FSP March Open Mic and Special General Meeting at the Box Factory

The Box Factory
59 Regent Street, Adelaide
Monday 5th March, 2018.

Doors open at 6:00 pm for sign-in.
$5 to read.

In addition to the regular Open Mic session, the March meeting will begin with a Special General Meeting that has been called by a group of FSP members.

Click here to see the formal notice for the SGM and the motions that have been proposed: Notice of Special General Meeting.

Click here to read a background document: SGM Background Information to membership.

It is important that as many members as possible attend the SGM.

The SGM will begin at 6:30 with the first reading session to begin at the conclusion of the SGM. It is anticipated that the SGM will not take long

Bring two copies of your poems if you’d like to submit them to the next Anthology. Make sure your poems have your name, email and phone number on the back of the page, otherwise they will not be considered. You must be a member of FSP for your poems to be included in the Anthology.

FSP Membership fees are now due. You can pay on the night or click here to download a form.

Click here for maps and more info.


New Poets 19: Call for Submissions

FSP is excited to announce that we again will be publishing collections of poems from previously unpublished poets in our New Poets series.

Submissions are now open for New Poets 19.

Entry is open to South Australian residents only. Entry is only open to poets who have not had a collection of poetry published or under consideration for publication by any publisher.

Manuscripts must contain 26 pages of poetry.

Entries close Friday 6th April, 2018.

Entry fee: $30.

For full details of the rules, submission requirements and entry form, click here for PDF format and here for MS Word format.

You also can view and download the PDF form here:

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Poems of the Month: December 2017

Here are the Poems of the Month for November 2017, as selected by Anthology Editors, Ros Schulz and Karl Cameron-Jackson. Congratulations to Keith MacNider and Maria Vouis.

THE RISE by Keith MacNider

Where do I meet you now that you have gone away?
Is it that you have eloped with the breeze, the first
canter across the plains of your beginning, or the debris
of twisted desires, the suffering in silence when the hands
of abusers made your body theirs and hope lay in words
you wouldn’t have chosen yet which found you, reshaping
calling to you the beauty that always seemed in your eyes
the way morning mists hinted at surprise? You’ve gone
down a path I can’t follow though sometimes I think I see
your footsteps in the sand on the beach, or that smile
in the passing clouds we looked for omens in. Perhaps
today it is the birch tree that is the choir and the seagulls
messengers of relief. I know I’ll sit by the fire and rest
my head against you, the cottage door open just in case
you returned, you a nomad who always found a way.


All the puppies of Christmas
are dragging their new owners
along the Esplanade,
in their Rodolph red collars,
tongues flapping like
crimson sails
to the wind
and white foam
lacing their lips.

All the puppies of Christmas
arrived in pretty packages,
plucked from their mothers’ dugs,
travelled the abyss
from one pair of hands
to the next,
and limpid-eyed,
gifted and prized,
for the space
of a squeal and a smile,
for the small heartbeat while
or the lifetime
of a Christmas lunch.

All the puppies of Christmas
pace their pretty paws
click-clack their little claws,
trotting the Esplanade,
their slick, black jelly-jube noses
bob next to the new Nikes
of their gym Princes and Princesses
who hold the whole bikini clad beach,
in a miniature metallic vignette
mirrored on their Bolle aviator glasses.

Day by day
by holiday day,
dog bowl by dog bowl,
the puppies of Christmas
forget the hot squirt
of mother’s milk,
the jigsaw puzzle funk
of their litter’s ilk,
and silently slip
into the Lego love
of a pouting child,
lock their wolf genes
into itinerant lives
of job junkies,
domestic Goddess wives,
and grannies heading for
God’s waiting rooms.

In the shelters at Easter,
all the puppies of Christmas
shiver and sleep in cardboard boxes,
yap and howl
black jelly-jube noses
sniffing at the bars
of their cages,
scratch their skinny flea bitten rumps,
pass or fail the ‘behaviour’ test,
and dream the green dream,
their gift wrapping,
flapping in the recycle bins
in the vast
weed ridden
wind blown
Lonsdale wasteland
next to the rubbish dump.

Poems of the Month: November 2017

Here are the Poems of the Month for November 2017, as selected by Anthology Editors, Ros Schulz and Karl Cameron-Jackson. Congratulations to David Harris and Elaine Barker.

THE JAGUAR’S PAW by Elaine Barker
(Tikal, Guatemala)

It’s a symbol placed at eye level
and scratched deep into stone
at the base of a high wall
many centuries ago.
You can trace the shape
of the pad and each claw
of the feared and sacred jaguar
although moss like a pelt
and as green as jade
has spread to blur its outline.
You still sense the energy,
the feline grace
and mythic power
and although you have your photo
taken quickly in passing
that image reaches out
to puncture your thoughts,
become etched into your mind.
A noise close at hand
makes you spin around,
almost expecting to see,
like glistening stones,
eyes that gleam momentarily,
only to vanish
into the teeming undergrowth.

THE USE-BY DATE by David Harris

Our Nigel was a kindly man,
and much more shy than forward.
His contacts with the female sex
as rare as they were awkward.
He went on dates, but when he did
his shyness made him boring.
If opportunity came his way
he’d miss it, without scoring.

And then there was the day when he
was flying off to Dublin.
He couldn’t pass security,
the beeper kept on buzzin’,
until they asked him “Sir, we think
some foil is on your person.”
That condom, in its square, foil pack!
and then he started cursin’.

They made him take the package out
and on the tray t’was placed
to roll down the conveyor tube
as Nigel stood, red-faced.
The glances and the sniggers
really made him feel quite sick.
He grabbed it from the X-ray band –
and rushed away, real quick!

On board the flight, our Nigel took
his seat beside the aisle –
beside a pretty woman with,
he found, a pretty smile.
But once the plane was off the ground
and climbing up to height,
her face was buried in a book.
No talking, then, in-flight.

The trolley with the drinks came ‘round.
He opted for a beer.
She smiled, and took a beer herself –
he suddenly felt queer
for as she reached across him
he could see her pink brassiere.

They sipped their beers in silence, and
her closed book he could see.
When food arrived, he took another
beer, and so did she.
So, warm and fed, they settled back,
lulled by the gentle rocking,
their second coffees in their hands,
at last, they started talking.

It seemed she was a singer, and that
Celtic was her forte,
admitting though, that in the pub,
her songs got rather naughty.
When Nigel told her that he was
a proud performing poet,
she asked to see his poetry,
he warned it was inchoate.

The alcohol was working well,
it really sank his fears,
there must have been much more in play –
it only took two beers,
he said he would recite for her
his latest epic poem,
up here, at thirty thousand feet,
so very far from home!

Our story now jumps forward past
the intervening week,
as friendship grew and deepened
with every daily tweet,
until the night that they arranged
a ceili to perform in,
and there she sang, and he performed
‘til early hours of morning.

He walked her home, through Dublin streets.
They sang, and kissed, and cuddled,
until they came to her hotel…
Poor Nigel was befuddled.
He didn’t want to leave her, but
he just said, very sadly,
“I think the last tram’s gone, my dear,
I’ve really timed it badly.”

She said to him, “if I were you,
I wouldn’t really worry.
Tomorrow is another day
when all the trams will run again.
I’m sure we won’t be sorry!”
And so they spent a happy night
till well into next day,
And while this was some time ago,
they still feel the same way.

And one of night-times little plays
which caused them happy smiles,
was when he tore the square, foil pack
he’d carried miles and miles,
the thought that entered in his head,
he could not help but state,
“It’s been with me so long, but now
it’s reached its use-by date!”