Archived in Pandora

from Meuse Press –

ISSUE#12

AUSTRALIAN

POETRY COLLABORATION

#1

FEATURING

Heather Brigstocke, Alison Coshott, Jean Frances,

Eileen Jones, Paula McKay, Sheryl Persson

Heather Brigstocke

Light the way

Watery space
open arms beckoning

Light grows
the water reveals glory
offers an unwrinkled hand
challenges
dares

Through the window
clouds
shroud the light in doubt
cast a shadow on picture frames
Memories shattered by tempered light
shining for her

And in looking at the source
finds she controls its brightness
by the tightness of her grip
on the extended hand.

Blue races

They say that on a clear day
you can see the Blue for miles
nothing else acceptable

It’s the winning post!
rump slapped with a blue ribbon
for a race, well done

Can you see the Blue?
For a while she thought she could
certainly at the beginning
yeh, down the middle too

But she fell on the home stretch,
tried to find her breath
inhaled the pack
crippling dirt from many hooves

So she threw off the jockey
there for the grace of himself?
Never! only in the name of the Blue

took off for a track of her own colour
though blue had always been her favourite colour

Yes, she left the Blue deification
to those that quite like
blue ribbons in the saddle
and one hoof in the knackery.

Alison Coshott

Orange

A dry red sunball

floats down through

dust from mine dumps;

hangs in the air

with coal smoke

from cooking fires

Cars stream home

from offices

to the bosom

of wire garnished walls

The traffic lights stop us

red in our tracks.

A picannin starts

his procession

along the row of glittering fringe benefits.

We have been warned:

These boys are used by men,

they run in packs to

distract and steal

through smashed windows

I look at him, this victim

smooth, brown,

big-eyed he begs

Madam - give me money

for bread

I turn away, steely eyed

from my reflection

in his brown and yellow disks.

There are so many beggars

Wait. I say. No please

from me to him.

I pick an orange from the foot well

poke it through the gap

to him outside

Here - I smile a bit

He stares at the orange

I turn away

so not to see him

throw away my selfishness.

I have my pride.

But at last I look

(He will have gone by now)

And he is eating the orange - ripping its flesh with his teeth

sucking thirstily to save the drops

and hunching over so they do not drip

on his dusty bare feet

He could be my own.

I pull away

and driving home,

I despair:

There are so many beggars

granule

at midnight mostly

in vengeful dark

i scream in silence

see the stark

ungainly cracks

in my unpolished

faces

of the day

Jean Frances

Scold's Bridle

I held back secrets

long fermenting in my belly

desperate for your approval

I must not tear out

the roots of our promises

Stop up your ears

so I am not forced

to choke back venom

Let me lift this child-mask

from my face

spit out the mustard

painted on my tongue

excrete the toxin

trapped beneath my skin

And let me speak as a woman

before the fastening

is hammered home again

Waiting at the Lights

I had never seen

a dead person before

lying on the footpath in the rain

An anxious doctor knelt

pounding his chest

and giving him mouth-to-mouth

The man his eyes open

skin faintly blue appeared serene

as if embarking on a trip

he'd been planning

for a long time

Eileen Jones

EMPTINESS

I am distraught as I sit in this barrister’s sedate office;

memory is absent when most needed.

I recall the pain,

the quality of its sharpness as it shot through my hand.

But what is its trigger?

I am being questioned about hobbies, tapestry,

the use of my hand, my solicitor sits quietly;

pain’s memory forces itself on my attention

only half of me responds.

I want to say – yes, tapestry was one of my hobbies

as were knitting, crochet, embroidery,

dressmaking, tailoring, all kinds of needlework.

Yet I remain mute, frustrated by my incapacity.

The moment passes, conversation shifts.

I mention my inability to respond spontaneously,

my need to go apart to think, but they find it hard to believe.

I’m brain damaged I’d like to shout to them.

With a calmness I cannot feel,

I suggest the neuropsychological report

only to find they have all my medical reports

from the Brisbane lawyers. I have no privacy, no secrets.

I feel denuded, stripped, spilled out,

everything is public property –

but the emptiness is mine.

The Thrill Seekers

On the verandah rail, inquisitive Willie Wagtails,

dressed ready for a black tie dinner,

dance, twist, flit in a flash to perch teasingly

on a magpie’s back, saucy tale upright.

Do they hope perhaps, for a free flight?

With a sudden song—burst they dash through water spray,

wing span maximised to ride the wind, surf air waves,

ski the skies, in flight so free assistance is superfluous.

As they skim, waft, dare – devil dart

my enthralled spirit soars but I sit, frustrated,

trapped in a body which lurches drunkenly

because my water – logged head has lost its authority.

Like an astronaut re adjusting to gravity

I struggle clumsily to move rubbery legs on unwilling feet;

clutch my pen to capture the thrill seekers’ rapture

but contrary hands with a will of their own

thwart my intention, leaving me

with an indecipherable scrawl.

My fascination cannot be denied.

