Poetry is like the tide for me.
The tide goes out (for years, sometimes), then (for reasons that I only discover by writing poetry) it returns.
The tide has returned. Here's a new, short poem.
Yesterday is
ash. Tomorrow is
smoke. Today is fire.
Image by Brendan Bonsack
I read from Year of the Wasp at La Mama Poetica a week ago.
It was a great night. I really enjoyed listening to the work of Alana Kelsall, Sam Ferrante and Komninos, and poet Brendan Bonsack took some wonderful pictures.
The evening was also reviewed by Nicholas Elliot for Melbourne Spoken Word. Here's what Nicholas said:
"[Deane’s] poems and his delivery were ‘intense man’, with nightmarish, plague ridden images: wasps, a dying fox, a murderous eagle on Alexander Avenue at 3am that made your skin prickle with dread and foreboding. Visceral stuff ... His poetry was compelling like cruelty you can’t look away from. And that’s how he stood; very still, looking straight ahead, unflinching."
Read the full review here.
Image by Brendan Bonsack