Poems
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For Grandad
By Phoebe GrainerOld cowboy hat.
We were laughing
Us mob
You telling us story. -
Where have all the bad boys gone?
By Patrick LentonI didn’t know who i was when i was a teenager -
a long gangle, awkward loping sack of bones -
but i knew what i wasn’t allowed to be
i was not allowed to be a bad boy or a naughty girl -
Hemiglossed
By Kathryn ReeseDad sits, crushed panadol and formula milk gravity fed into his belly.
On tv: sourdough, a sear of steak, a dressing of diced peach, torn mint, fresh red chilli—
He dozes, won’t turn it off.
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Clipper blades and feather pillows
By Jonathan SriranganathanSnip
snip-snip
snip, snip, snip
These days, you can hear that subtle clicking almost everywhere -
An Heirloom of Love
By Adrian Mouhajer, Princess Arinola Adegbiteafter bell hooks
Here on my table, we share the memory of our countries,
centuries of recipes stitched into the strands of my hair, -
Edge Of The Ceramic-Rimmed-Potted Earth
By Natalia Figueroa Barrosoyour hardcover copy of Love in the Time of Cholera
rests on my nightstand like your bones
rest in peace wrapped in the soil of our homeland
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The Hero
By Ouyang YuNot anymore. Not anymore?
Are we talking about the one who was both literary and military, capable of lifting something some one thousand jin heavy, riding his horse and rushing into the enemy position alone, killing hundreds of them, taking one city after another, until the whole country fell into his hands, and writing hundreds of poems while dr… -
What has been said by many and has often been said
By Pascalle Burton, Vacant Dragon à la Subverted Lipsafter Cicero’s first and second speeches on the Agrarian Law
I
stirring up trouble -
Quilting the Armour
By Nam LeSun everywhere, and shadow. Swamplight, aquarium light
turning the far-off fields almost Kelly green, bullion-fringed.
Stitch of tracer gold. Crystallised moments you see, hear things clear:
the end, and past too. Shack, hill, horses, watertank, windmill — -
A Letter to my Mother at Immigration
By Lang LeavYou will make a life here,
like a wave carving out
the side of a rock.
You will make fossils of your memories -
Writers Block
By Rob WatersWinds rush through half clipped spaces; they whistle in the dark through windows neither closed nor open.
The tin roof rattles; shaking just beyond that point that catches those night winds rushing.
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Buoyancy
By Zainab SyedI.
When we consider the buoyancy of a city’s heart
There is not much that will keep it afloat -
I Dance
By Manal YounusI’m a little bit stiff
my back not so used to bending
my body used to spending
hours pretending -
In the event of apocalypse, remember TV
By Mitch McTaggartThere’s Australian TV content that you’ve never heard of
Sitting in archives
Collecting whatever the digital equivalent of dust is
Probably never to be watched again -
I Fell
By Heather MitchellI cannot say I knew him
nor did he know me
yet somehow in the silence
between the siren and the stillness -
Red Face Man
By Dylan Van Den BergRed face man don’t smile with his teeth but he clench my hand
like a purinina grips a bird by the neck.
Me and the bird the same –
Made the same promise whether we holler or hold our breath. -
Let that Black lady breathe!
By Chika IkogweI’m a woman
I’m a Black woman
I’m a dark skinned Black woman
And often times, I feel like people are saying -
sometimes feels day and sometimes feels night
By Andrew Galan, Vacant Dragon à la Subverted LipsTrapped in this cement and brick and gypsum and nylon work
not compressed unmoving but walking and walking and walking
finding repetition or transient newness at corners but no exit
-
Safe Way
By Kirli SaundersWith love and respect to the Saltwater Women on the East Coast Whale Songline for all times.
Aunty wave them safe way in
Nuenonne, Paredareme, Pyemmairrener waters, -
you can start anywhere, you’ll still hit all the service stations
By Hasib Houranithe laptop bag is red, i got it for free from a friend who got it for free. new things are not all that common, i suppose. my neighbours speak portuguese, the calathea loses another leaf. the heatwave runs like an old fridge, the old fridge is mostly empty, droning.
we watch the tennis. how fast is that little green blur? could whip me interstate …
