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.

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.

out of sorts

my clothes don’t match today such a simple thing to turn con­fident strides into frumpy shrinking such a long way from flowing ochre silks or scarlet coats; my mind hunches in con­cert, nar­rowed, pinched, as if the scope of thought...

Death, death, death

For Brian Wid­dows, Jaime’s daughter Kaya and Ceredwyn and Keith’s cousin There is an infinite sad­ness in cer­tain acts that cannot be escaped and tonight I grapple with the tri­fecta: A murder, a sui­cide, the death of a baby moments before it...

Sliding into Sydney

When we were young we watched incan­des­cent flick­ering images of people rising like a sea from train sta­tions, koy­aan­isqatsi in the Val­halla cinema on Glebe Point Road late at night and we swore we would never become one of these face­less...

I’m a feminist and I support Wikileaks

Whenever I’ve raised the com­plex inter­ac­tions I see around the arrest of Wikileaks founder Julian Assange, I find myself mired in defending my pos­i­tion. If I say I sup­port his work and that I wel­come the new world where gov­ern­ments...

Rosanne Bersten

Rosanne Bersten

passionate political poet

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