Vanessa Page in conversation

Vanessa Page hails from Toowoomba but feels most at peace in the outback. A seventh‑generation Australian with First Fleet ancestry, she fell in love with books while spending lonely holidays with her grandmother. She’s the only university graduate in her family—BA in Journalism (USQ), PR diploma (RMIT), and a Master’s in Professional Communication (USQ)—earned while raising a baby and battling doubters. A lifelong footy fan, she turned that passion into a master’s thesis on sport as news. Publishing her first poem at twelve, she revived her writing in her thirties, joined Brisbane’s Speedpoets scene, and now thrives within the supportive Calanthe Press community.

Rosanna E Licari interviewed Vanessa for the current issue of Stylus Lit, launched September 1st, 2025.

Louise Akers | 12 to 20 questions (from rob mclennan’s blog)

(from ‘rob mclennan’s blog’, 17 April 2025)

5 – Are public readings part of or counter to your creative process? Are you the sort of writer who enjoys doing readings?

I love doing readings–because they are fun and social and ephemeral experiences, but also it is a hell of a way to edit a poem. When I know I am reading something out loud in front of strangers, I will be totally ruthless in a way that only vanity can inspire. Also sometimes while I’m reading it, and really hearing and feeling its living reception I will change little things to allow for clarity or rhythm or some other immediate and interpersonal effect.

7 – What do you see the current role of the writer being in larger culture? Do they even have one? What do you think the role of the writer should be?

Oh, it’s hard not to just quote Walter Benjamin on this one. I think critique is important; I think it is important to register the fact that throwing language at a problem (“problem” standing in here very broadly and clumsily for any of the myriad social-political-environmental-economic cataclysms we are enmeshed in currently), policing the language around a problem, or even diagnosing a problem discursively are all deeply incomplete projects, while also realizing that that is not an excuse or a reason not to do those things. Very clunky sentence, but hopefully you get the drift.

(More at rob mclennan’s blog)

Louise Akers is a poet living in Brooklyn, NY. She is a PhD student in English at NYU and is the co-organizer of the small press and working group, the Organism for Poetic Research. Akers is the author of two books of poetry, Alien Year (Oversound, 2020) and Elizabeth/The story of Drone (Propeller Books, 2022).

Rae Armantrout | ‘The absence of certainty’, a conversation with Kate Lilley

(Cordite Poetry Review, 4th February 2025)

Kate Lilley: … One of the things you said when we were having a bit of back and forth about how we might do this was when I asked you what often gets left out, because everybody writes about (for good reason) the markedly intelligent, propositional, ‘thinky’ character of your work, it’s markedly ‘intellectual.’ You said emotion and affect tend to get left out. Why don’t we start there with some of these poems?

Rae Armantrout: Ok, I like that question. It’s true. People often talk about the ambiguity of my work and how to make meaning out of it – how meaning might be problematised, which are all intellectual problems that are very interesting to me. I like your word ‘proposition,’ Kate. One thing I like to do is to throw out a proposition that may or may not be true, it could conceivably be true, and then pose examples of what it might mean and look like for it to actually be true. Often, the examples are problematic, somehow. It’s like they’re chunky, unwieldy pieces of the world, and how do they line up with these propositions that I’m trying to use to describe it?

So, having said that I want to get around to emotion since I don’t talk about it much. I may not be good at talking about it, but I can tell you that every poem of mine starts with a feeling. And usually with a feeling I can’t identify, maybe because it’s complicated, kind of a compound feeling of ironic yet wistful or a sad yet angry combination of feelings. But also, sometimes, I need help understanding the source of the feeling, and that’s where a poem starts – when I try to identify the source of a feeling.

(Edited transcript of the conversation at Cordite Poetry Review)

(Complete interview online on the Australian National University’s Art and Social Sciences YouTube channel)

Alison J Barton – on 3CR’s Spoken Word, interviewed by Indrani Perera

Enjoyed a thoughtful interview with Wurundjeri poet Alison J Barton recently, aired on 3CR’s Spoken Word program (08 August 2024)…. Indrani Perera spoke to Alison about her collection, ‘Not Telling’, Alison’s debut full-length poetry collection published by Puncher and Wattman.

