Redroom Company

The Pigeon Poetry race day on August 3 turned out to be a still, deep blue and beaming day atop Bald Hill, Stanwell Park, north of Wollongong in NSW. Action kicked off at noon, with families arriving to lay out picnics and study the form guide. “Bets” on the Pigeon Poetry race were made free online, and by tax-deductible donation on the race day. Over 300 “bets” were laid on the race in total, with the line to the bookie on race day snaking into the distance! When the race began at 1pm, the anticipation mounted. The birds were released five minutes apart, and each accompanied by a pair of pacer pigeons that help to speed and guide the racer back to the loft. At last, at around 2pm, the crowd was ready to rank the flying times and pray that the missing birds would come in before sundown.

Ivy Ireland, a 28 year-old lecturer and PhD candidate at the University of Newcastle, and sometime magician’s assistant, was the glorious winner of the inaugural Pigeon Poetry championship. Ireland’s poem “Velocity” was first home – courtesy of Jimbala the silver blue bar pigeon hen – in the 20km race along the NSW South Coast to determine the fastest verse in the nation. Jimbala, carrying Ireland’s poem about the exploits of a famous World War II carrier pigeon attached to one of its feet, flew the distance in a near record time of 15.22 minutes – overcoming winds gusts and lurking falcons. In second place was Smokey, carrying “A word from the feral pigeon” by Sydney’s Andy Quan. It was followed by Hawkesbury River’s Robert Adamson, whose poem “My Grandfather’s Ice Pigeons,” soared home in 16.08 minutes on the wings of mealy cock The Baron. Coming in fourth was Tasmania’s Anthony Lawrence with his poem “A Sound for Leaving” on the strength of a finishing time of 16.09 by blue chequer cock AAP Newsflash.

We have one missing pigeon – that brave and fearless bird that carries the Pigeon Cam has still not returned. Concern for the bird has come in from poets, punters and news channels alike. The Red Room is running a Missing Pigeon Unit operation to ask the public for details of sightings of the bird around the Illawarra area.

Description: The Ninth bird was released at 1:26pm with The Big Ish (Splash)and two other minders. The two minders also failed to home on the day, but they did get home the next morning. They were both good, experienced birdsthat have survived a number of years of racing. This was a very short fly for them and it was most surprising not to get them home in good time. Splash took 20 minutes and this was around 5 minutes off the pace indicating that he took off while the minders didtheir evasive work as decoys and then went to ground. Unfortunately the Ninth pigeon may have been handicapped by his load and hampered in his efforts to escape.

The bad area for predation is around Coledale/Scarborough area approx 5kms from the release point at Bald Hill. He might be found somewhere around there. Graham Davison tells us that he was a good strong cock that should have easily carried the weight. The weight of around 25 grams is equivalent to a good feed for a pigeon so that should not have upset him too much. The attached is a photo of a bird that looks very similar to him and could be used as his photo.

Any information is to be sent to pigeons@redroomcompany.org and we are offering a reward for the bird’s discovery. If ‘Pigeon Cam’ is found and still alive then just gently pick him up and place him in a box of some description - a beer carton is ideal. Then call the 1300 887 606 number and tell them that you have the camera bird. Mr Steve Saywell will pick it up as soon as I am informed. No need to feed or water him and Mr Steve Saywell will be there within a couple of hours at the latest.

Updates can be found at http://www.pigeonpoetry.com, where news and images of the race day, sweep and media can be found. We will soon be uploading interviews with and recordings of the Pigeon Poets, so be sure to visit the site for the ongoing Pigeon Poetry experience.

I just saw a dog eaten by a shark. It was a scene in a film. I ate a jelly snake. Not, I am having visions of our pigeon cam eaten by a Griffin. I am confident our Cam is resting amongst tall grass and looking at the stars. Fancier, Graham Davison tells me we have a few more days left before we call off the search. The Missing Pigeons Unit (MPU) is currently searching the horizon. Ivy Ireland and I were describing the Sunday event as being magical but all the pleasure is painted deep green not knowing if he flies or flies not. Bravo enters Concord Highschool tomorrow at eleven, perhaps Pigeon Cam will be found pecking icing of the canteen cup cakes?

