Poems
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Without Her
By Felicity PlunkettWhen a body is found on a bike-path –
When a body is found in a garbage tip –
Where a body lies under a bridge, over a border
in the basement of a suburban home, washed up -
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 -
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 — -
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 -
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 -
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 -
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. -
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, -
Buoyancy
By Zainab SyedI.
When we consider the buoyancy of a city’s heart
There is not much that will keep it afloat -
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
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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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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 -
Gowk
By Simon ArmitageOne day I had no soul and the next
I did, like a cuckoo’s egg, so
then I was lumped with this baby ego
hatching out of the heart’s nest, -
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