas

Can’t you hear the way we rhyme

When our vowels arc electric across our lips

Can’t you hear the way we rhyme

You are born to know this, your mother whispered the poem through the red curtain of her belly

Our lives are performed in the round to subliminal libretti

When we die our funerals are merely rehearsing

Our pieces remembered resonance resounding

I am the poem

I can feel it like static crackling along my skin

My pen hand twitching

It’s voice in my throat itching

And when I share my woeful hoarse echo of the poem it is a remembering

Like, yes, this is home

Sometimes we forget to listen

Sometimes we lose our place in the chorus

And it takes the kindness of a stranger,

Coffee conversation pauses

Or the knowing curiosity of a child to restore us

Come, let’s rehearse the verse that skips on our tongues

Come, let’s lay down the words that our fingertips know.

Listen. You can hear it.

We are the poem.

Captain Cook Fountain

2011-08-27T21:14:00.000+10:00

A wedgetail quill,
Held quivering aloft
By a submerged black fella's hand,

Turns into the wind.

Feathers flicked leeward
At the nation's wheelhouses

Vaporise within sight of the coast.

By the Power of Greyskull

2011-08-18T15:39:00.000+10:00

You know, this is a little embarrassing

But last night, with the kids all at sleepovers

And the wife out of town, I,

I built a fort in the lounge.

I capsized coffee tables into a castle wall

And on the tall backs of dining chair joists

Hoist a sheet ceiling over a great hall;

Released seat cushions were jigsawed into a crazy paved floor

And a corkboard became a drawbridge door.

A sign from the ripped side of a

Cardboard box was the final touch;

Pinned to the sheets, it read:

‘No girls aloud’.

When all was done I stood wide legged proud

The King of Chateau Awesome.

Arrayed in my finest kingly armour

Of ugg boots and flannelette pyjamas,

With ceremony I entered the castle keep.

With the portcullis raised

And my head back through the castle gates,

I surveyed all my lands, of

….the plasma TV.

Where I watched the Goonies and Stand By Me and,

I don’t care, but I hid when they found the boy’s body

I drank creaming soda from the bottle and

Ate Cheezels one by one in sets of ten

Crusty,

rust-coloured

rings.

I raided the shed and on my Walkman played Kiss tapes while I

Read to torchlight the Avengers and Swamp Thing and X-Men.

I even worked out how to plug the VHS into the DVD

So I could watch my collection of G Force and Masters of the Universe on TV.

I fell asleep giggly and warm, thinking of She-Ra and how I had a sword and that made me someone, and though I woke slightly sick, lips sticky with soda syrup and crusty cheese crumbs, I think I felt better than I can remember I ever have.

Anyway, I’m not sure that she’d understand, son.

So, please keep this to yourself

And don’t tell your mum.

Sunday Night is Paranoid

2011-08-14T18:26:00.000+10:00

Sunday night is paranoid.

When the alcohol clears out

Taking the ladders but leaving all the snakes;

Unease seeping up my back in creeping shakes.

Sunday night is paranoid.

When the alcohol flees my body

Like islanders escape the volcano;

Shame down my face in lava flows.

Friday night, Friday night is short-sighted;

Friday night has twelve hours to live;

Friday night is a taser, charged;

And a lifetime of sweet static to give.

Friday night and I met briefly

As we passed outside the first club

When the lizard in my head tasted the air

With his tongue and grinned, knowing and smug.

Sunday night is paranoid.

When self-pity is jaundiced and bloodshot

And bile tastes like guilt;

Feeling in the mouth like relationships spilt.

Regret sticks like a night-club floor

And smells of sick sweet booze;

Crude sketches of memory appear uncalled

Like Saturday night tattoos.

Sunday night pins my eyes open

Imagined or remembered films running.

Friday night’s flotsam rising and rising

With nausea waves and waves coming.

Sunday night is paranoid.

Never again will I drink.

Sunday night is paranoid.

What will the rest of the week think?

A poem from the past

2011-08-07T20:58:00.000+10:00

Three things compete for my favourite element of poetry slams: experiencing the audience's reaction to my poetry; hearing the performances of others; and talking to the fascinating people who turn up to these events. At last month's Traverse Poetry slam, I met someone I had not seen for twenty years.

It was a very nostalgic meeting, for several reasons. One of these was that my re-found friend reminded me of the period of my life when I last wrote poetry regularly (but not necessarily well). (And not to say that I write well in this period, either).

This poem was inspired by her. It makes me cringe a little now, but I did smile when I dug it out of an old notebook.

That Black Foal

(For Danyell)

Look there! That black foal that

Dances and speeds

On the fields like velvet.

Shine, dark horse,

Your sides foaming with life,

Wheeling and turning,

Chasing and breathing,

The sweet thick smell

Of mown grass in your nostrils.

So gloss her sides

So bright her eyes

I saw her glance at me,

And I swear,

She flashed white and

From her brow

A horn.

Comic Poet

2011-07-31T10:28:00.000+10:00

As a special treat, here is a short set by Jamie Kilstein titled Anti-War Rant. Jamie is an American stand-up who started off as a slam poet. I was led to this video by Indiefeed Performance Poetry.

