Christopher Konrad’s powerful poetry collection, Argot, will have its Western Australian launch in Fremantle next month.
This collection explores the domain of the personal, perhaps even secret speech, the half-hidden languages derived from culture, family and desire. The collection will be launched by award winning poet and author, Shane McCauley [most recently, The Drunken Elk, Sunline Press, and Trickster, Walleah Press.]
Thursday May 11
39 High St. Fremantle
Kindly supported by New Edition Books – Fremantle
We are proud to announce the release of a new poetry collection, ‘Argot’ by the powerful voice of Christopher Konrad, a Western Australian poet, whose work has been published in numerous journals and has won several poetry awards, he now lives and works on the south eastern strip of this big continent. See earlier post August 8.
I first read Konrad’s work a year ago when he contacted Pomonal Publishing with the manuscript of ‘Argot’ and I knew immediately that this was one I wanted to turn into a book. But my health has slowed me down . . . so I also knew this was not going to happen . . . unless I changed the way things are done around here. I must demand more hands-on involvement from writers who wish to publish with us.
Chris Konrad rose to that challenge and did all the layout himself, even designed his own cover (with quite a bit of interference from me) and organized the print run. He hopes to properly launch the collection in Western Australia, where both he and his work are better known, but in the meantime it is available here.
Here’s one of from the collection:
Crashing waves carry us onto the crushed sand to find there, on the
shore – something’s missing. Just out of reach, always at finger-tip
edge, singing out like buildings tumbling down into the sea. Never
quite there – Angels nod towards the dry dirt. Not quite or, she,
standing upon the bridge looking skywards, like a plea, like
inevitability & somewhere in-between another race we cannot
conceive but somehow so remote, & their celestial music. I feel the
wind salty through my fingers & the graining waves through my toes:
it is not in vain this edge, this ligature & liminal of day. Not for
nothing, the sculptures of the heart or mind.