Wog* (repost)
I’ll punch it out at you.
Yeah I’m a fucking wog –
and?
Yeah my parents are off the boat –
and?
What the fuck you looking at?
Just ’cause you don’t say the word
don’t mean it don’t exist.
Don’t you dare look down at me,
with those condescending eyes,
’cause I’m climbing up there to you –
and past you,
look around you
This is my joint too –
I’m not degraded / just segregated
from you.
This is my joint too –
from the Yarra to the Westgate
from Broadie to your upper class Toorak
from Sydney to Brisbane
This is my joint too –
and I’m not gonna sound like you,
like your intellectual, bland voice,
just to get into your books
and your tv and your cinema.
I’m no Peter Carey
I’m no Neighbours barbie either
I’m me.
Wog.
Australia’s my joint too –
and I’m not going nowhere
Wog: In Australian English wog was originally a pejorative for Mediterranean migrants, though in recent decades its offensiveness has been defused in certain contexts by common usage in pop-culture produced by the descendants of Mediterranean migrants.
Published in the Varuna/Picaro Anthology
Published in Southern sun Aegean light: poetry by second generation Greek-Australians (Australian Scholary Publishing)
Sacked by Overland
On reading the title of this post you might instantly think ‘soar grapes’ but the truth is, I still love Overland. I’ve loved every minute of blogging for them, even when I was criticised and slammed. I always listened and tried to understand every opinion. It’s all about learning and growing for me. I wanted to blog for Overland more regularly but couldn’t for financial reasons, since we didn’t get paid and I’m a single mother trying to make a living from my writing. But in the interests of public debate, I feel what has happened should be brought out into the open and discussed. And I am sure everyone at Overland knows I am not one to sit on my opinions.
On Friday I, along with some of the other Overland volunteer bloggers including Maxine Clarke who has been blogging for the journal since 2007, received a courteous email from Overland explaining a few things. Firstly, that Overland have decided to ‘close the group blog’ because it has been a ‘hard beast to keep going’. I entirely agree with this and have really felt for the paid blog editor, Jacinda Woodhead, and the work involved in keeping tabs on all the bloggers and editing the tonnes and tonnes of content. In the early days of the blog there were only a handful of bloggers which included the editors at Overland. I started in 2009. The bloggers had the keys to the blog. Bloggers could express their views without boundaries and be as creative as they desired. I especially enjoyed Maxine’s punchy political poems. Sometimes a poem is more effective than an article. The writing was uncensored and Overland was about freedom of speech. Back then the blog had personality, which I believe, was then diluted by all the bloggers they brought on, all the content, and the editing restrictions placed on us. There are too many voices, too many posts, which is why I agree with the decision that it was time for a change.
But what really had me stop and question was that they had ‘received a small amount of funding from Arts Victoria to hire four ongoing reviewers’ and they are also going to be ‘recruiting seven political bloggers’. But no invitation was extended to me or any of the other bloggers I spoke to who received the email. I was offered a yearly subscription to the journal for my troubles, even though in the past, I was told that in order to blog for the journal I had to be a subscriber. The email also mentioned the names of the four hand-picked reviewers, important names, bigger names than me(well, definitely less controversial). The email also said they would be redesigning the website to make it more ‘professional’. Yes, the photo of me stabbing Ben with my stiletto was probably not what they were hoping for. Or my post on poetry or pornography which has generated over 108 comments to date, more comments than I have seen on Overland in a long time.
I really don’t want to personalise this. I have no hard feelings towards Jeff Sparrow, the chief editor for Overland. I know he is trying to do the best job he can do given the difficult climate in the publishing world. He gave me this great opportunity after I was awarded a spot in the Overland master class in 2009 and I am thankful. But back in 2010, Jeff posted an article on Overland about blogging and payment. In the article he explains that Overland can’t pay bloggers because they don’t have the funds. But clearly now they have the funds and they have decided to pass those funds onto new bloggers who have not contributed to building up the blog’s audience. Does this mean that all bloggers out there, blogging for free, are working hard to build audiences in the hope they will one day be paid for their work only to be replaced with bigger names when the money does come along?
Clare Strahan, editor of Overland’s recent publication, Women’s Work, writes ‘The underrepresentation of women in writing is something with which Overland has long been concerned. We’ve debated this inequality in the Overland online community…’ I plan to read and review this collection but on face value I can already see a few things. There was no call-out made for submissions to this publication. It includes a handful of writers: Anne Hotta, Georgina Luck, Helen Addison-Smith, Susie Greenhill and Cheryl Adam. A glance at the surnames tells you that the group are not from diverse, cultural backgrounds. Reading the review on Crikey I can come to the conclusion that their intention to ‘explore our contemporary relationship with the natural world, with gender, privilege and loneliness, and ask what it means to be human in a rapidly changing world’ means they have omitted stories from strong, challenging, confronting female voices breaking boundaries in their lives and through their writing. It’s just the same predictable voice, and the title they have used really fits that premise.
