Poetry
A Melbourne-based freelance editor, published writer & spoken word performer, I hold a BA (Hons) in Theatre Studies, minoring in Media Studies. I believe as writers we're always an apprentice to our craft - I seek to continuously develop my work through further learning. My short stories, poetry & creative non-fiction are published in numerous international & Australian anthologies (The Memory Palace, Heroine's Anthology Vol. 5, Anna Karenina Isn't Dead), literary journals ( Nonbinary Review, Crow & Cross Keys, Cold Signal, The Last Girls Club, The Aurora Journal, The Ekphrastic Review, Writing in a Woman's Voice, Not Very Quiet, Illura Press) and online.
As a developmental editor and former theatre director, I enjoy writing about creativity and writing craft. My fiction and poetry often explore themes of desire, power, transformation & sexuality, sometimes via a feminist lens.
Passionate about the power of spoken word, I've performed at theatre and spoken word events, exhibitions and festivals over the last two decades. My poems have travelled the world, appearing in art exhibitions from Shiraz, Iran to London and Argentina. A return Feature performer at Melbourne’s "Mother Tongue: Women Speak", I've also been a guest performer at One Billion Rising fundraiser (2014), speaking out against sexual violence towards women.
Current projects include working on my first poetry collection & planning a series of local poetry workshops. For inquiries about projects, collaborations or editing services, please message me via Twitter.
Poetry
Hot colours of molten summer run together like no other season in recollection. Revolving days like childhood bicycle wheels-ghosted frames worn out by endless mid-afternoon adventures, buried in nostalgia's waterholes where you swam, diving deep in dappled shadows; buried in the undergrowth of gullies you flew down on dusty tracks, your brother always in front.
Shells glimmer; I follow curving stories with my feet; strewn on the sand, waiting to be reclaimed by the sea; beached like you, in final years, marooned in stagnant waters; a sailor without a boat to sail - away from landlocked cares
We are bound, she and I, by inevitable threads; by the incessant warp of economy, by the indifferent weft of fate, the thread spins, the world turns
On Writing, Reading & Creativity
In the secret writing life of a poet, there are often more unfinished than complete poems. Stray verses in random notebooks. Tantalizing poem titles, accompanied by a few lines and phrases on an otherwise daunting blank page. Fragments of ideas in our heads that we've yet to capture on paper.
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who opened a book of short stories. She began reading, and fell into another world. Her bed disappeared, then her room. As she discovered other times and places, she was no longer quite herself.
Memoir / Fiction
The eyes in the birch trunks are shut tight. Only the ants, quietly going about their travails, up and down their trunks, know they are closed in sorrow, weeping tears of sap. Some become stuck in their viscous grief, knowing this as they die. Continue reading...
I have my mother's hands. My memory of the day this was discovered is vivid; drenched in sunlight, in the midst of eternal-seeming summer holidays. I was fourteen. My mother and I had weathered the long drive down the Queensland coast with nothing but the glare and the radio for company. As with every visit, we just managed not to miss the sign and the gravel-spattered road that limped off the highway.
You think you know me, but you do not. I wear the tattered threads of a myth, frayed and tangled through the centuries.You think I represent the immutable curse of ignorant feminine curiosity. You think I released illness and death into the world because I couldn’t resist opening a box to see what was inside. You think I walked into this story as a hapless little girl.
Nascent Dream of a Museby Melissa Coffey Suspended, amongst this web of winding grey veins - breathing somehow - misted air infused through marble pores. Not yet nascent, the suggestion of me lies curled like a question mark at this stone's heart. Crescented in on the dream of genesis, like any fragile, unborn thing.