Forced to this electronic servant

I record a fleeting experience

of grace, freedom, nature’s beauty.

With the thrill of the dance a distant memory

vivid awareness of physical limitation heightens frustration,

becomes desperation.

Paula McKay

Let Me Not Die an Old Girl's Death

(After Roger McGough)

let me not die an old girl's death not in a rocking chair ‘doesn't she look peaceful like that’ death not a curtains drawn with the sun going down in black armbands death nor laid out cold in the front room with background organ music and me stiff as the pipes no father o'leary giving me the last rites death (when I didn't ever have any rights in the first place) and not a between the starched sheets in a smells of pee nursing home calling softly I'm coming to join you fred death (& him thin as a rake by then anyway) no blessing in the end death or propped up with pillows so's I could look out over the yard and see the two pigs rummaging through the rubbish death no mrs swift from next door & all the other neighbours downstairs making tea and drinking whisky while I'm up there gasping my last breath

and I don't want a holier than thou and free from sin surrounded by candles and wilting flowers death either with kind last minute words to people I never liked anyway none of their noisy children coming to say a last goodbye to me when I couldn't stand the sight of them while I was alive death

let me go out when I'm a hundred and four gnashing my gums and conducting loud beautiful music (beethoven would be good ) flashing my painted fingernails & overthetop dyed hair smoking cigarettes that are bad for my health while drinking french cognac & me singing and kicking and showing everybody my bright red knickers

Enola Gay

The pilot of the plane that dropped the

the first atomic bomb - over Hiroshima -

in 1945 named the aircraft after his mother

After it was all over

what happened then?

Did you hide behind the curtains

when the doorbell rang

or write your memoirs

mother to a famous man?

And when they held a barbeque

honouring your sudden fame

dressed in floral prints and Sunday hat

did you smile

through all the sizzle and the flame

hold your plate above the smoke

and dripping fat

while the rare steaks charred amid the heat

accept a well-cooked sausage

with the skin quite split

and compliment the chef

for having hit the spot?

Sheryl Persson

JELLYFISH

Silent

passive poisoner

you trail festive streamers

wearing cap with rippling fringe

as frenzied fish

flash vivid violet.

Slooshing sideways

not guilty of malice

quietly determined

you extend your welcome

languidly wrapping visitors

in an acrid embrace.

DON'T TURN THE LIGHTS OUT

Don't turn the lights out.

In the darkness

I can hear again

the shuffling traitor

in the hall

stalking

closer.

I feel the syrup breath

ice on my neck.

The nausea rises

paralysis sets in.

Don't turn the lights out.

In the darkness

I can hear quicksilver words

wheedling

pleading secrecy.

In the dark

the shutter falls on senses.

I cease to be

vacate time and space

for some other victim

until I hear again

the door whispering shut

footsteps retreating.

I return to guilt

unable to trade in trust

trapped in torment

facing dark days.

Robbed of hope and joy

impossible to escape

the cruellest betrayal of all

while the predator

roams free.

Don't turn the lights out.

The world is already too dark.

AUSTRALIAN

POETRY COLLABORATION

NORTHERN STORIES

This issue contains poetry collected from local writers following an October 2000 POETS ON WHEELS tour of northern New South Wales (an Australian state)… from the surfing/alternative centre Byron Bay, south to the state’s 2nd largest city, Newcastle. This is a small cross section of the range of energetic writing communities thriving in the regions.

NAKED IN SEPIA

Sorting through her things

I glimpsed it for a moment --

my sepia mother

naked

under the waterfall.

She, who straight-laced

tutored me in modesty,

was rising --

Botticelli's Venus

from a scalloped rock:

soft pearl-shell skin

in rainbow light,

the sight ethereal --

her body luminescent

with a nuptial glow,

arms arced aloft,

head tossed and tresses flowing

over nubile breasts,

embarrassment abandoned

in her gift for him.

I glimpsed her joy

in sensual discovery

and felt an envy of her daring

in defiance of her time.

I glimpsed her joy

and wondered why

oh why

she tried so hard

to stifle mine.

Quendrith Young

(previously published "Poetrix", Issue 14, May 2000)

¯

cocktails

all mouths tits defining flanks and restless tails

this cocktail crowd enfolding the joneses     they

bounce from 'hello' off  'hi' to 'how are yooo'     he

senses the random molecular motion which dumps them

spinning their social wheels alone on the fringe     she

frets until they remesh and pinball through to a side wall

from there it's clear the herd's a fractal pattern

of seething sub-circles all properly self-similar

each ring of tails proscribing otherness     he

notes internal heat triggers convection currents which drive

some to the edge to cool before they drop back in     she

has an eye for particulars     is restless and fidgets

newcomers swell the herd and all is dense flux

critical closeness of members       sweat

evaporates from hides to cloud against the ceiling     his

nose differentiates boiled cabbage from testosterone

and other strange attractors     she

leaves his side to cleave into the chaos

on a passage far from random     he

jiggles their keys in his pocket

watches her present herself

`John Bird`

AWAKENING

You woke me with a smile

torn from pages of a bygone era

I turned on the axis of the universe

for a closer look.