So then I ask, are Overland really supporting women? Or just supporting women that fit the role of what society believe women should write? With the decision they have made they have chosen to silence at least three very strong female voices from different backgrounds: Trish Bolton, Maxine Clarke and myself. When blogger Mark William Jackson reviewed my book, Love and Fuck Poems on Overland, he named the review ‘a voice that demands to be heard’. Well not so as it would seem. It’s a passionate, woman’s voice that needs to be silenced with bigger PhD names. The latest stats show us that the odds are against you if you are a female writer in this industry. Try being a female writer from a migrant background. I’d like to see the stats on that.
What I will miss most about Overland is the ability to be able to post commentary that challenges the academic, literary community and beyond. Instead I will write here on my own blog and hope the audience will follow. But in my opinion, Overland may be aligned to the left politically but creatively they are very much aligned to the right, and this sadness me. If the creative revolution was going to happen anywhere, it was going to happen at Overland. But for me, they don’t live up to the slogan of ‘radical culture’ and don’t embody the literary journal I thought they were back when I took part in the master class. All you have to do is look at the print journal’s fiction and poetry to see it is traditional and makes no attempt to break creative boundaries. The myth has been dispelled. Once again, conservatism wins the race.
Me and my naked body
I never liked looking at my body in the mirror
and now, it’s kind of a betrayal
this year, the year overruled by my body,
ulcers burning my insides, compounding pain
endometriosis and God knows what else
flowering in my womanly parts
spreading like weeds
to other organs
Someone once ripped off my clothes
because I couldn’t stand the sight of
skin stretched, sin bulging and exposed
quickly, cover me up, quickly…
The other day my daughter
wanted to get changed at the pools
in front of everyone, and she wouldn’t listen
she couldn’t understand why we had to get changed
in the change rooms, we have to get changed in the
change rooms, please, listen – would you just listen!
I don’t want people to see your vagina! LISTEN!
Innocence glistening away…
I’m looking in the mirror
skinnier than I usually would be,
undies and singlet, my legs, no, my legs…
And not that I would ever look at myself
naked, no, no, no way…
When I was little
I accidentally saw Dad showering
He was furious at my Mum
Dirty, disgusting, pleasure is wrong dirty, don’t touch yourself, shouldn’t touch yourself, no sex till you’re married, look at the walls! Dirty TV shows! Look at the walls! Look at the walls! You have to be a virgin, be a virgin, no boyfriends, no sex, sex is wrong, sex is right with your husband, but sex is wrong, sex is bad, I can’t have sex, it hurts, can’t fuck my own husband, what is wrong with me, pain, you want me, come and get me, your sex, our sex, sweet, bitter pain, pain, pain, bad, bad, bad…
When they operate on me soon
they should stick a shovel in
and scoop out all the womanly parts
that seem to control me
They should de-sex me
so I can never think sex
dream sex, want sex,
they should de-pleasure me
clean out any remainders, any reminders of him
and our spring-sunshine-on-my-face ecstasy
My body. Are you denying or inspiring me?
Maybe I should play some music to eradicate all this
Something nice like ‘The Summer’ by Josh Pyke
It’s on a CD that my friend gave me
and it reminds me of laying
in the park with her, in the sun
and our bodies
Now there is a new man in my life.
‘Let’s take our clothes off,’ you said to me yesterday
My body shook its head. Nothing against you, but no.
You kissed my forehead. You held me.
My body, one day you and I
we will love each other
we will look into a mirror
me and my naked body
and we won’t be
two entities divided by
pain and the past
One day, we will
Love each other
In the meantime
let’s go to bed &
rest
My cafe kicked me out
My poetry is palpable
Maybe I should stop writing
I went into my café yesterday
and my books, my mailbox –
they were all under the counter
Maybe I shouldn’t be a poet
The lovely manager who agreed to my residency
isn’t coming back. She left the country temporarily
to renew her visa but was stopped at customs
I’m starting to think this isn’t just bad luck
The new manger in charge was telling me
that she doesn’t think my residency
was cleared with upper management.
That’s when it all started making sense:
How my naughty folder, where I keep
my censored poetry, went missing
but then was miraculously found
How some of my poetry books disappeared
I want to stop writing!
The café is like a shrine to you!
When I opened the mailbox I had two letters
One was a lovely poem about life,
the other went something along the lines of
(It’s not word for word because I threw
the paper in the bin immediately after reading):
Honestly I think your poetry is shit.
Please refrain from vomiting your words
all over the tables with your poetry cards
And beside the letter was my scrunched poetry card:
I fluctuate between loving you and crucifying you
The new manger thinks her manager
doesn’t want poetry in the café anymore
but she’ll let me know
I’m pretty sure my café is going to kick me out
My mobile chimes triumphantly:
Koraly, I’m sorry but we won’t be requiring you
to come in anymore. We are really sorry.
Why can’t I just write normal academic poetry?
Why can’t it all just be flowers and trees?
Why does it have to be completely fucked?
Why can’t I stop writing about you?
And once again, my poetry is homeless,
trying to find a café – pub – bar – corner
to call, home, but
I am thinking early retirement is the best option
Love and F*** Poems on Goodreads! Please review!