Perera began by asking about the book’s ‘intriguing’ title…

The title came to me because the unifying theme of the collection is language and speech and in fact silence and not speaking. It’s also a bit of a play on a line in one of the poems in the collection. That’s the unifying theme, but the book is also broken into three sections and they’re quite distinct, the sections. I have one about colonisation and Aboriginal Australian history, one that’s really about family relationships and just indeed human relationships, and another section that has poems that are written around psychoanalytic theory. But yes, the unifying theme is language, speech and silence. You see that coming up in most of the poems, I think.

I know people don’t talk about favourite children, but do you have a favourite section in the book?

Ah, that’s a good question. I haven’t thought about that, actually. Yeah, maybe I do, but I don’t want to say. But no, look, there are poems in each section that I’m quite fond of. I think the sections are so distinct that it’s pretty hard to pick a favourite.

Fair enough.

’Buried Light’ is the first of the poems Alison read throughout the half-hour program, introducing the topic of colonisation in Australia – something that, growing up in the 80’s, ‘ just wasn’t a thing. The history that I learnt was so revisionist it was ridiculous’, says Barton. Perera wondered what it was like as a First Nations poet to have a residency at Oxford University. (In the past, Aboriginal human remains were often obtained by researchers – some associated with Cambridge – and frequently without consent. Aboriginal groups have long demanded the repatriation of remains – and some have been returned – but the process has invariably been slow, and often obstructive)

Yeah, look, it was a great experience but, of course, I was very aware of that contradiction in being there and also I’ve reflected on it a lot since the fellowship.

and there’s a great deal left unsaid here in an interview packed within a half hour program, though Puncher & Wattman’s website offers more of the book’s detail and its depiction of the

ongoing legacy of colonial dispossession and the strength of its survivors through representations of the wretched damage caused by the invasion of Australia, as well as musings on sacred land and celebration of continued culture. It testifies to the systemic oppression of Aboriginal people, connecting present-day black trauma with its origins. Jolted by the life realities of who we were, and are, alongside exacting accounts of genocide, the reader is immersed in a rich and harrowing world.’

…………………………………….

It was about five years ago that Barton took up poetry.

I sort of thought that I couldn’t write poetry so it was something that I didn’t explore until it suddenly came to me about five years ago and I just haven’t been able to stop ever since.

‘Do you know what it was that prompted that shift from prose into poetry?’

What actually happened is a poem just came to me and it’s very rare for that to happen now but it just spontaneously came to me and I wrote it down and I realised it was a poem and I literally have not stopped writing poetry since then.

So it basically snuck up on you and ambushed you?

Exactly. Yeah, that’s a good way of putting it. And there’s something sort of mystical I think about the creative process.

Alison I’m wondering what inspires you to write?

That’s such a big question. Basically everything.

I am in a daily writing practice, so I’m putting something on paper every day and, yeah, anything and everything, I would say.

So everything’s sort of grist for the mill?

I think so, yes. And while I write every day, it’s usually stream of consciousness writing that I then read over later and turn into poetry.

So when you write, is it in paragraph form or are you using dot points?

No, neither, I very much am writing in an endless stream. I have a journal, I use paper and pen and I use grammar sparingly, but there are no paragraph breaks. It’s a very continuous line of thought.

And how long do you do that for each day?

Ideally I would do it for an hour, at least an hour each day, but of course I don’t always get to do an hour. For me, even if I write for a few minutes, I’m happy that I’ve written something each day. Sometimes it’s much longer.

Do you find that doing it daily helps you to then form poems?

Yes. Well, it gives me a lot of material to go over later and turn into poetry, I think if I didn’t do that, I would produce much less poetry. There have only been a couple of times in my career where I’ve sat down with the intention of writing a poem and not using any material, any sort of written material that I’ve produced prior and a poem has just come to me spontaneously.

