I am, at my very core, a poet. Along with memoir, it was the first form of writing I chanced upon as a child. I wrote my first memoir when I was six – cute and heart-heavingly sad. I still have it – or at least my Mum does. HB on foolscap. Illustrated.
But this post is about poetry – not just my poetry, but the work of the wave of new Australian poets sweeping through the poetry arcadia like Michele Seminara, Philip Ellis, Nathan Hondros, and Stuart Barnes – all genius poets and what’s more, my friends.
And so we were reviewed by highly respected Blue Pepper – a poetry blog I’ve long admired – http://www.bluepepper.blogspot.com.
My poem ‘Primitive’ received the following praise – And the sheer exhilaration of Carly-Jay Metcalfe’s “Primitive” was a true revelation. It is the exception that proves the rule regarding the longer poems, a cinematic rollercoaster ride of a poem that set this bruised old heart racing with lines such as “Eating from the hands of the land,/summer steals in”.
And this – it is the thrill of such chance discoveries that make publications such as Regime 4 so invaluable to the literary wealth of a burgeoning culture. Such serendipity has long been leached from the pages of more august publications in this country, where the same old names from the same old generation continue to pepper the indexes as though “Oz lit.” were in perpetual holding pattern. For such serendipity and courage, Bluepepper dips its hat to the editors of Perth’s Regime Books.
I am beyond thrilled – not just with the generous review of my work, but with the love the other poets in Regime #4 received. Thank you for reviewing us, Blue Pepper. I’d really like to extend my gratitude to Nathan Hondros for showing true courage in believing that the printed book STILL matters. For me, it will always matter. You can’t dog-ear or write in the margins of an e-reader or revisit the page over and over until it’s that little bit flimsier than the rest because you have loved it so. There is nothing like holding the spine of a book in your hands as it hovers above you in bed; that heady smell of print so close to your face.
When I pick up a book, I smell it. Strange? Not as odd as you think. It’s a comforting scent for me, because between the covers of a book, there is someone else’s story. I remember when books would arrive for me in hospital as a little girl; books I’d ordered from the book shop or books from the library. I wouldn’t and couldn’t wait to split their spines for the first time where there would be other worlds, characters that stayed with me for the rest of my life, and stories that grabbed me by the throat and refused to let go.
I have some ridiculously exciting poetry news to share soon, so stay tuned.