What the river told me by Jane Skelton

‘hurricane’ by Jane Skelton

From What the river told me

shadows, seeking fingers, creep across the moor
as clouds roll over
a slag of suggestive, rococo cloud
reclines upon the hill’s haunches 
a pregnant Welsh pony whinnies 
hysterically into the wind 
the roosters’ chorus answers, rises from the village
the squirrels are barking
a teenage fawn hesitates on the edge of the pines 

in a cathedral in Hexham
I watch the organist practise 
trundle through a hymn 
the wind cannot be felt in here 
but trees snap, crash across the road
the smell of torn vegetation

I am stranded 

and later we hear a woman in Ireland 
was blown off a cliff in her caravan

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local by Anna Couani

‘I’ve walked the same street’ by Anna Couani

From Local

I’ve walked the same street
many times
for decades
living in the village
even if it’s the city
and times before
carefree barefoot summers
on the dirty asphalt
never a shopping street
reminiscent of the barefoot summers
of childhood
on the dusty dirt roads
now paved
that endlessness
of school holidays
and this place
filled with creative lives
when before that was only starting
and then we were just learning
trying to figure out what to do
now it explodes round us
then my faint hope
of having an artistic life
associating with artists
realised on these streets
tucked away in the corners of the village
basement studios
writers in coffee shops
and a street full of live music
since retail died

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Alive in Dubbo

‘Trafalgar Place’ by D.G. Lloyd

Trafalgar Place
ruts in the road
painted along the gutter
All Drains Lead To Troy Gully
and on Wirraway Close
a dented No Through Road sign
An old house was torn down
leaving nothing but a jade plant
like the stark withered tree
outside Dan Murphy’s
the corner
of Windsor Parade

There is manual labour and there is drinking
and words within words
Are you okay?

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Sea Skins

‘Word Flight’ by Sophia Wilson

I woke to hear the murmurings of a new language:
brainstem compromise, cerebromedullary
disconnection, de-efferented state

My brain
was inundated and turned to slosh
like plains after the flood’s passed through

speech swept away by torrent
vocal cords divorced from breath
expression marooned 
and I am now a silent island  

devoid of movement and of gesture
no matter how I muster will
to signal ‘stop’
or raise a lip-corner of smile

Monotony weighs in, a daily groan
Nurses flit. Fluids enter and exit via tubes
Medical students loom
dangling stethoscopes like rattles

I’m locked in, looking out
tracking the movements of others
who are teaching me
to employ eyelid-flutter as speech

I haven’t achieved competence 
with the new Morse – 
lid movements are effort-laden
my code, indecipherable

so I can’t tell them I’m leaving
that I’ll employ the words
crowding my head, aim their acuity
at the rot, dissect and redefine it  

I’ll fly out through the key-hole
if I have to

They think I’m wallowing in my own
but I am gathering strength
to soar 

( In memory of Vivian Wilson, honorary Māori chief and All Black, 1899–1978 )   

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Alive in Dubbo

‘Gun’ by D.G. Lloyd

Wrecked farm equipment with webbings of dead 
in the open fields of Lazy River Estate …
the overhanging foliage
… more than twenty kilometres out of town
on the old Dubbo Road
was the pistol club.
I had only been a few times.
Luke told me I could get a One Month Membership.

They all said I showed potential.
There were three ranges:
a couple for the .22 calibre and one for the smaller 
air pistol.
It was fun shooting targets every Sunday.
5 bullets. 4 rounds. Timed.

One day some random guy walked in …
paid his membership and went outside.
He loaded the gun …
put the barrel in his mouth and blasted out the back 
of his skull.
But that was not the reason I never went back.
I just lost interest.

I never saw Luke much afterwards either.

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Alive in Dubbo

‘Devil’s Hole’ by D.G. Lloyd

Boys getting stoned and jumping off the cliff
into the deepest part of the river;
no one knows for sure how deep.
See you in Cobar! we shouted, as we drifted away 

Flocks of cockatoos screeched as they flew over the 
the dirt road and metal posts,
fallen logs and blue-green algae,
dead ryegrass undulating.

I nearly drowned fighting the current as I tried to 
cross back,
tussled in the willows, vines and throwing up.
Blistered and scarred for seven days.

Devil means Bunyip and Evil Spirit Dreaming.
The elders frightened the children with ghost stories
to save them from drowning near the bend in the 
It’s a strange bed up north, said Gazza.

Jason and Craig saw a kingfisher on the fence,
You can tell them by their pointed beaks.
I spotted a pelican on the water’s surface,
It must be lost.

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Dimitra Harvey’s ‘Cicadas’

Spring unrolled skies like runners of pink muslin, breezes
steeped in honeycomb. Set out flowers in pastry
blues and glacé reds; summer simmered at the season’s
edge, began to smoke. That’s when I found their shells
everywhere — like pods of blown sugar, trimmed
to the trunks of bloodwoods, blue gums.