Margeaux Marshall

OLD CLARRIE

The twilight began to capture the view.

Old Clarrie sat on his porch and watched
several Landrovers disturb the dust.
Another usual day,
cattle and the garden.
Late afternoons staring out
over the paddocks to the coast,
pondering.
Not much
money in cattle anymore
enough though
with the pension and bananas.

Old Clarrie
not all there
never married
womanly comforts
bought in brothels
during Show times.
Now the loins are never warm.
No needs
other than the daily routine
and the view of the coast
from the lighthouse to Brunswick Heads.

Expansive view.
A training of the eyesight.
Always magnificent, sometimes magical.
Old Clarrie lived in a postcard,
the television told him so,
but it was always everyday,
sometimes ordinary.

Seasonal rains
left their clouds
distant dark.
Old Clarrie
leaned forward.
Saw a snake
near the shed in which were
stored feed, paints, parts
and poisons.

The twilight focused the lights in the landscape.

A lot more lights these days,
used be a time when there'd be the lighthouse,
meatworks and a couple of bright lights
at Mullum and at Brunswick.
That's all you'd see.

Cough,
pain in the left lung.
A rub with a knuckle
and a deep breath.
Better start dinner soon,
or I'll miss 'Sale of the Century'.
Another stab held his breath,
like the writing he had seen,
earlier by the road.

Half-way to the highway.
That rear tyre must be flat!
Get out the spare and the jack.
That's where he saw
spray painted on road,
'I had a joint with Jesus on the way to Uncle Tom's'.

What did it mean?
You can get used to hippies,
but not to disrespect.
Jesus looks after you.
City types!
Hippies!
The flat tyre replaced,
no longer felt like going to Brunswick.
Get back up the hill now.

The twilight was about to introduce the stars.

Stupid words.
Shouldn't be said or read.
Stupid thoughts.
Swirled inside his head.
The lung hurt ferociously.
Cough.
Spasm of the chest.
Left arm clawed and cramped.
Hidden pressure stopping breath.

The moon is getting high in the afterglow.
So many lights now,
between the lighthouse and Brunswick Heads.

Then there was one less.

George Antonakos

¯

Touch Wood

Can I relax now?

Trust the fortune

of gold

sun beams,

sky, a depthless blue?

Dare I revel

in the luck

of being born

exactly me,

almost half century ago,

as peace raged

in the land of plenty?

Am I allowed to forget

incinerated human bones,

ash of my ancestors,

who made a religion

out of suffering?

May I lay down the burden

of guilt

for the luxury of love?

Dare to praise

all that is good,  strong and true,

to sing out my gratitude,

sift through dross

and find gleaming wonders?

Have I the right

to joy?

Or is it my duty

to keen and wail,

to remind those in paradise

that somewhere near

anguish reigns?

What do I owe

for the feast,

for the sumptuous

anointing, for the blessings

of a compassionate God?

Or was my debt

paid in full

before I was born?

And this radiant sky,

my personal boon,

not the prelude

to a drought at all.

Laura Jan Shore

Blue  Seal

Her  thick  blue  pelt

swallowed  the  moonlight

into  it’s  cavernous  folds.

Greasy  sperm  smeared  up  her  belly.

Her  tail  flattened  and  sated

floated  on  the  lapping  tide.

She  drifted;

refusing  her  instincts

for  deep  water  and  fish

denying  the  cry  of  her  herd

even  the  lonely  yelps  of  her  pups.

She  knew  only  that  man;  and  those  hands

every  roving  finger  an  undreamed  thrill

running  thru  her  fur

feeling  deep  into  her  creases

underneath  her  risen  tail.

His  smooth  belly  bouncing

against  her  tough  hide.

His  limbs  suckered  to  her

as  the  waves  pommelled.

His  meagre  penis;

no  match  for  the  muscled  bulls

she  had  surrendered  to;

did  not  leave  her  bleeding

licking  her  salt-burnt  wounds;

but  filled  her  in  such  a  way

she  would  be  forever  empty  without  him.

Only  his  throaty  whispers

hovered  around  her  in  the  wind.

So  faintly  familiar  they  ruffled  her;

a  ghostly  picture  prickled  her

and twisted  her  head

toward  his  mad  form  in  firelight

brewing  her  yielded juice  with  his.

Rushing,  rushing  desperately

to  beat  the  moon,  the  waning  tide

her  drowsy  mind.

But  the  past  rose  vivid

viciously  clawing  at  her

dragging  her  thru  the  waves.

The  silky   sunk  wretchedly  under   sobs

watching  her  demented  lover  crumble

spilling  his  last  attempt  at  sanity

on  the  sand.

Still  the  man-fearing  beast

drowned  her  sorrow  in  layers  of  fat

and  barnacled  hide

and  sped  it's  whiskered  snout

away  from  the  gruesome  fate

it  had  twice  endured;

hung  lifeless, dehydrated  on  a  rusty  hook

and  three  times  would  mean  forever.