Usually it’s through great effort.

So is it like your shortcut or your secret hack to writing poetry, doing that daily practice?

Yes, I think that’s right, yeah.

I really envy you writing every day.

Thank you … for some people they need to write, they must write, but they have to force themselves and for me for some reason it’s actually a pleasure.

That’s fabulous.

That’s a great place to be in as a writer. I feel very lucky.

…………………………………….

Writing can be isolating, but a good writing group offers encouragement, honest feedback, and shared understanding. Being part of a writing group means you’ve people to push you to improve, keep you on track. Alison was questioned about whether she belonged to a writer’s group, ‘or do you have somebody that you share your work with and get feedback as you’re going?’

Yeah, I am in a writer’s group with three other poets, it’s only something that we’ve started recently, probably in the last year, I would say, and it’s incredibly useful for refining poems, sometimes I’ll take a poem to that group and I’ll think this poem needs a lot of work. This is in its very early stages. And then the group will surprise me and say, Alison, this poem’s ready.

I think what’s great about that group as well is that we’re all writers, we’re all poets, so we are honest with each other. If something needs work, you know, we want to get better and we want to help each other.

So yeah,  there’s real trust in that group and I value that perspective. I feel like trust is be very important if you’re sharing work, especially poetry, which feels very personal.

I’m curious about your writing and if there are particular topics that you’re writing about.

In general, you mean?

Yeah.

No, I don’t, I really don’t restrict myself and I don’t want to force a poem about something. I have done that at times, but it’s kind of rare.

I think one of my early poetry mentors said to me something along the lines of, you have to let the poem be what it wants to be. And I think it’s very true. I think when I write a poem, it surprises me sometimes, you know, in subject matter sometimes or where it goes.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

(To listen to the full recording, visit 3CR’s Spoken Word program).

Alison J Barton’s work has appeared in Australian and international journals and anthologies such as Meanjin, Cordite, Westerly, Mascara Literary Review, Australian Poetry Journal, Black Box Manifold and many more. In 2023 she was the inaugural winner of the University of Cambridge First Nations Writing Residence Fellowship. She has been the recipient of several fellowships with Varuna House and the winner of a number of international writing residencies. Alison’s poetry appeared in the Best of Australian Poems 2022 and 2023 and has been recognised in numerous prizes. She’s appeared in podcasts for the Guilty Feminist and Poetry Says.

Alison J Barton’s collection ‘Not Telling’ is available from Puncher & Wattmann retailing for $27.

 

 

US politics — The client’s the voter…

There’s a thoughtful interview on the New York Times web site … ‘The Interview’ Feb 15, 2025, Lulu Garcia-Navarro in conversation with Senator Ruben Gallego of Arizona …

Senator Gallego:

“The base Democratic voter wants to be rich. And there’s nothing wrong with that. And so our job is to expose when there are abuses by, quote-unquote, the rich, the wealthy, the powerful. Then that’s how we get those people that want to aspire to that to vote for Democrats.”

Lulu Garcia-Navarro:

“So Elon Musk, Donald Trump, are these the people who have actually figured out how to connect with the working class?”

Senator Gallego:

“Yes. Yeah. We just had an election that proved that. I mean — ”

Lulu Garcia-Navarro:

“Why?”

Senator Gallego:

“Well, I think because they both are two things that I think a lot of Democratic politicians are. No. 1, they actually understand, quote-unquote, the consumer. Right? And because they are engaged in, every day, one way or the other, trying to talk to the consumer. And in this case, it’s the voter, right?”

Lulu Garcia-Navarro:

“That’s so interesting. They’re salesmen, essentially.”

Senator Gallego:

“Yeah, exactly.”

Lulu Garcia-Navarro

“And they understand who the client is.”

