Early Harvest.

A little while ago I did some drawings for Early Harvest magazine, which is a collaboration between Harvest and Pigeon Projects. What sets this journal apart from others on the market is that it publishes stories and poems written by children across Melbourne and is edited and marketed by children, with guidance from volunteers.

It was great corresponding with Emma Hewitt, who I have unfortunately not met yet, as I was at Harvest festival in Werribe when the launch was on.

I have not got my copy yet, so these photos are taken from bean there read that.

This is the front cover, which you should look out for at Readings!

And this is a page with one of my drawings on it.

This is the illustration from Olivia. 

and this is the illustration for my secret happiness.

Lungfish

What you retain in the tank of your mind is only what you sew. Bean sprouts and the lavender, smells of exotic tea permeate the pea green leaves of your mustard and cress. Tall white men submerged half to their waist in the waters which stream from your eye are benevolent and best left unnoticed . Silently they do their work, collecting all the black rocks which slip your iris. Small paper boats, made with love and sailed as to bring hope are made of yellow paper, they will never fade in the mountainous waves of your cerebral cortex. In the crank of your nose and the fold of your lips there are birds singing, in the fork of your ears and the skim of your brow there are worms weaving, in the depths of your soul and the nook of your heart there is love flowing.

I will cover you in red wool

Lately I have taken to reading poems to the furniture, this is a recording of me reading 'night poem' to the bed post.

Night Poem, Margret Atwood There is nothing to be afraid of it is only the wind changing to the east, it is only your father the thunder your mother the rain In this country of water with its beige moon damp as a mushroom, its drowned stumps and long birds that swim, where the moss grows on all sides of the trees and your shadow is not your shadow but your reflection,

your true parents disappear

when the curtain covers your door.

We are the others,

the ones from under the lake

who stand silently beside your bed

with our heads of darkness.

We have come to cover you

with red wool,

with our tears and distant whispers.

You rock in the rain's arms

the chilly ark of your sleep,

while we wait, your night

father and mother

with our cold hands and dead flashlight,

knowing we are only

the wavering shadows thrown

by one candle, in this echo

you will hear twenty years later.

It is I who holds the trees together

It is me when the cars collide.

It is my fault when the birds hearts stop beating.

It is I who holds the trees together.

So sweet when your scissor blades of white light cut up the sky.

It is my breath that kisses under your jacket.

How a Moth Becomes a Boat

A beautiful hand written letter came in the post a few days ago, it was from Josephine Rowe, a short story writer and poet and someone with lovely hand writing. She also sent me a copy of her self-published book of short stories 'how a moth becomes a boat' which I had previously had to steal of my friend Ainslee. I said I would send her some drawings in exchange, so I got to drawing, with my new set of staedtler fine-liners which I bought from Officeworks today along with some sticker paper (I plan on printing some stickers to put up around Melbourne). Anyway the below drawing is what I came up with, I am trying to use more colour, which I normally shy away from. The text is a line from a short story called 'boat'.

text reads: 'but because you are too old to understand how it is that a boat becomes a moth or a moth a boat, you have to stop believing him'

'How a Moth Becomes a Boat' contains a a tender sadness and longing in every line, with images of L.Ps stored in pantries, of smashing whiskey bottles against houses among other things. It gave me shivers down my spine.