March Poetry Sale (and fiction)!

Let’s have a bit of a sale!

For the rest of March, signed copies of all my poetry collections are on sale (and my fiction titles too) so if you’d like to grab some poetry for cheap let me know here or send me an e-mail :)

mountain0ash[at]gmail[dot]com

(that’s a ‘zero’ in the address)

 

 

P o e t r y

 

All titles $5 posted

pollen and the storm

pollen and the storm cover

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

stepping over seasons

stepping over seasons cover

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

between giants

betweengiants(web)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

old stone: haiku, senryu & haibun

old stone - haiku (larger)2 - Copy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

$3 posted

orion tips the saucepan

orion

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

7 Years

7yearsPP(2)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

F i c t i o n

 

$10 posted

The Fairy Wren

tfw

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

$15 posted

City of Masks (original cover)

CityofMasks(final)

The Tintin 2015 Reading Challenge: The Broken Ear

Finally posting the third entry in my 2015 Tintin reading challenge tonight with The Broken Ear! (So far I’ve also read Cigars & The Blue Lotus).

This one’s a solid entry into the Tintin series  for me– and a solid Tintin story is still pretty ace when you get down to it, but ultimately, it’s just not one of my favourites.

The Broken Ear

#6 – (1937)

 

During his search for the missing fetish with the broken ear, Tintin ends up in South America where he enlists in the army under the temperamental General Alcazar (who will go on to have other appearances in Tintin adventures) the high point of which being a pretty impressive car chase.

As ever, there are some great phrases in Tintin comics – often insults or exclamations – and it was fun to see ‘great snakes’ in this one. I also really enjoyed the comedy around the ‘fake Tintins’ on the ocean liner scene. Especially noteworthy, I thought, were the devils who are seen taking two of the villains away right near the end of the story.

Again, not the best Tintin adventure, but in no way disappointing.

Next up: The Black Island.

 

between giants (a poem, not the collection)

I am slow of words
tired to speak them
mouth confetti-ed
making plausible
the unsurprising
with dull iron
wrapped, drawn
beneath eyes
no moondog, no
not at all, I’m thrilled
I’m thrilled and com-
pletely stopped
by his lament and
not even close to
keeping up with his
shadow, of course
I do not expect to:
I am rusted to chair
I am part of the class
I am between giants
I am lamp light
I am pots on ledges
I am blooming in-
doors with the scent
of rain crowding
glass and I am ever
having to repeat honey-
ed phrases to placate
tadpoles lining up
to be thrown into
the pond by my frail
hands.

 

(this one was going to be in the collection but I didn’t feel like it was strong enough to be the titular poem and so it never made it in at all in the end :) )

bone patch

this house is made for
our bones, with grooves where
the right things rest

such as ankles in couch cushions
or invisible targets
for my elbows when I
lean on the kitchen bench
to watch your magic

or the dip in our bed,
where bossy hip bones have
carved out so many dreams
from the old fairy floss
of our mattress

right down to the small bits
left over, like the hair tie
gone missing in the laundry
once a thin python for your wrist.

The Fairy Wren – ebook is live!

tfw

Very happy to say that the ebook of The Fairy Wren is now available!

It’s been a bit of a hard slog but it’s now up on Amazon and a few other e-retailers, so if you’re looking for a contemporary fantasy about magical birds and frustrated bookstore owners, this is your chance to get it for $2.99 :D

It’s also still available in the more classic print form – but below is a list of e-retailers that have it up so far:

Available From
E-book – Amazon (US)
E-book – Amazon (UK)
E-Book – Amazon (AU)
E-Book – Booktopia (AU)
E-Book – Barnes&Noble (US)

Boneless

the notes pour me, boneless,
between the sheets
and I flick the light off,

sleep has become holy.
dreams stay just out of sight
and the slumber of the church bell
that has not been rung in years
is absolute.

brittle, teenage slang
floats through the night
and puts fear into the great,
conservative houses
who are most perfect at being still.

I set no alarm.

the white of hunting lights
from tennis courts
keeps part of the town awake
and the moon slinks away,
still unable to cough up
armstrong’s footprints

so I lie on my back, breathing
but not counting as each note
sinks me into the mattress
carefully,
like a countersunk man.