Senator Gallego:

“Mm-hmm. The client’s the voter. And they don’t care. By the way, that’s the other thing that’s — they don’t care how they get the sale done. Right? This is why you saw during the campaign, Trump said, You know what? No tax on tips. We’re not going to tax your security, all this kind of stuff. And on the other side, people were like, Well, that’s really going to do something and do an imbalance to the budget deficit. What did Donald Trump care? He just wanted to win, right? What does Elon Musk want to do? He just wants to win, right? He knows where the voter is, and he’ll get there however he can get there. But they’re closer to the ground, to where the base voter is, than to some of us Democrats.”

 

Martin Flanagan and Cameron Hindrum in conversation

Thursday 21st March 2023 — 18:00 to 20:00

UTAS Inveresk Library celebrates Tasmanian Reads Week with ‘The Place that Made Us: Martin Flanagan in conversation with Cameron Hindrum’.
Martin Flanagan explores what it is about Tasmania – its places. its stories, its people and its ghosts – that seep into the bones and the imagination of a creative soul such as Cameron Hindrum, who has called the island home all his life.
What are the defining cultural moments and narratives that both define Tasmania and are reflected in the art that is produced here?
How is this reflected in the seminal reading, writing and creativity that has occupied Martin and Cameron in their various literary endeavours?
All welcome.
Ticket provides general admission to the talk.
Book sales will be available at the event.

Review, David Mason poetry collection ‘Pacific Light’ (Los Angeles Review of Books, 20 Nov 2022)

Thoughtful words, both by and about US poet David Mason, now resident in Tasmania.

Siham Karami reviews Mason’s Pacific Light (Forty South Publishing, Sept 2022)….

In this collection, we sense it in the very first poem, “On the Shelf,” whose title rhymes with and is the same metric length as that of the final poem, “Note to Self” — another indication of the care with which Mason organizes his effects. There we are invited to observe the smallest thing, a spider’s shed skin, which the speaker “thought twice before touching,” because the spider’s “soul” is still “able to frighten.” He wonders if his own “shed skins / in houses where my name has been removed” will elicit an emotional response, if “some words of mine” will thus “go on living,” without asserting it. The question remains humbly open.

There’s reference too, to previous conversation with Mason in the form of a link to Leath Tonino’s 2015 interview with the poet, published in The Sun.

Tonino: As you’ve described it, the Greek view seems particularly fitting for a poet. I like the idea of poets as people writing from the brink, with the clarity and intensity of the about-to-die. It makes me think of the Zen Buddhist tradition in which a master often writes a final poem on his deathbed.

Mason: That happens in the Western tradition as well. Many poets write their own epitaphs. Take Robert Frost’s: “I had a lover’s quarrel with the world.” That’s just a beautiful idea. We’re always a little at odds with the world, always wrestling with it, fighting it, beating our head against it. But we also love it very much. Elsewhere Frost says, “Earth’s the right place for love: / I don’t know where it’s likely to go better.” You’ve got a body, and the body can love as well as suffer. Sometimes love is suffering, right?

I think poets as a group often do have an essentially Greek view of existence. I don’t mean they are all influenced by the Greeks. There are obviously Christian poets and Buddhist poets and many others with different theological standpoints. But the awareness of death seems common to all. It’s almost the nature of poetry.

Tonino: But obviously poetry doesn’t have to be only about loss, grief, and death.

Mason: Right. There’s a spectrum. Sometimes it’s about transforming loss. We are all transformed by grief. We change in the way a tree struck by lightning changes. Artists try to capture that in a poem or a minuet or a painting or a sculpture.

A student was asking me just today: Why is it so hard to write about happiness? I replied that it’s hard to write well about anything — it’s just damn hard to get the words down right — but it’s especially hard to convey the joyful aspects of life without becoming sentimental. Sadness, too, can be maudlin, but it’s particularly true of happiness.

And yet there are happy works of art out there, works that are brimming with gaiety, to use W.B. Yeats’s word. Even the tragedies often crackle with a kind of life energy. You feel revitalized by partaking in them. Somebody once speculated that the writer Flannery O’Connor must be a cynical person, because her short stories are so dark. Her answer, which I’m paraphrasing, was that no completely cynical or nihilistic person can write fiction. In a sense, the very act of creation is fundamentally an acknowledgment of life.