I alert us all to an updated pigeon description of our missing Pigeon Cam (Cameron)

A dark blue chequer cock. 2 years old with a gold life ring and a black electronic ring. The gold life ring details are 2006 IGBF 0687. Contact phone number 1300 887 606

Thanks to those beings who have been calling in with possible clues as to pigeon’s hiding spot - Jason from Coledale was certain he saw a pigeon in low flight with a ’stumpy black object’ attached to breast).

Sleep as well as a restless poet and a thirsty pigeon.

My pigeon heart beats for our lost pigeon. Our Pigeon is Missing. We have the entire Illawarra region searching for her as I write. Also assisting our pigeon search is Channel 7, led by Alex (who revealed his poetic tendons last night on the six o’clock box) are also on the lookout.

Where oh where is ou bird who flew the race with a tiny camera strapped to its breast? Graham Davison, who is the bird’s parent, suggests our pigeon may be resting on the ground to avoid falcon or hawk attack and that our pigeon may resume to the skies to fly home later today. Our pigeon can survive for three days without food and water and so long as no ground predators attack, we wait in hope for our pigeon to return home.

The relief this morning is that the pigeon we thought had misinterpreted Kate Fagan’s good luck urgings pigeon went on a wild detour and didn’t make it home yesterday but flew in for breakfast this morning hungry, thirsty and eager to put her ankles up and snooze.

Our Professional Bettor is Honest ‘Dot’ Cassidy. On Sunday she will be the one who analyzes, determines, or simply posts the betting odds in our pigeon poetry race. ’Dot’ on the day will receive and record wagers from all who punt and place these tages into an extraodinary BAG. Our system by the way is free of going broke, mug punters, plungers worth millions of bucks.

(Today a student asked me if we have an automatic totalisator but be do have a poem called ‘Totalizator’. Our SP is gold coin donation and it’s legal to bet off the track, you can do so online)

Here’s how I’ve devised our system:

Online entries to the sweep close at 5pm this Friday, August 1st.  The sweep will remain open at the race, where our bookie will be taking bets for a gold coin donation to The Red Room Company.  As these are donations, and as the online sweep has been a free exchange, there will be no pay-outs on “bets”.  Race day sweep entries will receive a receipt for $2 or more from the bookie, and the sweep winner will be drawn from all of those who have by chosen the winning bird.  They will receive a stunning trophy prize, one of a pair shared with the winning poet.

 Now I’m leaving school to return home to draft my list of odds.

I taste sandwiches at lunch rather than eating the roast that would have mesleeping in my elbow within minutes, sated with vegetable goodness and ready to rest. Instead eager poets stand tall are armed with folders, demand to be convinced poems are worth more than talking. Rooms and rooms of curious smiles and (occasional) frowns. Cynicism thrives, imagination survives. For some it is an impossible, absurdist faith that a matchbox could contain a poem or a poem would contain a landscape, a history (of love) a universe?  On some faces eyebrows almost rise right off the heads as I explain the art of attaching poems to the ankles of racing pigeons.

This morning, on radio, I was asked by the presenter is the insane person who invented this surreal project locked up safely somewhere? I told the presenter that the insane person was on the airwaves with him and that no, I wasn’t locked up but going to school of my own accord. 

The radio man’s use of insane infused the day. As I and the boys began to write about dreams we all went mad, agreeing the longer and harder eyes stared into bricks on a wall the more interesting the brick became especially when the brick began to fly.

We discussed the nature of madness in school today and if the definition was as uncomplicated as: thinking outside the square or finding blank walls interesting. How do we classify  ‘mad’. Almost as tough as classifying a poet. One student noted that rationality indicated sanity, the sane had an awareness of consequences and held a clear definition of empathy. Then, being poets, the boys went to war on what ‘reality’ really meant. There was something surreal about us all jotting out dreams and transforming memories into poems for a school competition. One poem is being constructed from the point of view of a cat - what does a cat think of whem a torch is shone at it?

The weekend like all weekends has passed only to return soon. Yet, as my friend mentioned today, this week is pigeon week. Sunday will be fine skies for the poems to fly across. Tamryn has sourced a sourp sorcerer, rolls,  champagne and a map of the south coast. Murray is practicing his pigeon race call. Andrew is playing with pigeon cam and I am practicing pigeon.

The school here is clean, empty of black boards thus dust free. There is an exhausting amount of pink and yellow-yolk pollen sprinkling itself free from the flowers. The sounds of high heels on tiles, metal filing cabinets opening and closing and lovely Jacqueline talking with me about Emily Dickinson.

