Genetic modification
She stood with the tip of her nose touching the thick window. Looking out over the endless desert, she wondered what it …
“EVERY POET sees the world through a unique lens; hears the world through their own exceptional ear.”
– Jessica Wilkinson and Ali Alizadeh, The Realpoetik Manifesto 2012
Poetry has been composed as oral storytelling, as lyrics or songs and as an aid to memory from as far back as the Epic of Gilgamesh, from the 3rd millennium BC in Sumer. As Robert Frost puts it, ‘A poem begins with a lump in the throat, a home-sickness or a love-sickness. It is a reaching-out toward expression; an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where the emotion has found its thought and the thought has found the words.’
Ali Alizadeh was a PhD student at Deakin (completing an epic poem on Joan of Arc), and he is steeped in the narrative and Sufi poetic traditions of his childhood homeland, Persia. Check out his website http://alializadeh.wordpress.com/ to review the diversity of his writings. And you can listen to an interview on Radio National’s Poetica in 2013: http://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/poetica/ali-alizardeh/5026248
She stood with the tip of her nose touching the thick window. Looking out over the endless desert, she wondered what it …
“Which way d’ya wanna take?” “Highway. Got a cigarette?” He glanced at her. “Oh, come off it Tim. It’s one cigarette.” “In …
In the Holy City a convoy rows down, feeling spiritual via Kodak lens, to see the sun rise over cremation grounds with …
You wait. You stare into darkness, blank space that exists between the upper and lower folds of soft, untouched skin. Somewhere between …
The Artist gave one last glance over his finished masterpiece, then nodded, satisfied that it was his best work yet. As he …
Lara is standing, disconsolate, on the veranda of her father’s tired, timber bungalow; she wears a faded, blue-daisied frock that hangs like …
Watching the orange sun fall beneath the rust belt tonight; Nature and tin spectacular. The beauty of the disk that hurts my …
I saw the nineties dawn, yawn and flare, then scream, shoot and groan about and grow their sodden hair. Then kick and …
Function omits the desire for emotional investment, which is Ultimately resultant of this paradoxical (does my head in) distillation of language… a …
I want to be a carnie, Or a carnie’s junk collector. Filling my room with mannequins, eyes wide like corpses with gangly …