Enjoy

the squat II

2011-07-30T09:18:00.000+10:00

my chest is an abandoned church

the dusty, cobwebbed altar is my heart

my ribs are the ceiling beams bowed outwards

by the dust-star filled still pressure trapped within

the air is full of echos of the incense scent of organ moans

and the choruses of innocents

(you know, alone, I sing like ice cracking

but a river of voices makes a hymn ring

like rapids and gentle rain

I liked feeling part of a stream)

my chest is an abandoned church

in the highest corner there is a bird’s nest empty

around its precision and symmetry you can imagine

the small proud bird tending the twigs with twitching energy

his job now done, the bird is gone

my chest is an abandoned church

beneath this dense emptiness

you can just make out the parallel bruises

where the pews once knelt

the right-angled hardwood has left

but I can still see the shadows of pretty girls Sunday dressed

and feel the wooden backs worn smooth by

sweaty palms like candle wax

(now, there are no pews

but I still genuflect at the base of the nave

and always walk along rigid perpendicular lanes)

my chest is an abandoned church

there is a dandelion growing through a crack

in the knee-polished floor in the stained light of the sun

through the dirty glass see disheveled youths

lounge pensive on the stones of tombs

grave flowers in their locks

among empty gin bottles and dead cigarette butts

back inside, there is an

old school exercise book on the floor

on its cover, a crude penis in purple pen

and beneath that, in cursive red

‘who

is going to cleanse the doors?’

my chest is an abandoned church

look: the steeple rises like a hesitant fist

my totem; my family crest

A little of Amy

2011-07-28T22:14:00.000+10:00

Oh God of soul and RnB,

Grant me some of Amy Winehouse’s intensity

She wrote always autobiographically

The creative process not as therapy

More like deconstruction or dismantling

Lyrics like bricks removed from her foundations

Lyrics like organ donations

An itch, a scratch, peeling skin

All-night jam sessions leaving gashes and bruises

And we hungrily took it all in

Oh God of soul and RnB

Give me just a little taste of Amy Winehouse’s intensity

I Am Comic

2011-07-26T10:22:00.000+10:00

On a recent flight I watched a documentary titled I Am Comic, directed by Jordan Brady. Through interviews with comedians such as Sarah Silverman, Tim Allen, Jeanne Garofolo and Lewis Black, the movie explores the what, how and why of stand-up.

I found a lot of parallels in the movie between stand-up and slam poetry. Similar techniques are used to develop, practice and refine material. The performers have similar motivations and similar hang-ups.

Jeff Foxworthy says that everyone has the ideas that comics use to build their material. For most people, these ideas just pass through their heads and are then lost. Comics catch these ideas, polish them and then show them to an audience. The best laughs come when the audience clicks with the idea, saying 'yeah, I thought that'.

The best performance poems are built similarly around familiar ideas in unfamiliar settings. Poets know when they have 'clicked' with an audience, although in this case it is not always humourous.

Roseanne Barr talks of the greatest jokes being a mix of the profane and the funny. Sarah Silverman finds she gets the best laughs when something is 'funnier than it is heartbreaking, and it is heartbreaking'. When we, as an audience, develop a strong emotional response to something it tends to cross emotions: we are just as likely to weep as we are to laugh. Some of the best performances straddle these lines, mixing humour with sadness and shock. This applies to poetry just as it does to comedy.

The narrator of the movie is Rich Shydner. A successful stand-up from the 80s and 90s, he is made out to be past his prime. Part of the movie shows Rich getting the itch to perform again, as he sees other comedians on stage. He eventually tries some new material at an open mic, to mixed responses.

The movie finishes with the news that Rich has gone back to performing. As a result, he is now off the anti-depressants he had to take when he first gave up stand-up.

Performance as an addiction is something I can relate to.

If you get a chance, see this movie. I really enjoyed it and I think it tells us about more than just comedy performance.

Emilie Zoey Baker's Masterpoet

2011-07-18T22:11:00.008+10:00

Last month, the fantastic Melbourne poet, Emilie Zoey Baker, was interviewed in the Fairfax press by Michael Short. Michael said:

POETRY can be one of the simplest, most malleable forms of writing. It is accessible art, for composer and consumer alike.

Following this theme, Emilie is quoted:

I would love [poetry] to be on prime-time television. It is such a fantastic way to get it into people's lounge rooms. Imagine having your soul unravelled like a ribbon at 7.30 on Thursday night, rather than learning the contents of Matt Preston's stomach. Imagine young people's voices, having that explode into people's lounge rooms. That would be magnificent

So you think you can rhyme or Masterpoet.

I am not so sure about this. I love how poetry reaches into people's minds and twists their emotions and thoughts into little knots, beautiful bows and sturdy plaits. But I am not sure the same people who watch Dating in the Dark are ready for prime time live slam.

Regardless, my doubts were bland compared to the reaction by Christopher Bantick in The Australian. His opinion rambles a little, but he starts by saying:

...poetry will not regain its place in the national conscience by our reducing it to a public mosh pit

and:

Those who know what great poetry is covet its place in the culture. Pop poems may pull the punters to pubs, but that's all.

and:

What needs to be grasped is that not all poetry has the capacity to move us. Great poetry does.

I think that is crap. Firstly, who decides what 'great' poetry is? Secondly, while I agree there is a wide range in the quality of poetry, there is also a place for accessible poetry that has an immediate impact. Poetry that doesn't require a PhD in classics and fourteen hours of reading and rereading in a leather-bound chair before we are 'moved'.

Bantick goes on to bemoan the fact most young Australians cannot quote Australian poems. But he doesn't identify how to fix this. Surely the work of performance poets such as Emilie Zoey Baker, who are reintroducing poetry in a hip and accessible way to people, can only be a good thing.

What is not a good thing is Bantick's boomer superiority:

Gens X and Y are impoverished and have no storehouse of verse to call on.

Finally, Bantick lists Aussie poets such as James McAuley, A.D. Hope, Judith Wright and Les Murray. These are great poets, who reward careful reading and rereading. They write great poems and should be celebrated for this. But he also mentions Henry Lawson and Banjo Paterson, poets who were more story tellers, who wrote ballads that would immediately capture people's imaginations in pubs and would give instant gratification to the listener.

A bit like today's slam poets.

Here is Emilie from TedxMelbourne. Enjoy.

TEDxMelbourne - Emilie Zoey Baker - Slam Poet by tedxmelbourne

The Sound of a Fish Jumping

2011-07-16T19:07:00.000+10:00

I really like this poem. It is based on a true recollection, although I cannot vouch for the accuracy of all of the events it contains. I performed this poem recently at the Ghost of the Gorman House Man Hatin' Matron open mic and also on ABC local radio. A gentleman in the Gorman House audience told me it sounded like a short story. I took this as a compliment, as I try to make each of my poems a complete tale. But he then went on to explain: 'Yeah, when I think of poetry I think of rhythm and rhyme. Your story didn't rhyme.'

