A fast poem, a little bit documentary, from a visit to The Barbara Hepworth Gallery and the Yorkshire Sculpture Park on a busy spring day.
Yeah poems. Strange little things. Sometimes a bit too obvious, sometimes oblique and evocative, sometimes just a scramble of words that doesn’t seem to point to anything. There’s no money to be made in it, it can be horrendously self indulgent, way more so than Drama say, so why do I keep coming back to…
A series of proems from the turn of the century.
A series about living in Melbourne, trying to get some kind of normal back into life after a long period of depression and intellectual wandering – these must have started in the writing course I did in 96/97, but a couple date back to 94 when I was still mostly being an actor