I was asked about the differences between poems and short stories. I repeat only what I think I know and have found out through writing and reading both form -that definitions tell truths. The word prose comes from the Latin prosa, meaning straightforward, hence the term “prosaic,”.

Whereas Poetry (from the Greek “poiesis”, a “making” or “creating”) is a form of art in which language is used for its aesthetic and evocative qualities in addition to, or in lieu of, its ostensible meaning. Poetry may be written independently, as discrete poems, or may occur in conjunction with other arts, as in poetic drama, hymns or lyrics.

(Oh, I am not certain about anything, except who I love)

Camellia trellis, Spanish Haciendas and Tuscan revival of homes belt the school on the bell curve. Bells, bells, bells or alarms. It wasn’t even 8.30AM but fields filled with boys scrumming, kicking, laughing and hurrying in a freeze their blue socks can’t have shielded their legs from. Teachers in pressed, impressive suits. I in conservative attire neither too short, too long or too bright I was advised to weaken the colour dials, to wear muted and shy for Day One as resident poet.

As was yesterday, so is today - pigeon-less. Not a pigeon to be spied whilst  I went to poem. Surely the pigeons couldn’t make it to Rome and return to Mt Ousley by August 34rd.

Working out their wings for our race day only a few flights away I am told pigeons feel the cold beneath their toe nails.

The boys I worked with today were brilliant poem students today - asking me questions I ask me always: how to end a poem; differences between riddles, puddles and poems; how long does a poem have to be for a competition; what is trash poetry what is quality?

(Think about people, poems are like people if you don’t like poetry you don’t like people you work out to be a strong person you work out to be a poet)

Reflecting tonight on being faraway and then knowing I am here, I take tea and wonder where my old School Captain’s badge (Captain of a very small school with a very small class in a very small street when I was very small)  is?  This silver object now a lost relic that yearn for it, for my first pin of honour, where is it to pin to my collar and remind me to stand up straight.

Something about schools that stretch the spine and neck as if slouching will tip out all your thoughts and somehow, you’ll get a lower mark in your exams because of it.

Lunch Boxes - no one had them, has the era of these objects gone to the same place that bottles of milk at 11am have gone?

Anthologitis : a temporary state of jumble when brain no longer discerns word from letter from author. Brought upon the self by the self in an attempt to read too many works by too many writers in too few hours. Typically associated with ardent angst before entering a two week poetry journey where one poet is asked to redefine an entire school’s concept of poetry and potentially scary preconceptions about ‘poet’. Cure is to be abducted by pigeon gang or eat dinner and ignore anything past the current minute.

My trapezius muscles and levator scapula tighten with frustration upon discovering (now) yesterday’s blog entry has been eaten up by a coded spam and lost.

I’d described an outing to The Red Box Gallery at The Royal Botanic Gardens ‘Herbarium’ at which aesthetics and science were perfectly connected in a rich and spiritually prickling exhibition of Botanical Art. I re-try but am changed having slept eight hours and writing beside sun, not moon glow.

A yesterday memory follows.. The Red Box was entirely ours as all but one (dread-locked security human) of the staff were striking. Globes popped light and the etchings of plant life in the Top End of Australia began to wiggle up from their parchment into the room’s atmosphere. Myself, my companion fell into the frames and were watched the entire time by hundreds of stories and souls stored in the Red specimen boxes beyond the open door to our left. Although the Herbarium drawers were shut the powerful presence of the stems, leaves, veins and buds all stored in red drawer upon red draw(er) was surreal and another world to where we had just left and were soon to return.

I and my companion contemplated the buzzing flecks of goldfish orange and deep grey ink (’Fertility’) charmed into an exquisite stillness that fell about the body as eyes and toes became transfixed with the workings of other bodies - that of the plants and their configurations of mind, lineaments of language.

In the restaurant afterwards Pilgrims shovelled along the garden path whilst attempting to catch (then kick) a disorientated ibis. The pigeons were nowhere, perhaps too much prayer traffic in the skies? Instead, a boa beautiful feather with a clean, sharp nib gracefully lay itself in the middle of the floor. For my companion I fetched this artful talisman of light and height to accompany him on a car trip to a place of many plants.