I read a lot of contemporary poetry and often find myself feeling that there’s no vitality to it. It’s as if the author were dead inside, or just writing for professors. There’s no human pulse there. The poem doesn’t beat like a heart. All the best literature has that pulse. It makes you feel alive to read it.

Melanie Barnes, in conversation with Susan Austin

SUSAN AUSTIN

In 2007 you helped to found Students Against the Pulp Mill and lead demonstrations in Hobart and Launceston where students walked out of school to protest against the pulp mill. What’s it like to lead 700 or more high school students out of class and through the streets?

MELANIE BARNES

That was fantastic. I think high school students are the most energetic of all activists, they have so much enthusiasm, and when they get fired up about something, they really get fired up about it. Those rallies were successful because of the students themselves, their energy… they helped to organize it and spread the word amongst their friends. The pulp mill was an issue they felt they had a really big stake in because they didn’t want to see their state and the places where they lived become destroyed from the pollution from the pulp mill. They were also really annoyed about the corruption around the approval process. It was also amazing because you had all these adults telling them that they were too young to protest, that they didn’t know what they were talking about and the police on the day even told the students to go back to school, that they were being silly. You don’t tell that to someone who feels so passionate about an issue! They knew exactly what they were doing there and they got really angry when people tried to tell them that they had no clue.

[from an interview published in ‘Famous Reporter’ issue 43, May 2012]

Melissa Ashley—in conversation with Kate Middleton

KATE MIDDLETON

You were saying before that you’ve written work that has been quite experimental in the past where you feel you might have pushed that too far – what do you see as too far? What does it become?

MELISSA ASHLEY

I felt that I went too far in the sense that I stopped communicating with anyone but myself. At university a couple of years ago, I studied Monique Wittig’s The Lesbian Body, and while I absolutely adore the book, I also kind of resent it, because it affected my writing in a such detrimental way, down to its very roots and bones. I began producing strange block-style hybrid prose poems about Greek goddesses and the anatomy of the female body. I knew what I was talking about, however I don’t know if anyone else did – or cared – and that’s a problem. Wittig is also a philosopher, and via The Lesbian Body was attempting to push out the boundaries of poetic language, trying to rupture the dichotomous structures of Western thought (such an unambitious project!). So when I picked up on this, probably on a more sensual (and by that I mean poetic rather than philosophical), than intellectual level – only half-aware of what I was doing – my writing became very convoluted.

What I know now is that Wittig’s project was a moment in time, the world has since changed – thank god we don’t live in the seventies – we’ve gone beyond the literary fashion of goddess-archetypes; however for a while I was seduced. So as a result of descending into this poetic Gehenna (hell), (and subsequently clawing my way back) I’ve become very sensitive about experimental writing. I feel that some people are partial to it – you’ve got generations of American language poets, and Australian too – but it leaves others cold.

[part of an interview published in ‘Famous Reporter 25’, June 2002]

Jordie Albiston—in conversation with Kate Middleton [Dec 2001]

KATE MIDDLETON

Joan Didion once said of her novels that her first sentence has to be perfect, because everything grows from that, and once you’ve got your first paragraph written, there’s no going back.

JORDIE ALBISTON

I agree with her! And of course it’s more compressed with poetry — you’d be talking about your first word as important, your first phrase, and after your first sentence there being no going back… And it’s a question of respect as well, of honouring the poem. What is trying to come out on the page? You think in your head “I want to write a poem in Italian quatrains” or whatever, and you’ve a vague idea it’ll be about a page and a half long, and you want to cover this sort of ground, and that’s about all you start with — and then this completely different animal comes out of the computer, which has barely anything to do with your original idea, and you think “Where did that come from?”… It comes down to respecting and honouring the poem itself. It’s the Michelangelo thing: chipping, tapping away, seeing what’s inside there, trying to help get it out.

(from ‘An interview with Jordie Albiston‘, ‘Famous Reporter #24’, 1st Dec 2001)