Hi everyone, how are you? I hope you are well. I have just added Love and F*** Poems to Goodreads! If you have read the book I’d really appreciate your support. All you have to do is click this link and select how many stars you think the book is worth. If you are super keen, you can also write a review. The more reviews I get, the more visible the book becomes. If you are not signed up to Goodreads it only takes a minute. Thanks in advance! Koraly
You’re (up) for the poetry
Melbourne Symphony Orchestra
Sidney Myer Music Bowl
So, here we are, our third date
You like the blanket arrangement
the food, wine, cheese, us
A sky, pink with possibly,
Still, comfy warm night
‘I can’t believe this is all for free,’ I say,
‘the night, the city, the music…’
‘Well, I’m not for free,’ you say.
‘Really? And how much do you cost?’
‘One poem.’
‘A poem?’
‘Yep, a poem.’
‘So you’re up the poetry?’
‘Oh, I’m up for the poetry.
I’m going to arrange music all around your poetry.’
‘You can arrange me any time you like.’
I take a closer look at your eyes
There might be something there I can’t see.
You kiss me midway through my analysis
There are about ten thousand people here.
Silence has been commanded.
We lay face to face with the stars.
You take my hand.
‘Close your eyes,’ you say.
‘I can’t. I won’t be able to see if I do.’
‘That’s okay. It’s okay not to see.
The buildings are watching us.’
I snuggle up to him.
He closes his eyes to the Romeo and Juliet ballet
I watch him. I’m being carried away by symphonies
I write the poem in my head then close my eyes
I never thought I could feel so safe in my city
And I’m so (up) for the poetry
Melbourne’s Melody (Youtube video)
I think the video quality is better if you go directly to You Tube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XS1vKV-sZaE
Click here for more videos!
Melbourne’s Melody
(I wrote this when the Tote was going to close
In preperation for ‘save live music day’ 23rd of Feb)
I was taught, pubs are dangerous
Go clubbing, I was taught
where guys grope your arse
and fights fuel the past
where they gather in droves
zombie-dance in drugged monotones
The pubs are dangerous, I was taught
full of beer-drunks and yobbos
Keep to your kind, I was taught
Go clubbing.
Go clubbing.
Drained from the vein
I tried to find my way
searching through my pain
I refused to play the game
they told me I’m insane
and then you came
My muso, the heartbeat of the city
My muso, the lifeline of bright lights
His electrified blood hums
in unquenchable melodies
drum thrash and guitar riffs
He dresses in the suits of day
teaching students, pulling beers
serving food and scaffolding smiles
my muso counts change
swings a golf club
and aims, for stars
My muso.
My muso.
My craving is insatiable
Fanged I roam, to lights.
Catch me if you can.
The garage grunt of darkened rooms
load in load out load in load out
a voice, bass, guitar, drums
the phantoms of Melbourne’s twilight
playing for forty bucks split four ways
ejecting sounds that electrify their insides
the never-ending riffs that occupy the mind
branded like stamps tattooed on a wrist
my muso holds a door open for me
in the strobe lights I couldn’t see
what was right there in front of me
I drink from the vein, Melbourne’s melody
On sticky carpets within cracked walls
asleep on the stage, snuggling the page
their voices screaming my silenced rage
securely encased, familiarly embraced
my hideaway home, my home inside home
and outside a sizzling BBQ to make it better
casually conversing on sports and the weather
wether or not live music will survive
the next rally or protest to keep it alive
Barefoot my muso bears the brunt
banned from busking for biscuits
in busy Bourke Street bliss
tangled and tripping over wires
compressed into dark corners
you soundproof his sweat
masking-tape his mouth
flood him with your America
unsympathetic you unleash
your psychedelic psychosis
the liquor licence liquorish
one pub down, two clubs open
corporate cathartic contortions
undercover cannabis and cocaine
subsidising race cars and cash cows
Closing your eyes
Killing culture, Casino style
Drained from the vein
we’ve tried to find our way
searching through our pain
we refuse to play your game
and now Melbourne’s gone insane
then you wonder, who’s to blame?
Unexpected kiss
It was like, cherries
Chocolate dipped
this unexpected kiss
Who knew a casual house party
could suddenly become, so interesting?
I like it when it’s dark, when there are candles
and I can only see shadows,
the swaying of bodies
Amy Winehouse singing ‘In my bed’
and I’m grinning into your grin
overlapping thoughts
I never saw your eyes so close
and I know where we both want to be
Unexpected kiss, a kind of relief
I reach up to you, you lean down to me
our tongues, two bodies sliding, fitting
your hand slides underneath my top
up my back, and I let you, my unexpected acquaintance
I always thought there might be something here
but now I know for sure, where I want you to be
I don’t need to give you my number
You already have it
A little hesitation
You place your arm
Protectively around me
Unexpected kiss
And now, we begin


Wog (YouTube video)
March 19, 2012 at 3:23 am (Creative commentary, Poems (PG rated))
Are you tired of not seeing Australia’s cultural diversity represented in books and tv?
Watch this video then forward it on if you agree.
Let them know we are not going to be silenced ANY MORE
I think the video quality is better if you view directly at YouTube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ldrFrjqiDIE
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