the home page of david prater

I've just had two poems published on a US-based blog called PFS Post . They're called "Dying On The Vine(s)" and "Eight Miles High". You can view em here . I've also got two poems, entitled "Avalon V" and "Inna" in the forthcoming Future Welcome: Moosehead Anthology X , edited by Todd Swift and published by DC Books out of Canada. The blurb on the website states, amongst other things, the following: Future Welcome includes daring and often thrilling new writing from some of the 21st century�s best prose and poetry writers, such as: David Wevill, Sina Queyras, Raymond Hsu, Robert Minhinnick, Annie Freud, bill bissett, Patrick Chapman, Meredith Quartermain, Jason Camlot, Liane Strauss, Todd Colby, Jennifer K. Dick, John Hartley Williams, Louise Bak, Hal Sirowitz, Adeena Karasick, Mike Marqusee, Kavita Joshi, Stan Rogal, Tammy Armstrong, Richard Peabody, Jenna Butler, Ali Riley, Jon Paul Fiorentino, David Prater, J. R. Carpenter, David...

I'm now back in Seoul after a week in London. Highlights included seeing Sarah (of course), catching up with old friends including Kathleen and Mark and seeing fellow-poet Todd Swift. Oh, and I watched a bit of darts on the TV too. The task of putting photos up on this blog is so laborious that I'll just grace it with a few iconic snaps. For more details, see Sarah's blog - she's much better than me at this sort of thing. Must go: jetlag beckons. Sarah scoffs afternoon tea at Harrod's (Dodi and Diana shrine not pictured). Some bridge in London. Doctor Who's new residence. The London Eye (as seen in War of the Worlds). Umm ... Not happy, Jan.

Hi to everyone in cyberland. I've been too busy to put anything up on here for a little while, as my energies have been directed towards getting my head around Seoul , trying to reign in the creative excesses of Clint Bo Dean , the world's worst-coiffured superstar and cataloguing the vast output of Davey Dreamnation's record company, DNRC . The Cordite Newsblog has also been revived, after months of wrangling with MYSQL database tables. Grrr. Nevertheless I have had some good news on the poetry front, with a poem accepted in The Age in August ( read it here ), another forthcoming in Famous Reporter in October (link soon) and a third in Overland, due out in December. I've also pretty much completed transcribing the poems from Abendland, all of which were written in Europe and America in July and August this year (scroll down this page for the full listing). Expect another fresh batch when I hit the road again in December. Until then, stay well and eat yer greens. Oh,...

Q, you built a city inside my heart And now I�m trying to make it back. Do you remember what it looks like? What we did there? Where is it now? In this city there�s a lake that�s filled With fish & fountains powered by Your laughing soul - we�re creating Plans, our soundtrack experiments; Organized sports cannot be found in This brand new city, its living memory (I�m putting off returning to the plans, Although it�s getting crowded here). It�s easier to draw a lake, a fish or House, the view of a mountain hut; A native flower�s sleepy bloom or Night inside some inner city bar � Though words are never pictures They can contain this feeling�s arc. Something in them returns to you & makes me listen to your voice. I catch the subways every day & See in signs your famous designs: The freeways look like fret boards On that old guitar we used to play. In every city, every day, you walk & talk about the people living out Recycled dreams & even there we Hop...

there's a boy leaving home on the train - i can see him see his mother on the platform trying not to cry - the boy knows no restraint too young to hold it in he's bawling - for a moment he is me & i can feel that sad old fear of separation grown into stoicism followed by pure obliviousness - you grow up not to cry you leave so as not to give up who you are - your stories jokes hobbies - but it's a lie a cruel hoax - because one day it won't be you who's leaving - no it will be your own mother getting onto that train to leave forever to pull away in that black carriage the pane of glass making final chats impossible & tears? well they're for boys or for grown women & yet there they are - on your own face small & soft but still there for all of your bravado - it is a form of sickness after all whose remedy is the act - & later after several stops you look over at the boy who's now wearing headphones & he's not crying anymo...

all the concessions have finally closed the luggage tags likewise now unravel - i've spent the night in an airport alone even the cleaners have all gone home ... out on the tarmacs the rain is a canvas the planes are invisible up in the sky at every counter the shutters have risen only perfumes of the flight crews linger the terminal's redevelopment is complete now there's nothing left here to expand & duty-free shops disappeared long ago inside the food court a fake fern sleeps departure boards flicker like r.e.m. dreams but the gangways are empty of tired feet the veins of the airport throb in safety nevertheless i will practice my tai-chi i use smashed windows to create my murals ticket stubs provide my small fire with fuel i walk naked through the abandoned latrines in arrivals halls i will begin planting trees