Zine Dreams

Paper words seem to hold a permanence that their online counterparts are incapable of. This is not true. It’s one of the most terrifying, immovable facts of the Internet Age that everything you post online becomes permanent. Every stupid little thing you posted when you were thirteen and half awake. It’ll be there embarrassing your solemn memory when your body is nothing more than dust.

Yet posting on the internet does not afford the same sense of immortality as words with a beating papery heart. Maybe it’s being able to curl up in a bed with those words at night, feel their lumps and bumps and hair, and think it’s impossible that this couldn’t last forever. Humans have deluded themselves with these very conclusions for centuries. And I don’t intend to buck the trend.

That is why I am drawn to the idea of the taking The Young Poetry and its contents and folding them into the pages of a zine. A zine that would be released physically in Sydney, among friends and acquaintances and anyone on the street who’s interested. A zine that could be mailed to its contributors anywhere in the world. A zine to be found in a draw in ten years and laughed at, with no recollection of  how serious it seemed at the time.

That is the goal. A physical, tangible real paper blooded zine of all the Young Poetry Poetry on a desk somewhere. Maybe after ten or so poets are featured. I’ll put that goal out here, just to establish some accountability. If it creates an incentive for anyone, that’s exciting. If it doesn’t, at least it will keep me honest.

And in that spirit, here’s a quote I stand by but am yet to confirm with personal experience:

“Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through.”
― Ira Glass
Put yourself on a deadline, contribute to theyoungpoetry@gmail.com by the end of February.

‘Flight’ – Louise Jaques Poetry

Louise Jaques has the words – some known to me since before forever and others that jolt with their newness. In this poem, you don’t need to know her like I know her to know she has a power. ‘A heart that strikes like a timpani’ indeed. You can, (and should) get to know her over at My other book is a Tolstoy. A compassionate poet too, to put ‘Flight’ here first.

It’s irresponsible to throw out any last minute spoilers just before you pop this poem into your mouth, but this line sticks out and in: ‘Here are my bones in a glass jar. only then will you know fear.’ Uh, just makes your eyes fall right out of their sockets and your tongue drip all over the keyboard.

Pull on a shirt that doesn’t mind if it gets gory and read read read.

Flight

I will never forget how under the shadow of sepia streetlights

I held your hand and drank the sky, (it poured out of the moon.)

we didn’t notice the rain.

I will never forget the instantaneous rush that came from doing something

crazy. a heart that strikes like a timpani,

lungs that feel drenched with ice water.

I will never forget the trepidation and wonder of

carrying my entire life on my shoulders,

walking to met you in a side street where we caught the sun under our tongues.

I will never forget your voice, full like red wine or honey.

Here are my bones in a glass jar. only then will you know fear.

why don’t you stay and save my life?

I will never forget when I realised that in the mountains

I feel free. and in that moment, in the indigo hour,

dark before dawn, I am mountain.

even the smallest bird can fly, you whispered, and it

tattooed me. what could be better than waking up draped across you,

like a flag?

what stopped me from weeping?

maybe it was because I realised that forgetting my bearings;

having no idea where I was

(or even who,)

played a part in me getting here.

I may not be infinitely quotable

and no-one important will mourn my passing. But I will never forget

you.

or that small birds fly too.

‘Sloe’, ‘Bus’, ‘pms’ – Emilia Batchelor Poems

Emilia Batchelor, from Sydney. As you’ll see, a master of the exit line. And tying words together and skipping over them. Reading aloud highly recommended.

pms is last, to leave that invincibility in your mouth.

Breathe in deep for the first jump into The Young Poetry.

sloe

hoeing in to time the one

two step gulleted slow trickle of slow

time long gates

that forever grope toward some open

close functionality

dwindling and kindly,

you must remind me to put bandaids on my fingers and

cool aids the mopped brow

furrowed and chic

smirked lurking up and around a corner

in my house there is my room

with all different kind of things

some of which elongate from me

be soon and ready

to capsize into small

pocketable, functionable, digestible

vestibules and vessels – I inhabit them

too and in threes we countdown two one

and again are freed to piss pot and

musically feed

the Sunday back into Monday

and funs doomed said say again 3, 2

gunned down

and pinned up the french roll

through trench and shale from shoulder

to shoulder to soldier

a granulated salutation

hi how are you coffee

honey?

bus

I’m thinking on the bus about how you left really soon

and I said

maybe we could hang later in the week?

And you said you would message me

and I though you seemed offended

right there and then

and I wanted to say “I doubt it”

because it seemed doubtful

considering how you were leaving very quickly and all.

Instead I said “cool” and

“I’ll message you” and maybe you wanted

in your offended, hurt state,

wanted to say “I doubt it” or

and kind of meant, “don’t”.

pms

poetry is heaps gay

i’m happy writing it – forever

all things are poetry.

“naturally increase breast size with the help of a buddhist monk”

even if they are heaps gay

also if they sound shit,

poetry is heavy.

two big jugs on a scale.

poetry is balance, beaming

i am happy, forever.

dangling

“it is also smart to reduce alcohol intake before any type of surgery”

but increase consumption in gross christmas sales.

save jesus and kill you liver.

kill america and save yourself.

nothing will last longer

i happy am beaming

i’ll last longer

The Young Poetry

Welcome to The Young Poetry,

My goal in creating this wordpress is to build a young space for unknown poets to present their work. Poets, or just people who write. If you have put some captured some words at some point, you are welcome here. Any content, any theme, any style will be read; have no fear.

All endeavours were at some point young. Every piece of poetry in existence, first crossed through some mind, fleeting and mortal. And most of the time, foolish. But that is what makes it so thrilling to read young poetry. Work that is still unaccomustomed to the light of attention. Work written in between sandwiches and sleeping and masturbation. Work that stands on its own unsure legs.

So if you’ve written something you’d like to expose, even in such a small way, do submit to The Young Poetry at theyoungpoetry@gmail.com, and we’ll see what happens.

The Young Poetry.