Poems
-
It's Apples
By Fiona Wright'It's Apples.'
the petrol hand says,
short shorts on the Monaro, in July
'The best thing about winter here, -
Bubbles
By Danijela Kambaskovic-SawersYour heads bubble
along the veins of the benches:
Like nerve nodes, -
Subtle Plague
By Keri Glastonburyeveryone's fitting out their suburban palace there's the faux gold coast or the
tuscan pagoda and this from people who once lived in kingswood country or
on farms with tennis court envy your once best friend is now a complaining
house frau at least she's made it into town and is no longer 'stuck out there' -
Occupation
By Lisa GortonListen. We can talk here,
this republic in your empire of intention.
Know when you step out of this door again
corridors will take you -
The Ventriloquist’s Lament
By Lindsay TuggleLet me tell you:
in strangers’ houses
all roads lead to rooms
mirrors turn a blind eye -
An Attempt to Get Oats Into this Poem
By Luke BeesleyIt was no reflection on my fondness for you, the throwing of the sour milk.
The sound of the silver bucket spread out like a town at the beginning of a
Kurosawa. The milk was hula. The day: ultra marine. You stepped in the mood.
Do you still follow bees? I found four in a tea pot ... -
Still Lives
By Lindsay TuggleIt’s through a thin curtain
she doesn’t enter
the wonder rooms where -
The School Teacher
By Elizabeth Allenfor Ben Hazlett and NICS
The showering, brushing of teeth, careful
straightening of hair into sharp smooth planes -
Holiday Resort
By Craig Billingham(after the painting by Jeffrey Smart)
Winter morning, the moon -
Who is Alibi Wednesday?
By Michael BrennanDon't worry too much, it's all taken care of.
That's what the city tells you. You're goo-goo about it,
fresh off the boat, looking to be the grit in its dozen oysters.
The tide runs in and out of Sydney Harbour, as though -
On reading an obituary (J Frame)
By Bonny CassidyTottering edgewards, fingers splayed by threats, or memories;
all of you is cupped and hurled,
up and inwards;
you are they eye of a geyser. -
Poetry is...
By Scotty WingsWell we’ve talked a lot about that haven’t we students?
Trying to nail down a cloud.
Poetry is...
An excuse to forget about mortality. -
Bus
By Elena KnoxNothing like speed
to make you slow down
(behind the eyes)
remind you to contemplate -
small days
By Liam Ferneydimensions angles pastels
as lonely as the empty seat op-
posite in the verve of saturday night's
cluttered jubilation the morning sun -
Silence and the page turn
By Tim SinclairSiren scream and entry shouts the boy noise only boys can noise as they storm
the library all smothered in bluster and covered in fighting and biting and combat
and fall on the offering the carcass the box the books dragged out by magician librarians who know the one thing to placate the lions and I blink and it is shredded and I blink and it is gon… -
Letter From a Japanese Friend
By Craig BillinghamLife is a futon of roses
small
but seldom private
-
After the Wreck
By Eileen Chong'Don't shoot me. I am a British object.'
James Morrill, 1863
Drawknives. Spar gauge. Caulking irons -
Autopsy
By Gerard ElsonHe came in a bag.
No one knew his, and no one would.
They set to work on him immediately,
opened him up, picked him apart. -
747
By Fiona WrightI've heard that air hostesses
get paid cosmetic leave
if their skin becomes contentious
and the resulting pustuled pimples -
Before Tomorrow
By Elizabeth AllenRain runs in strands,
from a wooden beam
to her left ankle.