Improv Slam

2011-07-16T11:30:00.000+10:00

Last week, in Adelaide, I took part in an Improv Slam at the Squatter's Arms. It was my first improvisation poetry gig. It was not easy.

The concept is similar to a regular poetry slam, but you have to perform an impromptu poem/story/spoken word piece in response to a word thrown at you by a member of the audience. The rules were:

1. Maximum of 10 seconds to think before speaking.

2. Can reject 1 word only.

3. Must talk for a minimum of 40 seconds

4. Maximum talk time 2 minutes

Several different approaches were on display. One is to hop a ferry down the stream of consciousness, just saying the next sentence that pops into your head. This can be fun, but not always coherent for the listener. A related path is to base your poem on whatever rhymes with the word you are given. At its best, this approach is like the most successful hip hop freestyle. At its worst, you end up sounding like George Logan from Scary Movie 3 (here).

Several people, including the winner, told a story. I didn't ask if they already had these stories in their heads, but the performances worked well.

I chose the repetition technique, repeating the line that first came into my head and then forming imaginary stanzas beneath each repeat. It worked. Kinda. I found the whole experience very stressful and challenging. I rejected my first word - elephant - and had to accept the next - scratch. I blurted out something I had thought about while walking through the city earlier that day.

I'm in two minds about improv slam. I think there is more potential for a disappointing night for the audience with improv, given how difficult it is. If it is done well, though, the results can be exhilarating. Whose Line is it Anyway shows how rewarding improv can be to the audience, but then again, not everyone is Greg Proops.

Perhaps I didn't like just because I sucked at it.

Here is a good example of improv slam.

Speakeasy at Will's Pub Orlando

2011-07-12T18:35:00.000+10:00

Later this week, I will be back in Orlando for work. While I am there I am going to perform something at Speakeasy at Will's Pub, run by talented writer and performer Tod Caviness.

Speakeasy is an open mike that runs monthly on a loose theme. This month, it is the Karaoke Edition. The idea is to write a poem or story based on a song.

As Tod says:

Pick a song. Write a little something about what it means to you, where you were when you first heard it. Re-arrange/riff on/fuck up the lyrics.

So, what song should I choose? I thought first of all the songs that have inspired me lately. There is This is Why we Fight by The Decemberists, Bloodbuzz Ohio by The National, 7 Days Later by The Ellis Collective, anything by Jonsi or Sigur Ros, even Yonkers by Tyler the Creator. But these songs inspire me because they are close to perfection. I am not sure I can add words to what these songs do (and I don't speak Icelandic).

No, I think I need to chose a song that, well, leaves some space to work within. Something like Bon Jovi's Dead or Alive or LMFAO's Party Rock Anthem. That gives me something to work with.

Alternatively, I can take Tod's advice and write about where I was when I first heard a certain song. That would work. I could explain why the first Violent Femmes album affects me everytime I hear it. Or why the Nine Inch Nails' Head Like a Hole reminds me of Princess Diana's death.

Yes, that's it! Thank you, blog. I think I have my theme.

Bow down before the one you serve

You're going to get what you deserve

Now, to write...

I'm Too Boring to Make Good Art

2011-07-11T19:01:00.000+10:00

This is one of the first poems I wrote when I started performing at poetry slams. I meant it to be a lament, of sorts. Woe is me, I am too wealthy, healthy and happy to write good poetry. Since then, others have interpreted it as a comment on other performers and the generic devices they use. That is not how it was meant, but it is always rewarding when people find things in my poetry I didn't know were there.

The Most Beautiful Music Video

2011-07-09T23:29:00.000+10:00

I came across NME's list of the 100 Greatest Music Videos on Stereogum the other day. Number 1 was Johnny's Cash's version of Hurt, a moving but simple video directed by Mark Romanek. Cash's song, like Jeff Buckley's Hallelujah, is one of the few examples of a cover being more powerful than the original.

Anyway, this post is not about that video. It is about Sigur Rós's video for Viðrar Vel Til Loftárása. This is the most beautiful thing I have seen in a long time.

It made me realise how much songs and the music videos that accompany them are like the best poems. I want to write poems like this music video. It told a simple story that had me captured. It made me want to cry, first sad tears, then happy tears, then sad tears again. It had a change of direction that made me laugh out loud.

Anyway, enjoy:

My First Paid Gig

2011-07-04T22:04:00.003+10:00

This Saturday. Gorman House Markets. My first paid gig.

Well, I have had a rider of sorts before (one free drink), but this time it is cash money. Not that I need it, unlike most poets, but it is nice to be wanted.

I will be a feature poet at The Ghost of the Gorman House Man Hatin' Matron Poetry Open Mic With-out a Microphone but with a Milk Crate on Saturday 9 July, starting at 12pm. This monthly event has been run by Andrew Galan for the past two months and has been a great success. I will be performing a poem to get things started and doing a 15-20 min set somewhere in the middle.

I am really looking forward to hearing other people's works. As an open mic, there is a lot of opportunity for creative readings and there is no competition involved.

Now I need to work out a set list....

Grace

2011-07-02T22:18:00.000+10:00

Grace said ‘Mum, it’s time to let me go’, and
Scratched the plastic mask aside
So I could kiss her one last time
Before her eyelids hid the light in her eyes.

In the 426 days since diagnosis,
My Grace treated life as an unexpected guest
And death as an invisible friend.
Time was Santa’s sack packed with moments
Gift-wrapped with smiles and hugs you’d wish would never end.

Entering her room was like walking out to a Spring morning.
Her face was the sun, her voice birdsong,
Filtering the air so every sound you heard there,
Both good news and bad, had dawn’s clarity.

Grace had gravity. People circled her like moons,
Like buttercups, their chins held up,
Their faces raised to her beams.

