Print version first published in Southerly Literary Journal, edition 72.
more poems in this collection can be heard at this link:
https://becopoetry.com/2017/01/19/in-collaboration-with-max-2/
Print version first published in Southerly Literary Journal, edition 72.
more poems in this collection can be heard at this link:
https://becopoetry.com/2017/01/19/in-collaboration-with-max-2/
(after Duplex by Jericho Brown)
in her bedside drawer a secret sharp on my bedside table a scolding tea a tea that burns my tongue and throat into my stomach down into my arms down into my arms and up into lungs lungs that pause and clench the heart my heart that clenches to a question is the skylight closed in her 14-year-old room my 14-year-old’s room built eight years ago which went unused when her head lay with mine unused when her head lay next to mine before the ghost in the blues of my dreams in the blues of my dreams a ghost in my arms circles the altar of our family room our family room with a cornered orchid pink flowers faded beside the stone pink flowers beside a stone I once held when I birthed her raw out over my room when I birthed her roar out over our room that first night alone her held in my arms this night now alone without her here held a silence raw between our rooms in her bedside drawer her secret was sharp on my bedside table a scalding tea
Portrait of lady on porcelain plate
Pink dresses dancing for clergy
Little fire in a chandelier
I take pause at the edge
of a gallery in branded sandals
one foot off the floor
before the toes of a Persian Queen
summoned AND SO I WILL GO
UNTO THE KING WHICH IS NOT ACCORDING
TO THE LAW AND IF I PERISH
I PERISH I turn
Under the arches of the exhibiting hall
real-life bride performs a pirouette
two men each eye their lens
one on one knee
the other circumnavigating
light in crafted spin
poem and drawing by Rebecca Sullivan
a piece of the ground
polystyrene impacted
reduced to glutinous meal
luxuriating in a dish of rind
honey muzzled
the bread sopped egg
cavern shadow dipped
in molten soup
yolk disguising
a tempest spoon
In Collaboration with Max is poetry composed by Max Lewis and Rebecca Sullivan. Max experiences autism as well as delayed intellectual and physical growth. Max’s poetics is experimental and he can be heard expressing himself in venues across Melbourne. Rebecca and Max collaborate to advocate for the voice of poets with disability. A selection of poems from In Collaboration with Max were first Published in Southerly Literally Journal 76.2
In Collaboration with Max includes 9 poems and a Poetics Blue Print titled The ‘Special Needs’ of Poetry.
A recital of a small selection of the collaboration is viewed here
A recital of a selection of the collaborative poems with improvised jazz is found here
The audio versions of all poems in the collaboration are found below.
a song in his own voice here
the armed guard is dressed
in 19th century floral
pink stilettos peeking in
a shadow of layered petticoat
folds separate the women
from the men and the young
paper coiled into tubes
a black helmet
upside down nests
a crossed smile
umbered and chained
to feet of an old plastic doll
an ivory cat reflecting
on painted boards
sky holes gaping
through serrated mesh
the flag wooden is tacked
to the white wall broken
in new foundations
bought tolled and taxed
in four limbs around an oval
man cerated
edges framed
and falling to cedar
expanding in triangular
their shadows white
footprints amidst
a maroon sea
the light of ceiling
soaked in a leaking flood
arial footed
lines pasted to the floor
a small diamond window hidden
in the belly of outside
After ‘A Beautiful Young Nymph Going to Bed’ by Jonothon Swift
Sugar granules sink in foam
on a table where Sappho is
stuck between pages
preening Ovid’s Amores.
A fall happens,
coffee spills on swift shoes,
a copy of ‘Men’s Health’
splays on concrete.
Behind him, a little black dress
in a window with accessories,
gifts, and a stack of books
titled ‘Freedom’.
With translation on his lips,
he mouths something
about Gulliver, wiping
liquid from the city street.
Saying nothing in return,
Corinna picks up her empty cup,
cures her hair with a pin
and eyes the messy magazine.
Apostrophe driven on bittersweet,
she turns to the sky,
O cloudy context fold in,
this battlefield is yesterday’s bleach.