The  blue  seal  swam  that  temptation  cruelly;

blindly  into  blackened  water

pressed  it  against  violent  currents

mercilessly  stripping  every  sensate  memory

until  only  survival  mattered.

And  on  her  rock in  the  warm  sun

she  rolled  over

one  eye  closed; exhausted

the  other  glazed;

scanning  the  glassy  deep

waiting. . . .

Gina Lakosta

Subtropical

the frangipani leaves plop…plop……plop,

a slight, uncertain drum beat for a

glancing Autumn

half the garden thinks it’s Spring again

my joints know it’s not

Brenda Shero

¯

Bad Timing

He lives roughly under

the same patchy clouds

as everyone else's paycheck

where, impatiently sixteen,

choices refuse to rain on him.

Manhood is a closed shop.

Though witness grandad's sepia

memory, coaltrimmer on the docks

for two years by his age, and dad

in a union lurk, apprenticed

three years to the boilermakers

before Vietnam beckoned.

Mum said even grandma sweated

dresses at thirteen, as if he ought

to be shocked, not impressed.

School says nothing to his hands.

The girls in Blundstones wink

'*no ticket, no start*'

with every precious flutter

of their long eyelashes.

How safe the world has become

for his testosterone.  The big engines,

loud noise, sparks and smoke, always

on the wrong side of the cyclone fence.

Even shovels and hammers

are out of reach.  It's a lockout,

that's what it is.  That's what

he spray-painted on a picket fence

last night.  No job, no pay, might

as well make work for *somebody*.

Rob Riel

AUSTRALIAN

POETRY COLLABORATION

BROKEN HILL

Reclaim the night.

Reclaim me

Claim me at all

Who are you to

ride this beast?

I am night.

Silken fabric

bat wings

dark fins and claw.

Uncaring sending

dreams and demons

Mightily I shadow

your hearts terrain.

I am night. Sign

of women, travellers,

corroboree, astronomy

Even the sun that I rebirth

claims me not

There is no authority

upon me

beyond the moon

the stars, the velvet

cloak of clouds

The storm in all its joy

I am night

Lay no imposition on me

I am never claimed

You must look to yourselves.

Marvis Sofield

Playground

Ladder of ages

four little ones run

No. 5 wheeled by Mother

strung out dog leg line

Grit stings our eyes

we are grasshoppers on the move

and wander on

doing cartwheels in the air

Past the smelly abattoirs

saltbush saturates

our favourite place

this wondrous hideaway

Rolling in red vibrant sands

our inner sanctum stirs

blue tongue overlooks the scene

as eagle wings flap the air

Magnets draw us

to pluck the red and black carpet

sixpence a bunch we offer

tied with worn out string

Would STURT awaken

as we seal the fate

of his desert pea

rest assured rebirth exists

Deadly arachnid

hitches a ride on the stroller step

warrior mother intervenes

and our little nipper lives

Weary, battle scarred

home from dust and heat

Sandy bend conquered us

but our secret is well kept

Grasshoppers have grown now

and we return to claim the sands

of our wondrous playground

Sadly, progress quarried it

Pamella Mackinnon

Onlooker

Push the turnstile, music fills the ears

of brainwashed impulse buyers

sharing aisles with stacks of boxes

playing leap-frog might be fun

Dodging wayward wheels with laden baskets

and babies cradled at the top

squishy tomatoes with prices that don't match

sticky juice spurting from a split bottle

Like a gathering of the clan

groups of four hold up the parade

watch the child hop, bobbing about

while mum's waiting, dad's cursing and dinner's late

A race to the checkout, almost colliding

bell rings Price check is the call

grab a magazine and catch up on some news

while shuffling throbbing feet

Entertainment to the observer

watching from a bench

while he sits he pens his paper

missing not this chance to tell

Pamella Mackinnon

Autumn

Rebellion a springtime lodger

defiance paid the bills

summer boiled and dallied

with convention

desire I knew well

The chill looms in distant shivers

soon the shackles will tighten

but, winter can wait in the company

of frustration

My autumn will be falling leaves

serenely quiet, but stirred by breeze

Barbara De Franceschi

Torture

The acid taste of fear drips caustic saliva

to still the tongue

into paralysed silence

Odour rank with dread oozes from

body braced for cruelty

upon a reclining wrack

Terror gathers in beads like droplets

from a crown of thorns

eyes stare into blinding light

I implore with a silent prayer let me be brave

so I will not disgrace the name

of my family

In a voice strangely devoid of menace

my tormentor speaks

tools of infliction poised

Open wide please, only one filling today.

Barbara De Franceschi

Witness

From my chair I see

a weathered seat of timber planks

people lounge, couples rub

not for me to join

grey ocean lunges and rolls with force

to gnaw the sandy beach and grind

Detail I gather in segregation

Castles left forgotten in ebbs

canvas deck chairs sit lopsided

scattered towels amidst lost shoes

salty droplets splashed

as old men trot and children paddle

in tidal pools with seaweed laced

The essence of dreams I yearn

To be part of all I see would lift my spirits high

at my nursing home window, I just sit and sigh

Barbara De Franceschi

They say my love is dead.