Paperchain folk danced a ring around her room,
Each silhouette representing someone Grace had met,
Each marked in her hand with a blue felt pen:

Daniel, good dancer;
Dr Wong, big smile, crooked tie;
Mr Mason, call me Steve, always jeans with thongs,
Delta Goodrem, exclamation mark, beautiful,
And in brackets, soppy songs.

Grace’s brother Samuel, had a special cut:
Arms a little wider, edged in highlighter, and, on the back:
Don’t tell him, but I love him this much.

Grace was young enough to want to be read to sleep,
But old enough to reject fairy tales.

As she lost her curls, she did not set her sails
With the pirate bandana crew – Grace was a ninja girl.
A ninja can’t be seen or heard, but you know she’s always there,
Watching over you from afar, and with a well-thrown star,
Will destroy that shadow creeping up on you.

Grace said she could tell I was afraid of the dark,
So she let me lie in her bed,
Where she’d show me the stars in the shape of a ninja
Through the window before she lay down her head.

While Grace’s graying marrow was narrowing inside,
Her eyes stayed as clear as telescope glass
No sign of the ashes smoking behind,
Her pale skin as smooth as the still sea’s face
Open wide to the moon’s cool light.

14 days after she turned eleven,
Grace said ‘Mum, it’s time to let me go’, and
Scratched the plastic mask aside
So I could kiss her one last time
Before her eyelids hid that light in her eyes.

Now I spend my nights staring at the ninja constellation,
Catching falling stars in the corner of my eyes,
My heart as empty
And as full
As the night sky.

Andrea Gibson - Wasabi

2011-06-29T18:59:00.000+10:00

At the last Traverse slam I did a cover of Andrea Gibson's Wasabi. I usually avoid covers - I have a hunger to keep creating new poems and I don't feel that each poem is complete until I have performed it at least once. The precious opportunities to perform my own work are important to me.

But I love this poem and I found that memorising and performing it has given me more insight into how it is structured - its secret scaffolding.

Wasabi has everything I enjoy in a performance poem, starting with a coherent theme. The images build upon each other, creating a whole. I find some contemporary American poetry arrogant and incoherent. Metaphors come at you out of nowhere, leaving a discordant ring in your ear that you are trying to resolve while the poem plays on. Andrea's poems are not like this.

Another thrilling aspect is the pacing of this poem, the way it accelerates and slows, weaves and races. The colours and textures of the rhythm create a performance that transfixes the listener.

Finally, Andrea uses rhyme just right. She doesn't force any rhymes and uses some of them in unexpected but perfect places.

I would like to emulate Andrea in my poetry. By putting myself inside Wasabi, I am hoping that some of her talent has entered me.

This youtube vid starts with a lot of dialogue. To go straight to the poem, skip to 4:05.

I first heard Andrea on the IndieFeed Performance Poetry podcast. You can find IndieFeed podcasts on iTunes and also here.

Phrase Trains

2011-06-26T12:53:00.001+10:00

On Friday night, at the usual monthly Traverse slam, we competing poets had a surprise: as there was only five of us, Arbitrary Andrew (yes, that's his real name) decided there would be two rounds. So we all had to pull out a second piece to perform. And so, we did.

The poem I performed is an old one that I posted here previously. Here it is again:

I really like this poem, although it is nonsense. I enjoy the stream of consciousness lyrics of Stephen Malkmus (from Pavement) and Beck, so I tried to replicate them. I had a rough idea and then let it flow. I think it worked out well. I went back to smooth out the rhythm and change some of the words and phrases to align roughly with the broad theme (which only appeared after I had drafted the poem).

This is a great poem to perform (the recording does not give any indication of the possibilities for gestures) and it has grown as I have performed it.

Choo choo!

Chickenshit Conformist

2011-06-16T19:12:00.000+10:00

Sidney left his spine at a punk rock gig

In a 1980s basement tavern

His fist in the air, or during that stage dive pause

Mid-air, before landing on outstretched palms and spiked heads.

Sidney left his spine at a punk rock gig

By night, entrusting his fight to hard core chords and ramming speed beats, bouncing off sweaty shoulders like a pinball

But by day, he moved like a teddy bear, shuffling to his employment where he fulfilled his role well as beige stuffing for a cubicle

Sidney wore his Nobody Likes a Thinker shirt to bed and brown cardigans to work

At home, he pounded his head to Bad Religion LPs,

In the office he nodded, so meek and eager to please the boss

Oi oi oi! fist-punching the air by night

Became yes sir data punching by daylight

When Nickelbak Steve bullied the office floor into a shark tank,

Sidney shook in a locked toilet stall, holding the tooth that was elbowed free when skin heads crashed that Hard Ons gig in the CBD clenching the tooth in his fist until the enameled tip bit.

Sidney left his spine at a punk rock gig

To fill the gap, he slowly fled to drink

He drank at home to Black Flag and DOA

If he drank enough he’d go out, become corner fluff in some bar or club.

Until last Friday,

When Sidney was tossed from Mooseheads for shouting ‘Chickenshit Conformist’ at 30 seconds from Mars on the flat screen TV,

‘Chickenshit Conformist’, his face so close his spit sprayed on his own reflection, over the fake Mohawks and eyeliner.

Ten minutes later, he was glassed in Shooters by a guy in white canvas shoes and an Ed Hardy tee.

Sidney left his spine at a punk rock gig,

But the ambos couldn’t silence him and didn’t understand him, his split cheek flapping torn like a ripped tartan sleeve

As he screamed for Nancy.

Corners Parts 3 and 4

2011-06-04T13:06:00.001+10:00

Here is the second half:

3 I have an interactive concept: a dot-to-dot verse painting. Here is a stanza, with every fifth word a point. You join the dots in your mind, use straight lines and the curved form of the poem will appear.

Got it? Here we go:

corner cycle

out

complained tangential

slid sparks fire cheek.

Woke

prick

beeping

hour

wet

friction

sheets.

4 My mother told me to marry a trapezium.

Trapeziums are sure and safe.

Just enough corners to hint at danger,

But stable, solid-based.

She said never trust an ellipse.

An ellipse flips between two centres

And rocks between heaven and hell.

