A Peek at an Unpicked Peck of Unpickled Peppers

Bart is fairly glowing with the reflected radiance of this crop of Yellow Onomatopoeic Peppers. Or, more accurately this is how Bart refers to this variety of peppers, having been in something of a quandary of indecision ( a bit like a quarry but much more cramped, according to Frank Winkler, the self-declared local expert on rock breaking), and muttering Red Peppers? Yellow Peppers? Red Peppers? Yellow Peppers? Red Peppers? Yellow Peppers?, without cease, until the Mr Farmhand, who has taken over the new nursery section in The Whistle Stop Floriste Shoppe ( to be known as The Whistle Stop Floriste Shoppe and Plant Emporium once Mavis Eggwhistle funds a space for the extra words on the front window, said Oh, For Pete's sake, enough with the Onomatopoeia, and plonked three dozen seedlings down on the counter. Bart is hoping he can interest in Mavis in a short walk in the Peppers before they start to wilt, or succumb to a November frost.

As a child I thought there was a jewel box hidden in my parent's house, I imagined there was a cache of pink cut glass rings - the ones with adjustable soft metal sizing - laid out in pink foam in the nailed tight plyboard box in my brothers' walk-in robe.

Years later, I realised the box was really the back of the bathroom cabinet. I got a lot of enjoyment out of those pink glass jewels that weren't there. Imaginery treasures are curiously satisfying.

Here is a central point where someone who might be interetested can see what bits of words, some links to work published in journals and ezines, and images that I have made.

Absent Knowledge

We are talking about knowing certain facts,

and he says, I know all that or used to,

it is only that I can’t remember.

Is this not knowing or forgetting

what you know? Perhaps the head holds

a trace of what was there,

perhaps it is there but can’t find

the way out; maybe it was there but left,

or there was a rumour that it was coming

but never did,

like the promised holiday ,

in Pennant Hills. At eight years old

I would lie in bed at night a hardly contained

precipice of anticipation that time

would take me to Pennant Hills and a big house

with a swimming pool. I can see

the façade of the house, the curve

of suburban street, where that house

I never went to might be - or even was.

Though I know I never went, maybe

somewhere, there is an unborn memory

of being there, and I am thwarted by absent knowledge

from enjoying what I did not do.

Carol Jenkins

From Voices from the Meadow Wollongong Workshop Anthology 2007 ( Five Islands Press)

Bambiraptor

The Going Down Swinging # 25 -special double CD edition has at last unwrappped itself in Sydney, with a lauch at the Last Bastion of Civilisation last Wednseday 25 September. I still don't know what is in this CD it apart from my spoken word poem Bambiraptor as I was incarcarated in an invention called Good Mummydom. I hope every one else had a good time at the launch party.

The fossil Bambiraptor’s importance in the evolutional of dexterity and the dissonant name gave me this rave by Blanche (Street Car Named Desire) - here she makes a play for Bambiraptor believing his tough and powerful persona is lined with tenderness, like Stanley. This poem is one of my bids to get fossils to colonise and take over the myth as the substratum of literature.

Show Me The Treasure

A Peek at an Unpicked Peck of Unpickled Peppers

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