They say my love is dead and yet

in that place where dreams are tumbled,

all the boundaries of the real erased

I see him corporeal and glowing

welcomed as he climbs into my bed.

They say my love is dead and yes

his is no fleshly frame, but shrivelled grey

bloodied bone, festooned with tissue strings decayed.

The object of my need and lust.

They say my love is dead and yet

in those dark fetid hours I rise to him in wonder

like the Calophoridae, Sarcophigidae, viviperous

flesh eaters before me, I feast upon his carcass.

They say my love is dead and so he is.

for I have stroked the cooling belly of all that I desire.

I have stood above his grave and thrown

another red, red rose upon the growing pile

of desiccated dead remembrance.

They say my love is dead but he is not.

From his grave he weaves all spells

He fills me. The very living breath

of my devout necrophilia.

Marvis Sofield

The vivisector.

I bought my HQ

for a hundred dollars

after I left

my husband

my house

a Volvo

in the drive.

It was a beaten up old Holden

padding torn out

Stripped

Honed down

A dull metal shell.

Dashboard

so bone bleak sharp

It could slice noses

lips, from any living thing

pressed up against it.

The old HQ shared my ambition

to return to origins

To gut

castrate

clean out

amputate the past

and then drive on.

Marvis Sofield

Many a good tune

Lighthouse beacon,

her corner

lepidopterous admirers gaggle.

Goddess festooned.

Irradiated innocence disarms.

Deceived as sulphur tongue licks

Fawning shoulder rubbers

I witness from an opposite place

Simmer in complacent envy

My seductress wife

Click!

The hermetic door seals

Tatters of a private life

Against the fishbowl

Click!

The remote control

Daytime TV

Cough, scratch, fart, all alone

Alone with me

Eyes reflecting yesterday

Ignore me.

My Stradivarius

She can soothe the savage breast

Or beckon banshees

Pinched waist

Neck trying too hard

Highly strung

And very much older than she looks.

Geoff Sanders

Clouds

Straggler sunbeams

evening cloud sponges

crescent centrepiece

raindrops wink in ocean of pitch

scarlet screams, clear sere sun

day has begun ad infinitum

Geoff Sanders

How to write.

I simply start writing

and words come out nicely

and I draw my ideas

and paint them precisely

Shit I’m saying and

now I’m starting, inging

I’ll have to redraft

from the very beginging

Now I’m just going silly

I’m a slave to the form

I’m forcing the rhyming

In a way that’s not norm

I’ll get back on the track

and explain how to write

and I’ll use lots of ands,

and clichés, so trite

‘Cause this is my poem

and though it might rhyme

It deserves an existence,

Its own space and time

It’ll never be published

‘Cause it’s not clever, clever

Just a simple expression

As old as forever

I like that I write,

mostly just to please me

and my thoughts fill the void

of this A4, ex-tree

and if you want to write

and you think you’re so hot

just bloody well do it

and get published.........Not!

Geoff Sanders

The work was collated by Les Wicks during a Writer in Residency in December 2000.

Thanks go to the sponsors:

NSW Ministry for the Arts

Broken Hill City Council

Regional Arts Fund

This collection is published by MEUSE PRESS.

All work © the authors.

APC is an occasional anthology.

Top

AUSTRALIAN

POETRY COLLABORATION

TASMANIA

¯

THE POETS

LIZ WINFIELD, LYN REEVES, KAREN KNIGHT, DARYL McCARTHY, JENNIFER BARNARD & LOUISE OXLEY

¯¯¯

LIZ WINFIELD

Venus' Reply

As the Derwent embraces

the sea

an old man cries in his sleep

as the fishing boat enters

D'Entrecasteaux Channel

a man wakes with

a question

as the nurse drives over

the Tasman bridge

the night lifts

answers

as the child sits

on the bus

he can still see Venus

over the Queen's Domain

and an old man cries

as a man questions

the night's answers

and Venus' reply

that it is nothing

but salt and water

and the reflection of

star-dusted dreams.

How to reach her

Think of her when you're dreaming

kiss her eyelids when she sleep-murmurs

make a cup of your body

gather and weave her a braid of flowers

see her likeness in every bird

bring her the depths of a sky in storm

make the sun shine

when she is cold

hold out your hand

and offer her

your palm

in which to write her lines.

LYN REEVES

S e c r e t s

if you want to come with me if you want me to show you this secret place you must slip like a shadow along the walls don't make a noise there's no one here now only me the others have shrunk into corners scuttled into mouse holes under the skirting boards blown away like smoke from the turreted chimney I take this place stake my claim on forbidden rooms out of bounds where the muttering adults kept secrets from me and from themselves I stamp my feet on Elsie's polished linoleum and crap behind the kitchen door where Captain Cook did a poop wring out the cloth drenched with blood in the enamel dish serve my father tea and scones in the comfortable chair pulled up beside Gran's cooking range I slap my cousin's face play ragtime loudly on the pianola open the mirrored doors of all the chiselled wardrobes in all the mysterious bedrooms pull the stoppers out of all the jars on the powder-dusted dressing tables empty every drawer run down the hall singing and shouting at the top of my lungs invite all the children in the street to eat birthday cake with coloured icing blow out the candles with one breath let all the secrets out

Mirage

I'm hitching a ride on your dream

but when we set out I believed

we were headed the same way.