Mobius strips give me nightmares.

Death is a dot.

Eternal life is a mobius strip.

No, I’m more of a straights man.

I never made good Hot Wheels tracks when I was a kid,

But in the face of a strong breeze I flew a mean kite.

-----------------------------------------------------

I like the third section and I think it works. I actually wrote two sentences and then selected every 4th or 5th word. (I cheated a little to make it sound better). I know what the original sentences are, but now that I read it I can see different meanings and nuances in it. Some minds of a certain persuasion (you know who you are) read an entirely different meaning into it. I think that's cool.

Corners 1 and 2

2011-05-30T17:36:00.001+10:00

On Friday at the monthly Traverse Poetry slam, I read a four-part poem that explores my love-hate relationship with curves. Here are the first two sections:

1 I know you are one for straights and flats,

But I am transfixed by corners.

The look of a curve, the camber,

The centrifugal pull,

The edge of just about to let go the earth,

The anticipation, the just beyond unknown,

The sashay of an S-bend,

The exhilaration of a tightening hook;

Like a tongue-tip around the crease in your lips…

No, that was a lie.

I am not a corners guy.

I avoid curves like pavement cracks.

I am straight as a bible page’s white edge.

More, I shun gradients too.

I am a railway line,

My three little bears path

Not too steep, not too tight:

Predestined.

2 You know, once, I dated a roller coaster.

Well, I was dragged jolted along in her train.

One day I was standing my big carny palm open,

She screamed by and my body was sucked into her wake.

She’d get all jacked up on fairy floss, her lips

Glistening jeweled with the sharp sticky red of donut jam,

Her mouth sweet knife-edged crystals that

Would cut and dissolve convex under the moist pressure of my tongue.

I lost my stomach on our first date,

My chest locked at a full inhale,

The floor falling away from me so

I floated an inch above all with a head full of air.

As she crested thrill reaching peaks

And made g force turns out of acute angled dives

I held my arm across my torso like a safety belt,

The sound of a rattling bolt set loose in my mind.

I danced in the vacuum that her carriage left,

A series of pinball junkie jinks and gibes

Until one night I missed a tack and a bolt

Died with a clang like a railway hammer strike

With a receding pleasure scream she was gone.

To be honest, I was relieved, the blessing of not having to give an acceptance speech because you were not the one chosen to win.

The Maid of Orleans Folds Washing

2011-05-26T23:00:00.003+10:00

(This poem is more about me than anyone else...)

As I do the bills at the dining room table,

You fold our clean, pure cotton sheets.

I know you despise me though you’d never let

Those words slip through your pursed pale lips:

You wear pert fitted cashmere like a breastplate;

Joan of Arc was not more righteous than you.

Holding your aquiline nose higher than your eyeline,

Holding your posture as the hatred smoulders inside,

You’d rather burn at the stake

Than state what is burning you:

The arrogant grace of knowing you’re right

Your real passion clutched

In a brassiere and pearled buttons,

A sheet of cold metal between our two lives.

And I am trapped in a B movie mashup

Of I Robot and Stepford Wives

If we kiss, you taste like battery leads.

You don’t make love or even have sex;

The curves of your body like rosary beads,

You bear it like penance or a pap smear test

You never raise your voice, speak out or shout:

Always the same tone like a plucked wound spring.

I want you to scream

I want you to slap

The rise of blood back to my skin.

I want to hear you like Ani Di Franco or Martha Wainwright

When she’s horny and drunk,

Not Celine Dion at a funeral home.

I want you to say, no I want you to shout fuck!

I am an arsehole: Say it! Say it: I’m a prick!

But you press your lips, tighten the tendons in your cheeks.

Hands folded like aristocracy,

Laying guilt like clergy,

Laying guilt like kindling,

And I’m the heretic.

Well, I went and struck a match in my mind.

And as the flames rise to my waist

And I scream your name

You snap tea towels crease-free and fold them onto a shelf

And I lower my head and enter numbers in spreadsheet cells.

Bicycle girl at the lights

2011-04-01T21:05:00.003+11:00

Your legs make calligraphy ‘Ls’ with ease

Propelling your own wind machine

Hair flowing stroking cheek flicks

Your face held high

Helmetless, you are willing to take a chance

Sexy linking of vulnerability and pride

Tall, shoulders back but elbows loose:

Independence on a bike

You make the city cosmopolitan

A little Copenhagen cobbles and long blacks

You read novels about impossible love

Your palms itch when you lie

You do something in design or fashion

While listening to Iron & Wine

You apply makeup to Beyonce and Jay-Z

Your tongue poking to the side

Your stockinged leg lazily circles

Languid ellipses as you lean on the pole

The lights change and you glide leaving

A gap in the air like a sigh.

Why vote for a poet?

2011-03-29T21:40:00.000+11:00

Here is the talk I delivered at Pecha Kucha last week:

Earlier this month, Ken Henry, the outgoing Treasury Secretary, presented a lecture at the University of Tasmania. He said that we know what we need to do to keep Australia a successful country, but what we don’t understand so well is how to get it done.

I share Ken Henry’s pessimism, but perhaps for different reasons. I do not think our current political leaders are capable of introducing the changes needed to meet our current challenges. My reason: none of them can tell a story and none have poetry in their voices.

There has been significant social and economic change in the past thirty years in Australia, introduced by both major political parties. Consider removal of trade tariffs, centralised wage bargaining, floating of the Australian dollar, Medicare, the Sex Discrimination Act and the GST. The Prime Ministers who led Australia through these changes could tell a story and had the orator’s gift. They could use language to inspire, motivate and lead. And they had to. Not all of these changes were popular. In fact, many of them were extremely unpopular.

Gough Whitlam’s ability to craft a sentence is well known (‘well may we say…’). He used this ability to introduce changes as diverse as free tertiary education and abolishment of the death penalty for federal offenses. Bob Hawke could hush a bar full of blokes with his stories, which convinced unions and socialists that floating the dollar and opening Australia to trade were necessary. Paul Keating’s Redfern Speech is one of the best known of the 20^th Century. He expressed thoughts never before heard from a Prime Minister. And John Howard told convincing stories in a simple voice to middle Australia. Think gun control and budget surpluses.

