from A Chance of Seasons
there are stairs to take
and steps to consider, after all
the slender things we are
stars can wait a little longer
distance must be reached
love is met on the landing
(a demon black cat flashes
past, between our future legs)
we recognize each other
one going up the other down
we hardly have time to speak
platitudes of stairs and star
a bad day ahead of us or behind
a meeting later, always later
Rob Shackne’s ‘Stella Fugio’ Read More »
from chalk borders
a lap for children
cover for bruised knees
pocket for safety pins
flower cuttings
catcher of stains and tears
patchwork gala of pain
where the peels curled
you fronted up for work
fronted up for work
the tie tightened
hand behind
thread
finger knot
here where I hid my face
Sarah St Vincent Welch’s ‘apron’ Read More »
from The Party of Life
And those wet white clouds
are like an endless soft bed
where I could lose myself with you
and we could plough
like two fish
to the horizon
Beth Spencer’s ‘Flying over the Great Australian Bight’ Read More »
from Seem
for six months
after he died
she made a fire
the flame
lit her eyes
like he had
the warmth
hugged her bones
like he had
the smoke
made her laugh
like he had
for six months
after he died
she made a fire
‘Sad’ by Alan Jefferies Read More »
My parents know me better than I know myself. Someone who learned the hard way. I learned much later in life. Yaya wrung the neck of the hen then chopped off its head. Did a headless dash. Our bloodied driveway. Never met anyone so fascinated with rust, who took me to warehouses, cemeteries and shipping yards. We hurled stones in La RIve Gauche. All that hard work was framed and hidden underneath the bed, where it could no longer be seen. Discontinued my studies. Removed my designation. Left my scribble in his postbox where it remained unread. Walis tingting. He wouldn’t sit in the cinema after the movie had begun. I re-watched Tan Lines isolated in spirit. He never forgot my face but couldn’t remember my name.
from Harold Legaspi’s Chapter Ten in Letters in Language Read More »
from Exhibit
Cliff wind has a particular
whistling sound like a gas bottle
released a quarter turn –
gulls tumble in its slipstream
wallabies are fastened to
the grass by their ears.
Here on the high side
we squint the miles of absolute blue
and watch the white knots of diving birds
unraveling to stitch the sea.
In this ritual of circles
the trees are intertwined. The tracks
we tread, dreadlocks on a leviathan’s head.
Below is the spiral heart of palms
and grass trees growing crooked spears.
And lower still, beneath the waves
the constant swirling helix of blue blood
whooshing through a vein.
‘Cliff Walk’ by Judy Johnson Read More »
Michael Brennan’s
from the earth here
She was talking about a field,
a field empty with the sky.
We had seen it a thousand times,
never the same.
She said she would go there
and lie under the blue sky
and sink into the ground
while looking at the sky.
She said it was like sinking
into the sky when she did it.
She felt the sky hold her close,
ease in through each of her pores.
It was much later then,
the happiness never left me,
her words coming back
warm upon my face.
‘Earth or sky’ by Michael Brennan Read More »
from ‘Traversal’ in Matt Turner’s WAVE 9: COLLAGES
another brutal
entrance
*
better love, the
wheel: the
house is pulled out of
the fame
*
fluently,
an image
dark glimmer, un-
substantial
*
the great
built
universe, library
an institution whereby
the future itself is
its object, is
just
‘figurative speech’ by Matt Turner Read More »
From Far and Wide
I want to move on
from the middle of this nowhere
to other eyes, hands, lips.
But I also want to stay,
muddy the waters,
make it seem like there is more
there.
Make you wonder
where I was last weekend,
who I did last night; search
my body for hints,
look to it for validation
of your relevance. Dig deep
for the foundation of us.
‘Unresolved’ by Irina Frolova Read More »
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
‘hurricane’ by Jane Skelton Read More »