You're in the driver's seat and won't

share the wheel, won't even let me

navigate, since I read maps downside-up

and, anyway, you've been this route before,

know it like the back of your cereal packet.

You've costed the trip down to the last

benefit payment and will only eat at the old

familiar roadhouses where you can get

a decent cup of tea.

All night the moon

leans on my shoulder breathing its big

bright secrets into my ear and at midday

the shimmering V on the horizon

aches with possibilities.

A mirage, you say, an accident of light.

Other drivers overtake. We clamber on,

stopping now and then to cool

the hissing radiator. Just ahead

there's a bend where the road forks.

Thanks for the lift. I'll walk from here.

KAREN KNIGHT

Xmas Day with the Troops

He saw a hill of dead horses

brushed snow from his beard

adjusted his crimson-dyed suit

did a last minute check

on a notebook of requests

and he walked through the campsite

shaking hands with the men.

He imagined a large table

with a red cloth

where he could leave

boxes of horehound candy

pipes filled with tobacco

and pages ripped from his Bible.

He handed out five cent coins

to the men, who held them

as if they were the finishing touch

to a brandy-soaked pudding.

¯

A Day in the Life

Visited a gymnasium to observe, not exercise.

Took my usual stroll down to the Battery.

Stopped at a pistol gallery.

Amused myself by riding back and forth on the ferry.

Dropped into the museum.

Yawned through a literary luncheon.

Had my palm read by a gypsy girl.

Met a young man who shook me violently by the hand

and expressed in heated language the affection he felt for me.

Attended a temperance meeting.

Was greatly stirred by the arrest of fifty prostitutes

ordered by a police court magistrate.

Dined with the Queen of Bohemia on her return

from Paris with an illegitimate son.

Whistled through a graveyard.

Wrote to my sister, Hannah the fairest and most delicate of human

blossoms.

Gave thanks to this roaring city.

Both poems from All Under the One Granite Roof - a collection of poems about Walt Whitman during the American Civil War period to be published by Pardalote Press in late 2003

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DARYL McCARTHY

MOONLIGHT

The clock in the heavens "strikes" for the tide, the navigator

                               and this time for me.

Visited my pillow it was 10 pm.

The shining moon stirs the thoughts of men.

Earth's child with not a breath

At low perigee passing my window

What does your visit signify?  Death!

A message from the barren world on your face

Take stock of life and supply it with goodness

He will fill your soul with grace.

The sun puts out the moon as it puts out a fire

I lie beside the morning,

gathering prudence.  I'll exercise its desire.

Marked beside the metronome of moon and time

The ebb of life forgotten.

Tomorrow a new journey.

I bid my guest adieu.

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JENNIFER BARNARD

Wisdom has no Purpose but to Speak

The politician speaks.

Words arrive in gouts.

Red with meaning.

Stamping years ring

In the soothsayer's ear.

Wise words come, undiluted.

My friends,

Should you contemplate

Such n' such.

Ears and hands go electric.

Then,

Silence empty as a widow's womb.

Nobody claims to understand history

Or believe in it.

A man on a desert road

To somewhere was struck

By lightning.

The Hapsberg jaw chomps on

Regurgitated memory.

Gutz and Gaul is all we need-

Ask the Caesars!

Change?

More blood

than Rome could hide.

The audience clambers to the podium.

Claps wildly.

All is not well!

Rain drops

From Hapsberg eyes.

Lips retract.

I will finish!

But a sneak thief Doomsdayist

Comes

With dagger and foul breath.

The wise man trips on the curtain

And wisdom's done to death.

THE MAN I MET YESTERDAY

Had wild grey hair

Blue lake eyes

Staggered speech.

In his bay blue eyes

I saw a small boy

reaching for his father's hand

But the man mistook his son's voice

for the whine of the wind.

Saw eyes that beggared need

the soft lips

a crushed rose.

He patted his son's head

pulling his hat down hard

he crossed the street.

The lad reached in his pocket

and took out the packet

of sweets his father slipped him

that morning.

He ripped the cellophane off

tossed the sweets in the air.

Then he crossed the road

and followed his dad.

Stopped to watch him step

into the strange woman's arms

Saw a ginger cat gladwrap her legs.

LOUISE OXLEY

AT NETTLEY BAY

We wake to long surf, a slow sunrise

masked by eastward hills

and the arrival of fishermen

who climb to a ledge and fling

whirring lines, small parabolas of patience

cast not too far ahead.