So what do we have now? A speech where the PM uses the phrase ‘moving forward’ twenty-three times in fifteen hundred words. It was painful to listen to and condescending. It was compared to training a dog to sit through repeating the word ‘sit’. Weeks later, Julia Gillard had dropped ‘moving forward’. But her allegedly unscripted campaign launch was uninspiring. It was highlighted only by her addressing the audience as ‘friends’ twenty-seven times. Perhaps it was a wish (I do believe in fairies, I do, I do).

In the blue corner, Tony Abbott’s campaign launch had its own nauseating slogans: end the waste, stop the boats, stop the big new taxes. His speech began negatively, emphasising the failures of the Labor government. Then he seemed about to move to a positive theme. He said ‘We must offer the Australian people a better way’. But we were quickly deflated when the better way was revealed to be ‘stop the boats, stop the great big huge new taxes…’ By this stage, our ears had RSI.

And this is all without mentioning Kevin ‘Programmatic Specificity’ Rudd. On the whole, our current political leaders are failures with the spoken word. Well, that’s not entirely true. These politicians take clichés to the next level. In fact, as a poet I am almost envious. They seem to invent clichés whenever they speak.

Our leaders do not seem to read creative works or listen to creative people. They are guided by media advisors and not by their humanity, in an environment where the slogan rules over the narrative, where the subeditor always trumps the journalist.

I think this is important. Stories matter. Poetic language matters. Themes, rhythm, imagination, pleasant surprises, rhetoric – these all matter. It seems the only tools available to politicians today are hyperbole, repetition, repetition and repetition.

The way politicians speak today lacks empathy. It does not connect with people with any depth. It is a poke rather than a hug. This is great for talkback radio hosts, but not for people who want to move the nation.

Our current political vernacular is unimaginative. It betrays the underlying (or should I say underpinning) lack of creativity and thought in development of policies. Thinking and writing are intrinsically linked. If you cannot write a speech that is creative and compelling, then most likely you cannot make policy that is create and compelling. I am not saying no one is creating thoughtful policy. It is just that it is not our politicians.

Ultimately, this means our political leaders are not. If you cannot communicate, if you cannot motivate, if you merely reflect opinions instead of changing minds, then you cannot lead people through change.

When was the last time during an Australian political speech you heard a story, that touched your heart and delighted your ears? We will not get the change our country needs until you do hear a story like this. For this reason, I think climate change policy in Australia is doomed. No one is telling us a convincing, consistent story about why it is needed and what it will look like. And this is just one example of the creative policies we need.

So how do we fix this? Vote for a poet at the next election. I am only half-joking. Only someone who can use language in a compelling way and link ideas to our deep emotions will be able to lead Australia to a prosperous, peaceful and healthy future. Until our major political parties install leaders who can do this, we will not get the changes that we need.

Pecha Kucha Canberra

2011-03-25T18:09:00.001+11:00

Last night I was one of eight presenters at Canberra's ninth Pecha Kucha night. I really enjoyed the night and, once again, was honoured to be among so many creative and passionate people.

I offered my theory that nothing lasting or significantly will come out of our current political leaders because they cannot tell a story and they do not have any poetry in their voices. This is in stark contrast to previous leaders, such as Bob Hawke and Paul Keating. Even John Howard told compelling stories. Until we get leaders who can speak convincingly, with narrative and imaginative language, we will not get the changes Australia needs to meet our current and future challenges.

I will post the whole talk in a couple of days, once I have finished transcribing it. In the meantime I recommend you check out the link above and some of the amazing people who also spoke last night.

Literally the only thing that matters

2011-03-15T18:26:00.000+11:00

I performed at a very rewarding gig on Saturday night - Literally the only thing that matters: Traverse Poetry, part of the You Are Here festival.

The event's format, venue and combination of performers was untested, but it worked very well, mostly due to the efforts of Julian Fleetwood. The performers were myself, Ira Gamerman (US), Claire Reilly (Syd), Jess Bellamy (Syd), Mirando Lello, Ben Keaney and Tasnim Hossain. The venue was an empty shopfront - a huge open space of concrete, glass and exposed ceilings.

The format revolved around the seven performers spreading out in the space and performing for 45 minutes. The audience rotated between the performers as they liked. Each performer had a slightly different approach - Claire clutched a bottle of gin, in character the whole time; Ira narrated his facebook slideshow in front of a projector; and Ben channelled the thoughts of a cactus. It was chaotic and it loud, but it worked.

I gave my audience a menu of poems to choose from.

I managed to perform all of the poems on offer, although Canberra and Party got a pretty good going over.

At the end of the evening, we all performed a piece or two to the whole audience, who were fantastic. There was a great crowd of around 30 people there. I loved performing in front of them.

Two Doors Down from Billy-Cart Hill

2011-02-27T21:14:00.002+11:00

We lived two doors down

From Billy Cart Hill

With a slope faster than a stomach,

Cheese grater tar

And T-intersection traffic to catch your fall.

I would drag my cart like a litter

Up guillotine steps to the top

And mount scary free like Lucifer felt

When God opened his forefinger and thumb

And let him drop.

I’m rolling, leaning back backboard pressing me earthward

Re-entering Earth’s atmosphere, gravel-rashed knuckles locked tight on rough rope reins held by horseshoe nails and pivoted on two washers, a bolt and nut, rattling like a boiling pot lid.

Feel the road typewritering morse code frantic relayed by thin rubber strip wheels through shrink skin wrapped bones, telex writer teeth with no carriage return biting off staccato cries shaken loose.

Whooooooo! Whoooooo!

Screams my lungs letting go and

Wind tears face racing stripes.

Till I wrench the rope

Press wood lever against rear wheel

And jack-knife body to a rolling stop

Whooping winded and tingly alive.

On my ride, my release,

I left my life behind like

Rubber off my Dunlop Volleys.

