Poetry

Civic Duty & other poems

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A splash of November news:

  • The Red Room Company commissioned me to write a poem about an object dear to me — so naturally I wrote a love poem to my local Civic Video. You can read it here.
  • In 2014 (and beyond!) I’ll be helping out Five Islands Press, serving as their consulting poetry editor for Queensland. Their annual submissions window for poetry manuscripts closes on Nov. 30.
  • Voiceworks Magazine launches “Prime” at the 2013 Express Media Awards on Dec. 5. VW is always stuffed full of wonderful stuff. Broede Carmody (2013 Booranga Prize-winner for fiction; Whitmore Press Manuscript Prize finalist — such talent very babe wow) edited a poem I was lucky enough to have included. It is possibly my only successful sexy poem.
  • Tincture Journal launches its fourth issue on Dec. 1. Tincture is a fantastic digital publication — in fact, it has been nominated for the Express Media Award for “Best Project By/For Young Writers”. Nice one! They’ve kindly included a couple of my poems in the new issue.
  • A poem of mine has been included in the inaugural Jean Cecily Drake-Brockman Prize Anthology. Hooray! I think this is the first time I’ve been anthologised.

Today's mail

First Thunder Spoke (then, other voices)

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A curious thing: we moved into our new digs in January, and suddenly summer’s swinging around again (interrupting spring — how rude!), yet we still haven’t had a housewarming. The year has been pulled out from under our feet. Also it’s hard to leave this library:

Marlinspike Library

We all have to leave the books alone now and then — and there are a bunch of things coming up I’ll even put pants on for.

This weekend, the Queensland Poetry Festival stirs up the Judith Wright Centre, with three days’ worth of poetry and spoken word over two stages. I’m joining Rob Morris to give voice to Ynes Sanz‘s poems (along with Ynes herself) at First Thunder Spoke: 10.30am, Saturday 24 August.

Then, on Sunday, I’m playing a little trumpet at Lady Marlene‘s wonderful cabaret burlesque (Disney-themed, this time!) at The Loft:

Finally, I’m super excited to announce the return of the Ruby Fizz Society in October, hosted and supported by the wonderful Bird Gallery and Studios (who share space with Bean.) You can tell us you’re coming here, but I’ll tell you all about the Ruby Fizz Salon in another post soon. It’s gonna be so spiffy.

It’s all go at the moment — lots of work, writing and über-rehearsals for The Ragtag Band. But I’m finally recovering from whooping cough (whaaaaa — I don’t even!); my singing voice is coming back; I’ve had two poems accepted this week in two different Aussie journals; I just opened a brand new malty Assam blend; and there’s a friendly cat paw obscuring my keyboard.

See you on the flipside — or hopefully at some of these events!

Lucifer

Reblog: A Poem by Patricia Lockwood

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Read Tricia Lockwood’s whole poem here. It begins:


Rape Joke

The rape joke is that you were 19 years old.

The rape joke is that he was your boyfriend.

The rape joke it wore a goatee. A goatee.

Imagine the rape joke looking in the mirror, perfectly reflecting back itself, and grooming itself to look more like a rape joke …

This is an incredibly powerful prose poem. Expresses precisely what I’ve been trying to express via poetry for five years now — through drafts and drafts — and have never been able to achieve.

Lockwood’s narrative shares strong similarities with my story. Definite #TW; I’m sure there are many others with similar stories out there.

As well, it’s rare to see a poem do the rounds that is both GENUINELY EXCELLENT (from a literary perspective) and also political.

Required reading, ladies and gentlemen. This resonates and resonates.

Totem

/ Zenobia Frost / 2 Comments

I am the cloaked detective
the silent choir
top of the slush pile

I am sleeping in your pocket
a gatherer of secrets
in my nest of old headlines

I am Icarus, scaling the maze
before flight, and Houdini
with supple spine

I am a mathematician
I multiply

I am looking to master
mischief’s map, wherever
X might mark the spot

(Previously published in Frame Lines, 2008. Revised, 2013.)

From the Vaults: QWeekend

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Back in August of 2010, Frances Whiting interviewed me for a story in the Courier Mail’s QWeekend. Standing amongst such heavyweights as Bruce Dawe, David Robotham, Graham Nunn, John Tranter and Felicity Plunkett, I represented Emerging Poets; it was thrilling — and definitely nerve-wracking. But it was a lovely article: a six-page spread that came out just in time for the 2010 Queensland Poetry Festival. Russell Shakespeare photographed me in Toowong Cemetery (about a year into my graveyard obsession), and kindly allowed me to reproduce some of the photos that didn’t make it into QWeekend.

You can still download and read the whole article: The Thrill of the Quill.

Toowong Cemetery by R. Shakespeare (2010)

Toowong Cemetery by R. Shakespeare (2010)

Toowong Cemetery by R. Shakespeare (2010)

Toowong Cemetery by R. Shakespeare (2010)

Meet: Zenobia Frost

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Tash D. of the Factory Diaries interviewed (and filmed!) me last week. Here are the results!

Factory Diaries's avatarFactory Diaries

Tash D met up with local poet and writer, Zenobia Frost for a lovely chat about Brisbane’ macabre history, happy acorn socks and poetry.

DSC_5696

Photo by Tash D

Firstly, why don’t you introduce yourself to our readers:

I’m Zenobia Frost. I’m a local poet and editor of things. I guess those are my two primary hats. I also sometimes run events and, what else do I do? What else do I do Tash?

Be Awesome?

I do lots of things. I have happy acorn socks, perform stuff. I promised to be eloquent and now I’ve lied to you!

What kind of style would you describe your poetry as being?

It’s always a tricky question. I remember one of the first people that asked me that and I really had to think about it was as an interviewer at Subway. It’s like how do you describe poetry to someone who’s going…

View original post 1,796 more words

Moving

/ Zenobia Frost / 1 Comment

In January, we made the big move over the hill from, er, Toowong to Bardon. Our home had been a huge sharehouse we established with friends; three years later, it was a mould mansion we were ready to leave. Still, the day the real estate put up the sign, we felt a bit like our house had turned around and told us she was planning to dump us anyway. Fair enough, I suppose.

Today I set up a facebook page to divide up my public poeting and private grumpy-cat-posting (in so far as those two things can be separated). Now I’ve cross-posted that news everywhere, I’ll shut up about it. Exciting chapbook news coming soon. Thank you for following. :)

Moving

In the end,
it’s like clearing a hotel room:

the twice-over sweep of bare cupboards,
claiming the shower’s last piece of soap
and counting keys, you drive
away with your last look.

You will line up
your toothbrushes
in the habit of a new bathroom.

But when your nose follows
its old tricks, driving you back,
and you see the sign gone
from the fence post, you realise
you scrubbed yourself out
of that ghosting house.

And it just moved on without you.