Special “exquisite corpse” issue featuring 4 collaborative poetry experiments by 28 new & acclaimed writers from New Zealand & across the world.
Beyond the paradise of product lines, through an economic wilderness of hollow olives & glycerine drinks, past the invisible homeless & the ghost of Ralph Waldo Emerson (his mum bringing him clean laundry), up a steaming track covered by vaporous cloud—a man with a cowboy hat will lead your pony on.
p.Rose JAN 31 2018 BY P.ROSE RHO(DOT)ROSE I want to write and essay “Light the poem”—day three:: THAT SCALABLE FUNCTION:: The cube is concentric volumes… And it speaks to Hallelujah. I will not give in. To the heart that speaks of sins. Beyond the paradise of product lines, we juxtapose a mother set of rhymes. Possible. A trace is made between the fields. A function of discrete appeal. My filter dreams are structured why? For pursuit of scenes and substance gone by. Old is new is old is new is old. What of the historic mode? It took sensations into“Naomi Scully”
Prayer Look at this busy dance I do with my hand When I’m talking to people Shredding paper in the darkness of my pocket It is the quiet work of saying things Like bees or ants aren’t still when they build things And I admire it and I wonder why it is We put our hands together to pray I suppose we must show that our hands are not doing anything That there is finally nothing happening behind the scenes Which I can’t imagine is most honest
Pony New Lynn Actually, a whole traveling farm, a portable farm with rats and bunnies, chickens too? It was my sister’s birthday. Baths Unless my memory is playing tricks on me. The rats were white with blazing red eyes. I’m translating myself from a time when I was sure. Sex with strangers The man leading the pony in circles was wearing a cowboy hat. Sunday School There was a big pink cake with purple icing and sprinkles. Of being outside I was too big to ride the pony. By then I was a young woman.“Courtney Sina Meredith”
CAMPING IN THE EXISTENTIAL FORREST L’homme y passe à travers des forêts de symbols Qui l’observent avecs des regards familiers —Baudelaire, ‘Correspondances’ I The bourgeois cuts the forest to an inch of its life. “How come you don’t fall?” II Empty bottle. Think of Baudelaire camped in his symbolic forest. III Someone coming in gumboots. Tramp tramp tramp. Beat of own tell-tale heart. IV The forest watches. Watch out! Wrong way! So the forest has its way. V Forest’s colour is fish. It smells of dancing. Tastes pink. Sounds hand. Feels shoe. VI Through the forest: monk on donkey, hitch-hiker“Murray Edmond”
Vapor Wake shadow the steaming track the wormy spoor the hex print the luminous index data streaming from me like a wedding dress a mantle, a mantis a veil oh vapor wake I doze in your trace shimmer in your haze lean into your membrane call into a room locate the voice it is mine and it is not mine meme god replicant speech particle vapor wake I break like a flock I cleave in three directions I refract and scatter I spread the remains across the garden floor yes these are hills filmy with light yes these are meadows“Zack Anderson”
My Guru (& the intrusive face) In the wilderness of surrounding social certainness, Exiled; an audience to tables of my inedibles—bright cheeses, canapés green&black olives, distracted; I bump into the doyen of words, guru to a literary soul: Emma. Standing next to me on sacred ground. Breathlessly, I listen to your wordless sight-filled breathing. I would drop my fashion jacket (with sculptured peace sign) into any muddy lino. Leaning my hand to balance Your ephemeral thoughts, celebrate your words embrace your magic views; Egyptian cats & flowered children floating on depths of cultured rivers, on godlike currents…….I drifted with you;“Lee Thomson”
BAD SEX IN BIG SUBURBS what will you give up for closeness honey bun you can get anyone onside with enough booze and ruthless gentleness people are gagging for a little kindness people will kill for sympathy these are the seasons of mists baby and I’m in business I’m a life coach now let’s get drunk among your family compose six texts to your gap-filler crush and send them off in a volley of triumph from under the dinner table pay for me!!!! pay for my soul I’m long-lasting god I’m so durable I’m honestly stronger than you know I’m like the condom with chemicals in so you“Freya Daly Sadgrove”
The Hierarchy Invisible homeless The dead Care worker Solo mother (bad suburb) Loan shark Bottom feeder Dolt Poet Casual employee PhD in Fine Arts Intern Experimental rodent Minion Serf Serf (creative industries) Mid-career journalist Ten years to go and holding on desperately “Between jobs” Climate scientist Aspirational 30-something National voter Embittered bureaucrat Petty officer Solo mother (good suburb) Will never afford a house but still think they have a chance Dull but stable Chief Executive of twelve people Tobacco lobbyist Bishop (Destiny Church) Interior designer “P” dealer Change management consultant Grand Poobah Dairy farmer, backbone of the nation “Entrepreneur” All“Victor Billot”
Victor Billot, Freya Daly Sadgrove, Lee Thomson, Zack Anderson (US), Murray Edmond, Courtney Sina Meredith, Manon Revuelta, Naomi Scully (US), Harry Moritz, Erena Shingade
“In the future (which isn’t too far off now, about fifty years or so, I’d guess), the scientists of the world will study love. Love will be the only science left to discover anything new about. The oceans, space, time, all things macro & micro, will have been measured & graphed, understood to the nth degree. But love will still mystify. Carolyn DeCarlo & Jackson Nieuwland are (will be?) two of those scientists.”
Compound Press published Fiddlehead, a long poem by Steven Toussaint, late in the Southern Hemisphere Summer of 2014 (April-ish). It has now gone out of print, but a really wonderful recording has been made of Steven reading the work in its entirety. This is great news for experiencing this poem, because one of the most compelling features that made the manuscript stand out to us was the presence of a refrain, repeated like semi-regular clockwork throughout.
We had small little reading in the crisp Autumn outdoors in order to celebrate the release of the 6th issue of Minarets, and an end to the second volume.
In the shade of Auckland’s Mount Eden volcanic cone, the Louis Adolphus Durrieu Reserve provided a quaint miniature amphitheatre setting. On account of the 24-hour liquor ban in all public parks, thermos flasks of tea & coffee were passed around, instead of the more customary ‘reading wine’.
Minarets Journal was initially conceived as a print publication. The first four issues, comprising Volume One (2012–2013), were released as small perfect bound books in limited editions. Issue Five was the first to be produced in a web format, due to a mix of economic pressures & convenience. This month has been spent digitising the four original print volumes, which can now be browsed on this website, so now everything is happily all together.