The cart was a De Lorean

And as the landing pad bloomed

I forgot the dickhead, the dropped catch, the girl

As my speed turned back time.

Oh, how I want to live again like a thrown ball

The freedom of corked thighs and scabbed knees

When absolution smelt like iodine

And closure was a Band Aid

The perfect sense of handing control to

A piece of pine and a single bolt.

So that’s why I’m in Bunnings

Buying axles and rope

I’ve been climbing all my life and it’s time

I prised God’s fingers apart again

And lost some skin.

Traverse Poetry Slam 25 Feb

2011-02-26T14:09:00.003+11:00

Hosted my first slam last night, standing in for the wonderful and dedicated Julian Fleetwood. It was a great night - a strong pool of performers and a large, welcoming audience. The Front has done a bit of redecorating and has raided some front lawns to replace a lot of its furniture. Overall, an inspiring start to the slam season of 2011.

I asked the audience for their definitions of poetry and read these out in between slammers. My favourite:

Poetry is...a most beautiful bird that allows us to hold it for a while.

Awwwwww....

Together with the audience contributions, I found some quotes from well-known poets. I really liked Marianne Moore's:

Poetry is...imaginary gardens with real toads in them.

Finally, while reading the newspaper this morning I realised a definition of my own:

Poetry is...everything political spin is not.

I tried my hand with poet humour, with mixed success:

What is the definition of a simile?

It is like a metaphor.

I performed a poem about billy-carts (soap-box racers for our American friends). I'm sure it's the only time I will mention Bunnings in verse. I will post the poem later this week.

The quality and range of the performers was comforting - the slam scene in Canberra is doing well. There were some poets new to slam and others new to slamming in Canberra. I hope to see them all back next time, along with several of the audience who have now been inspired to give it a go.

Finally, a big thank-you to Bernadette, who did a fantastic job reminding me of all the things I forgot to do. Oh, and she brought cupcakes and performed a very vivid poem about hotel rooms (among other things).

CJ

Lindbergh was a mystic

2011-02-24T21:49:00.001+11:00

Driving past graveyards, when we were young,
My brother would hold his breath
So spirits of the dead did not enter him.

But I wanted to keep those passed alive.
I would breathe deep,
Inhale the memories and cut-short dreams,
Sweet like the scent of a room just passed through.

One stove summer day I stood inside a ghost,
A lighthouse shade in a cool stone corner,
And wrapped myself in gunpowder smoke
And saltwater mist.

Lives in the air brought back to life.

See, in the right light you could see them
Faces in smoke, their touch in a mist,
On hot days when they danced
On the street in the distance.

In storms I would rush to the window
To see phantoms wave leafy arms at me,
The wind through the wires calling me.

Foggy dawns were armies of steam,
Waiting in ambush in damp valleys;
Thunderclouds were souls reaching for release,
Jostling, holding tight, buoying each other up.

I longed to ride the trade winds and jet streams
Carrying our essence, then and now.
To breathe in the nimbus lives.

For I knew: death is but a sigh.
Our lives are just one exhaled breath
In the weather.

So I did what I breathed to do:
I learned to fly.
Lifted by the secrets of raptor guides
I rose and dipped on the currents in the sky
Of relationships, passions and hopes.

I slipped between cold and warm fronts
Pressing together like lost lovers.
I listened to the passion trapped in cumulous up-drafts,
The voices released in the bruised hearts of storm clouds:

A confession, a conclusion, a humid regret
A young man’s dying wish
A new mother’s love never heard
The snowflake of a mute poet’s first words.

At altitude I had the perspective that comes with death:
How what follows life is as full as the silence after a lightning strike
How vacuums do not exist
How we all blur at the edges
And all the puffs of our lives become one mass

Cupping the world.

Slamming in Orlando.

2011-02-21T19:26:00.000+11:00

Last week I won the monthly Broken Speech poetry slam in Orlando, Florida. I travel for work and I love it when the moons align and I get to perform. It is even better when I am well received.

The theme was persona poems, to celebrate the release of the anthology RE:Telling by Ampersand Books. I performed this poem, a collection of three different personas interpreting 'hunger':

The Broken Speech poetry slam is run by a dedicated writer, J Bradley. He is a prolific writer and performer of poetry and flash fiction. He lives at iheartfailure.net.

Riding the Metro

2011-02-12T16:22:00.000+11:00

American girls walking bow-legged,
Trailing big hair like revolutionary flags,
Blowing force fields of cliches,
Impenetrable images of
Motivational posters you do not feature in.

First Traverse poetry slam for 2011

2011-02-12T16:16:00.002+11:00

7.30pm Friday, 25 February at The Front

I will be MC with the gracious assistance of Bernadette. There will be cupcakes!

Facebook Link

inevitable

2010-12-10T17:44:00.002+11:00

i promised myself that I would never
use the word love in a poem:

i am so sorry.
i have failed you.

Australian Poetry Slam Final

2010-12-06T09:38:00.003+11:00

Yesterday I represented the ACT at the Australian Poetry Slam final in Sydney. I performed in front of the set for Uncle Vanya, on the same stage Cate Blanchett, John Bell, Jacki Weaver and Hugo Weaving had paced the night before and will pace again tonight. Over 400 people, who had paid to come and hear slam, were in the audience.

It was exhilarating!

My performance was only one small piece of the afternoon and early evening. I got to hear sixteen other fantastic finalists, Archie and Bravo Child performed and I shook Kamahl's hand before he sang acapella and read Mandela's 'Invictus'.

I was uplifted by the diversity of the finalists. We had poets from age 16 to something quite a bit older, from western and eastern european, african, asian and middle-eastern backgrounds with political, emotional and humorous stories. The variety and quality made me feel we have a vibrant slam community in Australia. It also humbled me - it is only going to get harder to win this in the future.

And, no, I didn't win. I didn't even come close. The winner was Kelly-Lee Hickey from Alice Springs with one of the most poetic pieces of the night. There was a slam off for second place won by Darkwing Dubs from Queensland, followed by Tariro Mavondo from Vic.

