Welcome to Rosanne’s world-changing Salon

A portmanteau. A treasure trove. A time capsule. A poetry book. A diary. A photo album. Memories. Dreams. Wishes. Hopes. An open letter to an unsuspecting public. An intimate confession to close friends. A declaration of intent. A whisper of love. A personal record. An experiment in introspection. A performance space. A political rant. A wild yawp. Why do any of us publish our words and images online? Come, dream with me.

And you are listening

It is 10.40pm in Paris and they have taken host­ages at the Bataclan It is 11pm and some­where on Face­book a kid posts: “they are killing every­body. one by one.” It is 4pm in Mel­bourne and my friend is giving birth to a little boy named Clancy but...

When I was 12

i ran away and for one wild secret day any­thing was pos­sible i huddled in the recessed entry to the Com­mon­wealth Bank in Garema Place and watched a pro­ces­sion of police who (i was pretty sure) were looking for me i guarded my pre­cious solitude...

Six scant years

The year my daughter was born I thought maybe we were starting to get it right after all A woman was prime min­ister of Aus­tralia And Julia was elo­quent and sharp And fought for justice, cli­mate, all the ways (we thought) You’d expect...

Nice

I don’t know how (some) women do it — I see you out there (tumblr, Face­book, twitter, lj) — you are as vir­u­lent, vicious, out­raged (hurt) as I feel by this end­less parade, this daily offence, this unre­lenting (drip drip drip)...

Intersections

On the banks of the river Tajo I sat with Alvarez talking about Deleuze Curious, soft — moments of dis­covery. In Queens­land heat — a bar at 11pm after cat empire reigned with those horns and that Wurl­itzer sound circ­ling around...

Mute

In the first heat of summer 2014 I lost all my words. They fell away from me like scales Or rather were trapped in my head Unable to emerge from closed lips. Touch and ges­ture were left to me And so, being inadept in their use, I learned...

It all adds up

A card­board mock-up of the grassy knoll And route markers along a Dallas road Is an odd toy for a child, espe­cially in 1970s Aus­tralia. Little wonder I gradu­ated to 10 Days that Shook the World and Huis Clos at 14. Even less that Sey­mour Hirsh...

Righteous anger, right?

It’s past time, people. Rise up. How foetid does the stink of cor­rup­tion have to be? Rise up. How much ice has to melt? How many fires burn? How many forests? How many teen­agers must be shot? Rise up! How many journ­al­ists must be jailed...

Rehearsal

Many years ago, in the long ago times of dish-pan hands and iced-coffee banana shakes with three scoops of ice-cream, a time before gluten-and-dairy intol­er­ance, a time before it seemed I knew any­thing about weight loss. It was a time of Oak...

Untitled

Blank pages have always intim­id­ated me And I hes­itate to describe minu­tiae again Lumps and aches, dull anchor points into limb And earth and stretched muscle when I crave flight Gift me air. Gift me uplift. Gift me weight­less­ness. Kiss...

I pass.

It is a lynchpin of my life Out­sider on the inside Yet I slide under radar Designed to trap my fellow Queers, gender­freaks, Col­on­ised souls. I infilt­rate priv­ileged spaces with my passing. I come out over and over Dis­comfit...

Mornings I meander down Degraves

A small slice of Europe. Café Lorca Makes me crave huevos de gamba and strong black coffee Il Papiro whis­pering to me of Firenze and the old bridge across the Arno looking up towards Ponte alle Grazie Book­shops that laugh at me because I’m...

God, what a day

A child gashes their foot on a sharp screw, unat­tended. Her mother com­pla­cent, absent. A man mis­in­ter­prets a word here and next thing you know, fur­niture raised over­head, glass tinkles as it’s smashed, drawers flung across a room leave...

I almost missed a day

And it turns out that’s unfor­giv­able Because I’m now writing lines to you in my head Lying in the dark in my bed It doesn’t matter that I sent you other words Sur­repti­tious in the social stream Oscar Wilde’s hand soft on Walt Whitman’s knee Let...

I am writing lost love letters

I am writing lost love let­ters to ampersands, my favourite — with its cur­licues in arcane typefaces, it peeks out at me from designer invit­a­tions & grungy res­taurant names & I play seek. I invent reasons to unfurl my ampersands &...

airborne (perspective)

AND here i am again sit­ting in a seat in the sky rocky, knocked against the seat­belt, thinking how peaceful and my three-and-a-half year old waiting at the gate, thinking not ready to go, not this time, as we glide down and i see your...

Another rape in cyberspace

The Char­lotte Dawson case, which has now res­ulted in her hos­pit­al­isa­tion, says a lot about the way that women are treated in social media spaces and the diver­gent tac­tics that are used to address the issue.

Rosanne Bersten

Rosanne Bersten

passionate political poet

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