Poems

Kit Kelen’s ‘Up Through the Branches’

from Up Through the Branches

of bright birds, dull 
of leaves caught light with 
sunshine sown 
a welcoming – 
of wind, of cloud, of constellation 
as from the vast of days

it isn’t the eye alone to see, to steady with the sky

they stand tattooed, leaf shone exalt 
a puzzle of bark to read past weather 
breakfast in branches honey in the highest 
count them, lose yourself this way 
this is the tree where possum learned climbing 
and came to grief

tree of the swing where we killed hours 
if I could reach like this I’d be rich 

wings dip and lift in quilting light 
and everything with tail and twitch 
comes under spell

of lichen, moss 
and catch the fruit that’s falling 
be hat upon trudge, crook head to the tilt

praise the tree, rub up

clouds have plumped for top of it
some hang and some are racing

as travelled by ants all making home 
where light’s trick web is woven 
with such a symmetry
shade summer cast 
see flight’s arcs and tangents

tree of the tune grew up with me 
all twig till tip and step off into empty air 
moving eager insect after 
here’s the rain 
it’s like a hat 
won’t you call it love?

earth clinging 
where is the forest of the rain? 
the book of more than pages? 

joists and planks and beams above 
and shh! there’s someone sleeping 
unseen though, no initials carved

erect a church out of it all 
and paint till there’s a heaven 

it’s weatherwork, the tree 
bonfire of falling limbs our tribute 
built from the kindling donation

where lightning struck there’s timpani 
tinkling breeze and leaf tip trill 
all suggestions are symphonic

bark is peeled and coiled to fall 
this is the tree of the creatures trysting 
though the conclusion’s night 

moss in the folds and tendril higher 
so is the chorus kept 

the felled tree gathers veins to light 
scrap of scribble breeze makes leaf 
so death is a living thing

everyone visits 
it’s as through a lattice seen 
to let grow

where bare the branches crowd with stars 
it’s not like a wake at all 
but every bolt is from the blue

as if all souls stood with you now 
silent for applause

Andrew Burke’s ‘Shop Locally’

from ‘The Line is Busy’

‘Keith the Butcher is better suited
to conduct my funeral than
Father Fahey,’ Frank said in
the shopping centre café, coffee tasting
like burnt tar, muffin crumbling
on his off-white face.
Mock-stained-glass windows framed
consumers relieving aching backs
and knotted veins. ‘None of that God stuff
when they send me off, mate.
Dead’s dead.’ I forewent
a second cup, mentally ticked
off my list, threaded fingers through
handles of Coles supermarket bags,
and stood to go. ‘See ya, mate.’
‘Not if I see you first.’

In the car park, shopping propped
against the back bumper, I clicked
‘unlock’, threw open the boot,
and paused, considering the metaphors
of everyday, cryptic tropes of our living tongue
wriggling in the minds of
late capitalist man. ‘Hot enough for you?’
asked the woman with
The Goddess Dances on her rear window.

David McAleavey’s ‘Detailed & calm’

from ‘Talk Music‘

first, you can’t try too hard. The balance you need will be there for you to fall on if you need it, but the better balance consists in doing so well you won’t need it, in speaking or writing so firmly and freely that you’re not

trying too hard. There are lots of incredible pleasures for you, the writer, pleasures which probably no reader will ever dare even suppose he could discover in your
poem. because you have to try to write the whole poem out

as if it were one thought which came at one time, were one finite vein of gold you alone had the technique to find
& dig, naturally your reader won’t know whether you took three minutes or thirty days for the poem, and thus won’t

know the one best thrill, the thrill attendant on writing
in its turn a final line needing no revision, detailed & calm.

David McAleavey’s ‘Written next to a page of Emerson’

From Talk Music

You should empower all the voices, since
what is strong enough makes a pattern of itself.
The sound of a line can make the next line easy.

Or thought can: further down you’ll find
clear streams connecting unfathomed blanks.
Deeper still are the big rivers that make

the ground quake, the air chill and quick.
The landscape is glorious even if the music is
unfamiliar. It makes the brave shiver.

Think about it: what do you care if you’re lost?
Wouldn’t you really rather hear the music? This
is after all the plot of earth where

those of us who think talk of music
can be music
talk.

Mathew Cheng’s ‘Tai O Coast’

From Recollections

Walked to the other side of the coast
to the last edge of the city.
The smell of salted shrimps
wafted by the bungalows nearby.
Bamboo baskets of many sizes
were holding dried shrimps, persimmon peels
and salted fish.
You couldn’t take the smell
and turned away.