Miles Merrill, with a core of strong supporters, has done a fantastic job with the national slam. Despite losing some financial support this year, the event was bigger than ever. Miles spoke of ideas to keep evolving the event and potentially even moving the final to another city in the future.

I hope to get to be a part of it again. It was a moving experience.

Here is the full version of the poem I performed at the final. Enjoy.

Finally, a new poem

2010-11-30T22:29:00.000+11:00

Back to the Sea

The water in our bodies has a memory
It recognises its kin and is calm
When we sit on a cliff by the sea

Our bodies rock with the waves
Memories of mother’s lullabies
And submerged heartbeats

The water in our bodies has a memory
The water in me is drawn
To the water in you

Sea Monkeys in my veins dance
Energy of darting schools and fanning tails
And the tide in me comes into your beach

My heart beats like a sprinkler on a hot day
My breath apexes like a dolphin’s leap,
Before falling back with a suction gulp

Our souls are liquid
We will always flow back to the sea
And crash against the rocks
Whitewater twisting, braided licks skyward

Until we fall into green

New Canberra arts podcast on ABC

2010-11-27T20:54:00.002+11:00

Check out this new podcast, CanberrArts, and not just because I am featured on it along with Raphael Kabo:

http://www.abc.net.au/local/stories/2010/11/26/3077793.htm

ABC Canberra are featuring the best of the local Canberra arts scene (and me). The focus of the new podcast is not the big acts at Canberra Theatre and AIS Arena, but on the smaller, grittier, street art that is thriving in this town.

Check it out and subscribe.

The competition is hot!

2010-11-26T15:53:00.000+11:00

The heart rate is rising and the voice starting to choke up. One week to the Australian Poetry Slam final in Sydney.

I am really looking forward to hearing the performances of poets from around Australia. It looks like the competition will be strong, which means I will get to hear some great poems.

As a sample, Australian Poetry Slam linked to this video on its Facebook page:

Whew!

The new CJ Bowerbird album is out!

2010-11-23T21:34:00.001+11:00

Well, that's the Christmas presents sorted.

I have just sent the master of my first ever CD to the printers, in time for the Cannibal Kittens and Dubious Mothers gig this Friday.

I am really happy with it, but I feel a little strange. If I did this with a novel it would be vanity publishing. But with audio it is 'unearthed'.

My other half bought me studio time as a birthday gift, which was good, because apparently it is quite expensive. I was well prepared, which helped, and ran through two takes for most of my poems, three if I stuffed something up. Even then, it took three and a half hours to record and master what ended up being just over 30 min of performance poetry.

I will see how it sells, but in any case it is useful to have recordings to share with venues, poetry podcasts, promoters, A&R reps, etc. If I can work out a way to order it through my blog, I will do that too.

Photos of ACT Poetry Slam Final on fasterlouder.com

2010-11-19T19:02:00.002+11:00

Some great photos by David can be found here.

Australian Poetry Slam ACT Final

2010-11-13T15:55:00.000+11:00

Last night, Smith's Alternative Bookshop hosted the ACT Final for the Australian Poetry Slam. It was a great night with some fantastic performances.

It was disappointing, though, that all of the finalists were blokes. The best we could muster was a guy who performs under a girl's name as the feature poet.

Here is an extended version of the poem I performed about the hidden side of Canberra:

I came second to Raphael, who performed a great poem with a new take on Ned Kelly. This means I get to go to the national final at the Sydney Theatre Company on 5 December. We are, appropriately I believe, squeezed in between performances of Chekov's Uncle Vanya, featuring John Bell and Cate Blanchett. I am looking forward to meeting Cate at the poetry slam.

The Bard of Montreal

2010-11-13T11:09:00.000+11:00

I did it! Finally, I saw Leonard Cohen live. And he was awe-inspiring.

The man is a Poet. I would like to read more of his early poetry. I have his recent Book of Longing, but it is more of a doodle-book of poems. Cohen saves his best lyrics for his songs.

Less than half-way into the first song, I had that urgent need to write. Ideas were lighting off each other in my head, like Cohen had tossed a match into a fireworks factory. (Apparently, this is the same effect a woman's orgasm has on her mind. Makes you think.)

I was inspired.

Leonard Cohen has some of the best lines in music. I had tears in my eyes when he gave a spoken word introduction to 'Anthem':

Rings the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack, a crack in everything

That's how the light gets in

Perfect.

I would give anything to be half as sexy as Cohen when I'm 76. Who am I kidding? I would give anything to be half as sexy as he is right now.

The ladies in the audience went wild when Cohen sang 'I'm Your Man':

If you want a father for your child

Or only want to walk with me a while

Across the sand

I'm your man

They all reacted in their own way. Two women sitting next to me spontaneously combusted. Another, sitting three rows in front and slightly to the left, evaporated in her seat, turning into a small cloud of steam which floated across the heads of the audience and condensed as a light sheen on Leonard's neck.

Cohen is the common man's dream: he proves that you don't have to look like Ronan Keating, sing like Jeff Buckley or dance like Justin Timberlake to have luck with the ladies. Oh, but you do have to have the words.

Yay! Poets have a shot.

I wish.

Here is the best love song ever, followed by a great poem 'A Thousand Kisses Deep':

Situation Normal X

2010-11-06T17:44:00.000+11:00

I went to the Situation Normal night at Smith's Alternative Bookshop for the first time last night. It was a lot of fun - uncontrolled, random and chaotic. The concept is more open and free than the excellent slam poetry nights run by Bad!Slam!No!Biscuit! and Traverse Poetry.

The only real rule appears to be there are no rules. The best features of this open approach are a lack of competition (an essential part of slamming) and creativity. Music, props, teamwork, audience participation, connections with the spirit world - anything goes.

It has inspired me to be more creative and look at incorporating music and other media in my work.

Here is the poem I did as my second piece:

Apologies - it is a standard, 3 minute slam poet. I hope to get more creative in the future.