Understoreys of bull-kelp have lost their footing

and flounder at the surface;

stones of all the kinds

have been left on the beach like fears

we must step around.

I choose one - yellow-greenish,

sugared with quartz.

Sea-days wear at our edges until

we are reconciled to this stranding

and smooth enough to be held in the hand.

ENTERING APOLLO'S BREAST

[After Rainer Maria Rilke, ‘Archaic Torso of Apollo’]

From my bed you watch me undress,

then offer your arms, their tender undersides,

your defenceless belly. This is a welcome so weightless

I cannot name or understand it. I slide in beside you,

irretrievable as sent mail. You fall so easily asleep,

your just-asthmatic breath intimate as whalesong,

a rough cheekbone pressing on my ear,

the soft-shelled bivalves of your hands

closing on my smaller flesh. You hold me

against our separate pasts and this short present.

Night opens to the moon. The estuary lies still

as a road, as if there were no undercurrent;

she-oaks trail untroubled at its edge.

There is no place that does not see us;

our secret selves have vanished

like the words they were confessed upon.

You fall so easily asleep. Or, perhaps, are rising.

The light-filled canopy is hung with mist and visions.

Everything is altering. You have opened your arms.

They will be large enough to carry me.

AUSTRALIAN

POETRY COLLABORATION

HURSTVILLE

FEATURING: Felicity Daphne Baldry, Peter Bowden, Jean Frances, Pam Heard,

Paula Mckay, Rene L Manning, marny owen & Pat Pillai

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Home of the Bidjigal people, Hurstville became a timber felling area for the

newly established town of Sydney in the early 1800's. The township rapidly

grew into a farming community and once the railway arrived in 1884, its

urban development took off.

Hurstville is now one of eight regional centres within metropolitan Sydney.

We are located 15 kilometers to the south west of the CBD. Our city is close

to two airports, two major sea ports and traversed by main highways.

Covering an area of 2,460 hectares, the community of over 70,000 residents

has a rich cultural dive arersity with major non-English speaking groups

including Chinese, Macedonian and Greek.

Felicity Daphne Baldry

Somewhere it happens

it's only ever in the here and now

what it is has to reveal itself

rumbling and roaring

like a nightmare

what it has to say

becomes clearer with

every sleepless sleep

somewhere somehow it happens

and the answers are

in clouds   baby's spittle

one derelict's lifeless eyes

looking in that mirror

becomes a journey

Sunday's sermon rattles

(now a headache)

will it happen somewhere

what makes sense

will it

dissect the woes   distrust   doubt

throw them to the wind

birds feather their nests

allow for everything

Finders Keepers

furtively the youngster looks around

then leans right over the lip

of the tall container

her fair cropped hair and torso

disappear

still visible

her left hand   holding on

and left foot   on tippy-toes

balancing

right foot in the air   knee bent

for extra leverage

within seconds she is upright again

as if she's done this before

explores her finds

brushes them off with small fingers

at first   a tentative bite

followed by

more substantial ones

and lengthy chewing

she relishes each mouthful

her plunder   some broken biscuits

from the schoolyard rubbish bin

Peter Bowden

THE LIFE I LIVE; THE VERSE I WRITE

The life I live,

The verse I write

Come I hope, from a mould

which is forever the same for each

Simple, perhaps, not deep,

I write of a searching

The looking for a voice

of what we all can be

A belief? a hope? a wish?

Of lives as they can be

But also, I think, I hope,

of lives of love and laughter.

But refugees, and politicians, and war

are far from love and laughter

And they are the truth, not hidden,

of my world as it is today

So we laugh, and watch the screen

With Big Brother, the reality shows

Like bread and the circuses, and never think

of what the world could be.

Grandpa & the Rest

I don’t remember Grandpop

Except for his chamber pot

Out on the lawn by the path

There for weeks before it went.

I have an odd and distant memory

Of a shadowed image in the house

But perhaps I recall the photo, the one

they give us all as kids.

The one of him and grandma.

A big man from the photo

Sergeant of police no less

Not a man who’d use a pot.

Was it perhaps the other grandpop

Mother’s pa, the one who had the pot?

But he is not even a shadow

I have no memory of him at all.

An Inspector of police the first one,

But Sergeant in Taree,

And in a dozen other towns

from the Queensland border down

Grandma I remember well

She’s not far from me now.

Musicians hands I had, she told me

A butcher’s was nearer the mark

They have gone now, both of them

to the big family grave by the river.

With sons and daughters.

Our aunts and uncles, now long gone

Born in those dozen country towns

Here the last to go was Edith, Pops we used to call her

All that now remains are us,

And we are going now too.

And when the last of us has gone

We can only hope their names

are not to be forgotten - , George and Ernie,

Mabel and Toots, Wanda and the rest.

Twelve of them, over twenty there are of us

And again the ones who follow us. Then theirs again

- Max and Piper, Chris and Josh , Tom and Fleur -

so many – to remember the big man and us all.