Yolk light streaked tower windows. Down Dixon Street,
the grills hissed, spitting oil. Plane trees offered their leaves
to the pavement in helpings of ginger and oxblood. I watched
strangers champ down fists of minced squid, or tighten
the nooses of their scarves, as lanterns swung
like pomelos from the eaves of tea rooms, and the dusk
slung up its meathook moon. This was Chinatown
on a Friday night — the markets packed. The scent of burning sugar
lured me from my mother to a stall where toffee
oozed in an iron pot. A woman was rolling
a knot of it to a worm. She jutted one end in her mouth
and blew; and as the sugar ballooned, she began
pinching and pulling it, shaping wings, a square
jaw, a long torso coiling round itself — all the while
filling it with her breath as if creation were a kind of
mouth to mouth — then she took the end from her lips
and tweaked it shut. Deft as a doctor’s
stitch she embedded a skewer, tilted the dragon
towards light so it shimmered, copper-bronze.
I watched as she made a horse, a rat — my tongue watering,
even though I knew they were not for eating.

Now rummaging at weeds on my knees
in the veggie beds, my fingers scrape the crisp
toffee abdomens of cicada shells. I press aside
drooping leaves of eggplants — the fat fruits,
black as hearses, nodding, glinting offhandedly.
I pull oxalis, dandelion from their roots. Throw
the first in a pile for the worms, heap
the latter by my knee for later:

Stir eggs and dill, diced shallots, grated feta and kefalograviera
until combined. Add a dash of olive oil, salt. Fold-in diced
chard and the wild greens you pulled from the hedgerow, the side
of the road — like the peasant grandmother who lived through famine
and three wars, raised twenty children, and knew that everywhere
the earth makes offerings of nourishment. Line your cooking tin
with pastry thin and pale as a cotton shroud. Anoint with olive oil. Now
spoon the mixture evenly across your tray and cover with more pastry.
Puncture the top with a fork or skewer — so steam — like the soul
through the mouth at death — can escape. Cook till golden.

For weeks, the air throbbed with their love songs, their
jackhammer dirges, as they bred and died, became banquet
for lizard and bird. I’ve imagined that moment of revelation:
seventeen years tucked in the dirt, sucking root sap, then —
the sudden insistent urge to burrow up and out… Exposed
to light and the swiftness of air for the first time, the old self
ruptures, peeling back — wings unfurl, silent
gossamer. Sometimes I find one, the shell
not entirely sloughed, the crisp, veined wings only
partly unfolded. My eyes track the conveyor belts
of ants: they till the corpse, ferry
morsels to the nest.

I ready the ground for sowing. Swing the mattock round again,
tear up another sod. A butcherbird probes the edges of opened
earth and plucks up worms purple-red as sopressa. Skinks
tongue crickets by the irrigation runnels. A kookaburra drops
from the shed then wings north — a marsh snake thrashing
in its beak. Above rotted orange peels, celery tufts, the skins
of pumpkins heaped on the compost — fruit flies hover like tossed
confetti. Westering now, the sun spills her brandy down
the hills; mosquitoes bore for my veins’ hard liquor.

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Magdalena Ball’s ‘Transmission’

If you were looking for a sign or excuse
to stay where you are

that particular
ray of light, a twitch at the small
of your back, the downward slant
darkening eyes in the mirror
warm sun pretending to be gentle
half blooming crocuses
swing chair creaking
dead bees floating on the cold
pool, death against life.

My body has grown heavier
weighted by memory
competing languages
an accumulation of cells
an accretion of blows
all people and all things
swallowed down and carried
small densities, big plans
Inertia taking me further towards
the centre point.

You cannot separate the words
from the culture
the motion of the mouth
how it shapes the features
changing thought, perception
you cannot unlearn
only hide, pretend
that you have always been
will always be safe.

My ancestors would have
happily buried that history
into the sweet earth
along with their bones
picked clean of anything valuable:
jewellery, gold fillings, hair, nutrients
but we can’t help touching
tongue against missing tooth.
The gap draws us down, down.

Somewhere there; here
is an answer
transmitted into sound
a humming that might be wind
second life, second soul
the lullaby you can almost sing
by heart, though you’ve never
heard it before
In this lifetime

mother, are you in that breeze

teaching me
how to let go?

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‘In Lithuania’ by Jean Kent

Ruta’s favourite word is ‘maybe’.
The dictionary on her lap
is heavy as another passenger
as she strokes and cossets it, dropping
the juicy apple crystals of Lithuanian
and hauling back the slow
chewing gum of English.

Even what it offers up, she doubts.
what Vylode said …
means this And ‘maybe’
this is the road to Panevėžys …
There are no maps,
the ones the Russians left were spored
with roads you could never find,
fantasies of freedom which made sure
you would be lost if you looked for them.

‘Maybe’ tonight we will have roast reindeer.
‘Maybe’ her daughter will study art.
‘Maybe’ all Lithuania will embrace
the plumbing supplies her American cousin
is planning to employ her to sell …

In the meantime she shows us
landmarks she can be sure of: the schoolroom-
turned jail, where her mother was kept
before she was sent to Siberia

the prison where her father was taken
decades later

the graves of grandparents who never met
her Australian cousin, this twin of her brother
recording it all on trigger-happy film.

It’s 1994. The country’s independent.
In her Russian uncle’s bumpy Opel
we rush round corners with her
toward this new place she hopes to plumb

where there are no secrets in the sewers
and happiness is a switched-on tap —
maybe maybe maybe

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