Kids rode bikes and passed by.
One bike—
she was silent.
A few bikes—
they yelled to each other
and performed a cartoon.
The bikes
shot away.

We walked by all these
and reached the last coast.

A village hall’s dappled walls;
an unattended grocery store behind a big tree.
We walked around the corner

and there were no
bungalows. The long coastline became more visible.
We seemed to hear every word of waves
and every breath of shrimps and fish.

3pm
the sun withdraws,
the wind quickens its pace.
We walked around another corner
and there was the path less travelled by.
Bikes’ bells
were outsounded by waves splashing the dike…

You said we’re almost there.
The smell of salted shrimps was far behind, but
here’s the salted smell of the coast.
Less tree shades
and the sun shone to our faces.
Two or three egrets
scattered along the dike
neither eating nor speaking.

You said we’re almost there.
A vast coast stretched
to the horizon. You asked—
was that the Lingding Channel?
I didn’t know. I just saw

the lazy boats smoke pipes
on the sea
as if relishing the scenery
or sauntering to contemplate.
They were distant from each other;
They had their space anyway…

Time to go back.
Getting dark.
For years
you always reminisced the summer,
and the sea we saw that year.

(Translated by Chris Song)

Jonas Zdanys’ Creating the World

from Preludes After Rain

I heard something fall in the early hours today as
the wind blew on its journey in the first day of this
season, whistling through the thin branches that
huddle hard against the last trespass of winter. It was
an unexpected sound, the abrupt rattle of ghosts in
the attic returning to the earth. The minute would
not focus, the aging colors of whatever falls would
not heal, the quick ache of a heart that knows the
sky is suddenly too close sidles and bleeds. Nothing
stays. Nothing in its characteristic light. Nothing in
this moment of dispersion. The dust in the window
slowly learns its still craft, the night points elsewhere,
and I hear myself, wherever I turn, hands over my
eyes, falling in a hail of wax and feathers, far from
the sea, a ball of glory, the blood pounding, all fire
and joy, against the walls and roof of the house. I saw
eternity in the sky’s blue light, forgot the old artificer’s
warning, sang to myself, helpless and free, until the
strings of the universe stretched and broke.

Chris Song’s ‘A Prayer’

from Mirror Me

no eyes, no ears, no tongue
but thoroughly understanding the schemes of heart

He lives not in the world, yet resides rather in the left
 atrium, messing sometimes with your heartbeat. He

draws intricate murals on the walls of your heart, 
    grieving your
mind, and walks your bridge, cruising to the right

to design your desires. at times
He is a leech inside the heart

slurping up all your piety and blood. At times He
is the heart’s own shadow, endlessly expanding
until you fill with fear. He never lets you at ease, pricking you with heart

ache, despondency, angina, until you
cannot bear
His silence, and scream: God—is me!

Odveig Klyve’s The Farmer’s Pear Tree

from Let’s Take the Blue Sky by Storm

the  farmer
looks at the pear tree
 outside       	the	          window
the			old			 tree				that
 spring                 after		spring	welcomes                 birds
 they	return			resting                      their		wings 
after		            	millions		        of				miles
 they		build			nests		and			sing
about				what		they		have				seen
 the     	forests	 of				steel			and		concrete 
the			dark	                            clouds	           and			sunrises 
the		sounds	of			waves				and			 weasels 
with                sharp      claws		they            scrawl       the      songs 
into         the         bark	 of			 the	 old	tree
year		by	year
 e v e r y	m o r n i n g
t h e	f a r m e r 
s p e l l s
o u t	 t h e 
t i m e
t h a t ‘ s 
h i d d e n
 i n	a
b i r d ‘ s
a l p h a b e t

Richard Tipping‘s ‘Lord Muck’

from Instant History

Picturing England
Headlands in a fattening breeze
The fragrant country
Its dark wet soil.

This pot boiled over long ago
Oozing migrants
Threading identities
Bicycle couriers urgent as bells.

Rough winds shock blossom
petals heap pink snow
Swirl up in gusts black taxi
Smut to the gutter press.

The history winners get written by
War’s cut bloodlines of before
Lord Muck must have stamped
this tongue with claws.

Cui Yuwei’s ‘Junkman’

from Fish Bones

half-naked, trawls through garbage
every day in the neighbourhood

the last items I see
him take home after sunset

are two scraps of gold armour
the sun has forged on his shoulders