Poems

‘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.
‘Maybe’
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

‘In Lithuania’ by Jean Kent Read More »

“Night War” by Lou Smith from Riversalt

I can hear them
like Formula One cars
on a track around my head
and on my skin the flame
of contusions like tyres
exploding on tarmac.
My left eyelid has swollen
I’ve been sucker punched
during the night-long battle.
I’m a sore loser.
I introduce aids– 
mosquito coils, aromatherapy candles,
citronella oil, the air conditioner–
but they always win.
Welts on my limbs
from bites or scratching,
mosquitoes in the bedclothes–
now that’s just cheating!
I cover my face with the bedspread
my arm out as an offering

“Night War” by Lou Smith from Riversalt Read More »

What the river told me by Jane Skelton

‘Broomstick Orchestra’ by Jane Skelton

along the lake’s edge
our burnt limbs scratch at the sky
rapping in the wind −
gentle ratapan, a screek
a soft scrunching of paper
as it passed through us
we could only receive it −
dreaming of water
arms upraised in frozen dance
amid the whirlwind of fire
our spectral voices
sing the conflagration
mimic the crackling
as the wind brings the burnt reek
the acrid recall of pain
waves unburied our song
our creaking cacophony
roots deep in midden
sand falls from shell, bone, graveyards
old feasts uncovered, old fires
fishing boats glide past
seabirds, on indifferent trails
we cry from the dunes
our terrible scribble is
crazing the ruffled water
the wash slaps our dune
our every wounding, a sound
the lake whispers back
its silky repetition
new growth creeps forward
our song is nearly over
twine us in green strength

‘Broomstick Orchestra’ by Jane Skelton Read More »

The leaving by Brian Purcell

‘The Light Will not Enter’ by Brian Purcell

the light will not enter
any crack in my body
although there are many –
numberless each day
nor can it reach
the mind’s dark confusion –
would illuminate nothing
only despair
nothing I ingest
will make any difference
the scales of the fish
are dull in the air
and my hands
become stone
cementing the cracks –
my old beliefs
are today’s uncertainties –
and everything resolved
each tiny victory
is undone tomorrow
when I walk in the cold –
but this is what I wanted
no easy solutions
picket-fence gold
the love of women
with interchangeable faces –
I wanted one love
one passion and truth
and if it burnt out
on a high summer night
this was a truth
that held its own light

‘The Light Will not Enter’ by Brian Purcell Read More »

Alex Skovron’s ‘Narcissus’

In the end, of course, he got married
to himself. A civil ceremony, nothing too glib, a friend
or two, a reporter from The Mirror, the odd flame
from the past, a waiter with icy water:
his watery parents, a little perplexed, looking around,
confused because no engagement had been announced.

The celebrant was vague, her words left an eerie
echo, she quickly left. Nobody spoke. At last, he escorted
himself into the Bridal Suite: nervous, a little beery,
he sat there blushing on the edge of a single bed.

Alex Skovron’s ‘Narcissus’ Read More »

local by Anna Couani

‘Ideas for Novels 7’ by Anna Couani

Sydney gives you space to breathe
with its up and down hills
and huge liquid ambers

skinny peninsulas
deep deep harbour

anonymity
lost in the crowd

trams that live on
in Australian novels

my generations
in the inner city

a blessing
a curse

the city as it is lived

the Greek kids
four brothers
who built canoes
from corrugated iron
and tar
to sink like a stone
in Rose Bay

the glittering church windows
of John Radecki
Polish great grandpa
nestling like forgotten jewels
in corners of the city
only discovered by us atheists
fifty years later

Mum and Dad snapped in Lee Street
just as it is today
with the old stone wall
the steep slate roof
looking like Ingrid Bergman and Gregory Peck
in Spellbound
especially as they were doctors
and the shot was in black and white
the excitement of the CBD
all of us walking those streets
different feet
different decades
across 140 years

Uncle Con’s café in George Street
long and narrow
and Con, ex-army cook
frantic at the grill
way down inside
how did he stop customers
from running off without paying?

John Radecki’s stained glass factory
in Dixon Street
near today’s Food World food court
when the buildings were entirely blackened
and grandma toiling to keep it afloat
struggling with her heart condition
and her proud husband

Uncles George and Con
later on
with the fruit barrow
horse-drawn
just outside
the old Anthony Hordern’s building
spinning those paper bags
carrying change in those leather aprons

Auntie Nellie in the Oceanic Café
for 65 years
on the other side of Central Station
Mum on the till
pregnant with me
strange she was taking time off her own work
and 10 years later was working just up the hill

those Poles and those Greeks
the place more like an American city
for us
seemed like we were in the wrong movie

‘Ideas for Novels 7’ by Anna Couani Read More »

‘If On a Winter’s Night a Joey’ by Morgan Bell

a roadside body was found lifeless
there was a joey in the pouch
the ditch of cold June’s mourning
teased into, the outside world
life is full of second chances
the boy was covered in short hair
when you name a joey Mason
his crafty antics will endear
Mason nudged his hatch door open
took a scooter as his prize
precariously, he was balanced
with adventure in his eyes
he scamper round the yard
gripped to the handlebars
Mason rode-free on his scooter for a while
branching out from filming antics
from growing in a silent room
Mason aced the world’s audition but
his credits played too soon
Mason rode-free on his scooter for a while

‘If On a Winter’s Night a Joey’ by Morgan Bell Read More »