Poems
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The Royal Treatment
By Helen RamoutsakiI: The Burning 1931
Way back when, February, a muddied lane:
the flare of a gas lamp by papers
igniting as the lounge lights up -
Blackout
By Toby FitchAt some point, the power went out.
You thought you’d left your appliance
on, or the gin was wearing off. Still,
when you felt your way down the -
Diminuendo
By Sue FieldingFrom the top of the range
it falls-
like afternoon shadow.
Imperceptible, -
Lunch Hour
By Eileen ChongLunch hour. The machine halts its drilling
into concrete. The workman folds his body
onto his haunches like an accordion and takes off
his gloves. There: feeling returns to fingers -
Traffic
By Tricia Dearborni.
At Grandma’s place, transplanted from the central west
and a town without traffic lights,
cars passed close, and every few seconds. -
The Bathurst Plain
By Brenda Saunders‘Latest Discoveries: fine open country…with wooded plains
reminiscent of an Englishman’s estate’
The Expeditions of Major Mitchell, State Library of NSW. -
I take up a long, lone branch, bone white
By Anne M. CarsonWarrumbungles Creek, NSW
I lie balanced on the beam of a flood-felled tree,
a bridge from bank to bank. Like a hand at my waist,
a branch keeps me from falling. Water tumbles over -
Less of You
By Tricia Dearbornfor Kerry Leves
Your tooth-grinder’s ragged grin
is still so you
I’m surprised to learn walking’s -
Now
By Stuart CookeThis is the place: a park, a cleared space, cooling swathes of light.
In the distance: an airport’s absurdity,
arguments of steel, flocks of fruit bats swarming
in panic across an afternoon sky. -
The Sapphire Coast
By Graham KershawCasualties of migration stain the rose-powder beaches:
corpses of Mutton Birds exhausted at sea, relicts of pilgrimage
washed ashore to litter this last refuge for depleted souls
with the bloated bladders of salted, sun-fried skins, -
Good Blood
By Sandra ThibodeauxButcher’s blood ran through his family.
A Great War was on, and a war
needs meat. Vestey sharpened his knives
in Darwin, buying favours, enlisting workers -
The Hunger Games
By Joel EphraimsLanguage holds total control. We are able to rest a kind of control from it sometimes, perhaps, but it remains the larger controlling force.
It is both magical and violent. Benevolent and maniacal.
It is God and much more than her.
Your son today, a behemoth’s lamppost tomorrow. -
Tent
By Todd TurnerPinned down dwelling place,
small abode. Windsock
weathervane, umbrella home.
Under the world's orbit, -
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To The Girls With The Sledge Hammers To Cleopatra of Gondwana Land Sexy Ghoul Of The High Rise Buildings By Maximilian Draconious
By Joel EphraimsA blond one to visit I
The sleeping dragon of the TV guide scribbled title
At eleven thirty am after her painting class
This suburban Monday morning. -
Untitled
By Kate Reessilver specks
—the water
flashing sunlight
a tart on oxford street -
Clouds Afternoon Jazz Sprinkles
By David PraterFor Jill Jones
(1) Clouds
Abercrombie Street, Chippendale
Reading your electrical poems in a Northcote bar -
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Epiphany
By Lachlan Browntracking in a studio on the
northern beaches you know
that guerilla tactics have to
start here before the drummer -
The Wolves
By Bert SpinksFive wolves went hiding in the corners of the island,
each with stripes across their spines just like the newly-
arrived men’s, who also wore faces darkened with the
desire to kill and devour whatever might present itself