¯

Jean Frances

After Listening to Jack and Jill on Play School

I can't help wondering why

they climbed the hill in the first place

Surely water flows to lower levels

or maybe in this case there was a well up there

However I am most interested

in the efficacy of brown paper and vinegar

as a dressing for Jack's wound

Perhaps it could work nowadays

instead of the all-purpose cortisone

Though I'm truly sorry for clumsy Jack

and can almost feel his headache

my real sympathy lies with Jill

having to lug a full bucket

down the slope by herself

Next time she ought to consider

inviting another boy to join her

Maybe Boy Blue with his horn

Back to the Trees

How quiet it must have been

as we swung through branches

or leapt from rock to rock

across a river speechless

with maybe a puff cough

a grunt of satisfaction

or the occasional piercing scream

to ward off predators

Now we overflow with sound

words for anger

pain fear and love

whatever that may mean

We talk aloud in our sleep

the haunting speech of dreams

Pat Pillai

Dragons vs. Tigers

he stood flat footed on the wing, waiting

and I am away with the barnstorming daredevils

standing on the wing, waiting for take off

Finch, sure footed, attempts a field goal

sure footed, not flat footed

sure that the pilot will slip us somehow through

that skin which contains the sky

ref halts play

we taxi on one wheel

video ref will check for body contact

between body and contact there is out of body

flying goggles define the shape of the field

white lines are like cave drawings on your back

Coast Walk

a lizard slides backwards from the path

flicks a forked tongue

mirage shifts

the sun bites hard

I am walking on the cliffs

where sandstone cradles a curved ocean

banksias hunch

their blackened pods hurled down

birthed by fire and water

I want to lie down here and drink from rain pools

I want to lie down now

allow salt ghosts

etch caverns

AUSTRALIAN POETRY

COLLABORATION

#6

SYDNEY

FEATURING: Carolyne Bruyn, Michelle Carter,

Helen Chambers, Dougie Herd, Esme Morrice,

Michael Roberts, Mary Rose & Brenda Saunders

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Carolyne Bruyn

Mme. Weather

Moisture draws to its gathering point

and is pulled up and up into cloud mass

herded by a warm wind into identity.

Like a giant wheel she begins to turn

slowly slowly looking harmless

a low someone in an Institute alone

is monitoring closely.

The satellite picture is contained

on his small screen but he can hear

the siren’s song. Stormsurge builds.

Disturbs peaceful inlets and beachside cafes.

Cars float out to sea on torrential roads.

Desire stirs. He knows these waters well,

all the reefs are charted.

He cannot be held responsible for

this cloaked unknown

this invasion of lust.

She’s coming, single-minded,

straight for him. Moaning

he rises to meet her

hands flat against the screen.

Helpless.

Mind bent double like palms

along the boulevard

he begs for her frenzy.

The limits of desire hypnotise

as one eyewall spinning clockwise

thrills him under the stiletto

of her psychotic progress.

When demand seems spent

he looks into the stillness

of her mean

where only his breath can be heard

or his heart

pounding like heavy metal

until, blasting out of the clear screen

of his fragile hope

the other eyewall slams in

counter clockwise

intent on what civilisation hoped

she would spare.

The screen goes black.

He sobs for her disdain as she puts down

turns back on herself

everything skewed on the first pass.

Michelle Carter

Exile

to ride the curved fronds

of rain-splashed palms

with nothing but

exiled eyes

to cut through

mannacled vines

to moult

like the sunburnt skin

of a gum tree

wounds flayed exposing

an ivory gleam

to drown in the truth

of gardens

as rain glistens silver

on a ripple of green

to feel like a panther

in an auditorium

like a cripple

on a glass mountain

to enter my heart

the arc of a bird

landing

to fly from my pain

an entire flock

migrating

there’s a shiver

beyond sky

ISSUE#12

AUSTRALIAN

#1

FEATURING

Heather Brigstocke, Alison Coshott, Jean Frances,

Eileen Jones, Paula McKay, Sheryl Persson

AUSTRALIAN

POETRY COLLABORATION

NORTHERN STORIES

John Bird

AWAKENING

Laura Jan Shore

Gina Lakosta

Subtropical

AUSTRALIAN

POETRY COLLABORATION

BROKEN HILL

Regional Arts Fund

AUSTRALIAN

POETRY COLLABORATION

TASMANIA

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THE POETS

LIZ WINFIELD, LYN REEVES, KAREN KNIGHT, DARYL McCARTHY, JENNIFER BARNARD & LOUISE OXLEY

LIZ WINFIELD

Venus' Reply

How to reach her

LYN REEVES

Mirage

JENNIFER BARNARD

ENTERING APOLLO'S BREAST

AUSTRALIAN

POETRY COLLABORATION

HURSTVILLE

Pat Pillai

Dragons vs. Tigers

he stood flat footed on the wing, waiting

COLLABORATION

#6

Carolyne Bruyn

Mme. Weather

¯

Esme Morrice

Brenda Saunders

Knots

Stretch of Dirt

flaky faces dandruff images

gives its approval to graffiti tallied sweethearts

I only remember

`John Bird`