Courtney Sina Meredith

Reading
28 May 2013, 6pm
Pasifika Haos, 15 Mount Street, Victoria University of Wellington

The Goethe-Institut and the New Zealand Centre for Literary Translation in association with Va’aomanū Pasifika and Wai-te-ata Press cordially invite you to an evening with the poet Courtney Sina Meredith.

Courtney Sina Meredith has held international residencies, and her poetry and prose have been translated and published around the world. She describes her works as an on-going discussion of contemporary urban life with an underlying Pacific politique.
Credit: Courtney Sina Meredith

“Courtney Sina Meredith’s poetry sparkles with an eloquence and creativity that is both impressive and unique.” Natalia Fernandez, BBC Radio 4

“A voice full of gusto, attuned to a range of lived and heart realities … the brightest voice of her generation” Robert Sullivan

Please RSVP by Monday, 20 May to marco.sonzogni@vuw.ac.nz

Poetry NZ, New Zealand’s foremost poetry magazine, guest edited for this issue by Nicholas Reid, presents the finest new writing from this country and elsewhere. Each edition offers poems by talented newcomers and developing poets as well as those of already acclaimed and established writers. This issue features the poetry of Courtney Sina Meredith.

www.poetrynz.net

I’m so excited about this video! Abe you are a bright star!

Kudos and alofa to Tom and Marika x

http://www.facebook.com/themeansbeats

Watching clouds in the windows of the building across the street
the sky is blue and the clouds are white. They say the sky is that colour
because of the sea. No one knows the colour of the sea
eyes decide it’s blue-green
or black shellac at dusk
with a trailing moon
whose horror line
is white into infinity. The leaves of the footpath tree
have no grounds for dismissal
and fall anyway
in love with anyone
my house / battered cars
little silver muscles
stars blink and point
long lost fanau! If I could be one colour
to the naked human eye
I would be true grey
not a trick of the light
reflected forest marsh
band of whirling organs
dismantled ancient
omen. How can the concrete truck stay pearl
and the sorry ships
hosed down beside the pier
a fist a cross to bear
until fresh water runs
runs clear.

Yours truly and notable art writer John Daly-Peoples will un-pack responses to Andrea du Chatenier’s work on November 2 at SEED Gallery 5.30pm – 7.00pm.

Spaces are limited, to register e-mail artweek.writing@gmail.com, with the subject heading ‘WRITING AT SEED’ for more information visit http://artweekauckland.co.nz/events/art-of-writing

I would love to see some young and hungry artsy lippy types there ♥

I knew a little song
when only the Gods knew you
it went nothing like a bird call.

I lost a little soul
when the birds called him home
only the Gods know.

The song had a home
in the rib of the sky
it made my small eyes sting.

The sky will know
your song
my little God.

Brown Girls in Bright Red Lipstick is a collection of poetry by Courtney Sina Meredith. Meredith has established a local and international reputation as a performer, poet, musician and playwright. Her work is an on-going discussion of contemporary urban life with an underlying Pacific politique and an educated, politically aware, international voice.

Brown Girls in Bright Red Lipstick will be available October 2012 and in bookstores nationwide November 2012.

To pre-order visit www.beatnikpublishing.com

You returned
in a crisp white shirt
waiting
with a body
soft pink and smiling
sat at the end of the bed
said no to a drink
helped itself up
took you
inner elbow said
you would be fine

I watched
both shadows
your laugh
at a distance is
different.

The room felt sorry
for the body
at the window
watching your inner elbow
in the hand of someone
soft pink and smiling

it curved
slight change in
curtain shadow
crossed my face
dark hand trying
to catch tears.

The bed said
nothing
about you being fine
square across the wall
still dead

at a distance
drinking
not helping myself up
the covers called
certain silence

recalled my palms
eclipsed by your crisp white shirt.

I have stopped writing in my own city
I write in Europe in bed in front of Semu’s Gabriel

I write on flights in clouds
when sudden night arrives by afternoon

I write at the gates of temples neon-lit proclaiming salvation
and when the lion eyes of hungry children
choose the word within my chest
above the broken bread in hand

my city is my ghost
I come home to die and lose the decorated woman in the mirror
and fall in love again with likened figures

the un-moored moons of my childhood
rest across the rock of grandpa’s face.