I have decided that five years publishing Uneven Floor is enough, so I shan't be publishing anything more. But there's plenty here to read — 350 poems and related artworks. Thanks to all the poets who have contributed — and to all the readers, especially those who have helped spread the word.
Jackson (Editor)
An independent poetry journal. Watch your step.
2018/02/21
My Journey
Three days of hiking with only bottled water
is penance enough for one lifetime,
the path littered with opera and breath-beats,
the sarcasm of the bullfrog, the yelp of red fox.
Every night enough stars shoot across the sky
to grant every wish for a hundred years of wishing,
every aspiration, every melody, every quarter note.
Sweat streams puddle down the corridor of my back,
my ears open into mouths, my tongue catches sound on its tip.
Near the end of the trail, resting, every goodness within me,
within my back, my hands, my blistered feet, my muscles,
everything thyme, sage, peach water, an essence of Aradia.
In the end I did not enter the shiny box of darkness.
I dyed my hair instead, removed my teeth,
fell back in love.
That was what was written on the exit sign
at the beginning of the trail
leading back home.
Michael H. Brownstein (USA)
is penance enough for one lifetime,
the path littered with opera and breath-beats,
the sarcasm of the bullfrog, the yelp of red fox.
Every night enough stars shoot across the sky
to grant every wish for a hundred years of wishing,
every aspiration, every melody, every quarter note.
Sweat streams puddle down the corridor of my back,
my ears open into mouths, my tongue catches sound on its tip.
Near the end of the trail, resting, every goodness within me,
within my back, my hands, my blistered feet, my muscles,
everything thyme, sage, peach water, an essence of Aradia.
In the end I did not enter the shiny box of darkness.
I dyed my hair instead, removed my teeth,
fell back in love.
That was what was written on the exit sign
at the beginning of the trail
leading back home.
Michael H. Brownstein (USA)
south australia
is mauve flowers on quartz red sand spinifex ringworms of new growth outside my Father’s town blown tyres dead 'roo lies prostrate gestures at nowhere in his harsh light green saltbush grey parallels a road edge along a childhood flash the EK Holden the smell of heat the first long shimmer of mirage / above
Brown Falcons circle patiently awaiting the feast their timeless gaze fixed there again the town arrives sudden from nothing corrugated iron roof brown bottle garden of sand and blue blue house blue sky blue water blue gulf hills lizard thick shingle smooth blue your clawed feet splayed underbelly lies low and warming close to female earth dark faces compact memory cool water tank shades a past of silence of us and them those parks we must not play not ever again Aunty said / red sand
creeps slowly over skin folds of a flesh crevasse verandah lattice screens canvas cool painted porch doors shut out ovens of desert white heat first taste of orange blossom smells and dust and flies and language and you old lady
Elanna Herbert (New South Wales)
Brown Falcons circle patiently awaiting the feast their timeless gaze fixed there again the town arrives sudden from nothing corrugated iron roof brown bottle garden of sand and blue blue house blue sky blue water blue gulf hills lizard thick shingle smooth blue your clawed feet splayed underbelly lies low and warming close to female earth dark faces compact memory cool water tank shades a past of silence of us and them those parks we must not play not ever again Aunty said / red sand
creeps slowly over skin folds of a flesh crevasse verandah lattice screens canvas cool painted porch doors shut out ovens of desert white heat first taste of orange blossom smells and dust and flies and language and you old lady
Elanna Herbert (New South Wales)
A Beetle and a Flower
(For my mother)
Yesterday,
a beetle crossed my road —
lapis lazuli and red on black.
I watched it crawl,
so slow that twenty years crashed
as tyres crunched the asphalt all around
and sunlight draped the paddock
where you cup your pride —
an orchid, tender-stemmed,
with red veins running to pools of blue —
in hands cracked by years
scrubbing old men’s pans,
wiping lips purpled by death’s advance.
It made it to the other side, the beetle,
and, in the shadow of a leaf,
became a dark thing
burrowing into days of greying hair
and dimming eyes,
and the trembling hearts of flowers
fenced round from grazing sheep.
Peter Burges (Western Australia)
Yesterday,
a beetle crossed my road —
lapis lazuli and red on black.
I watched it crawl,
so slow that twenty years crashed
as tyres crunched the asphalt all around
and sunlight draped the paddock
where you cup your pride —
an orchid, tender-stemmed,
with red veins running to pools of blue —
in hands cracked by years
scrubbing old men’s pans,
wiping lips purpled by death’s advance.
It made it to the other side, the beetle,
and, in the shadow of a leaf,
became a dark thing
burrowing into days of greying hair
and dimming eyes,
and the trembling hearts of flowers
fenced round from grazing sheep.
Peter Burges (Western Australia)
2018/02/07
generational stillness
it’s one of those centre-strip
wishing wells
surrounded by lawns in increments of neat,
neater, neatest
with nice old trees too, their bark gnarled
as if waiting for the pencil
of a still-life student
but when I lean over
it’s just typical small-town grimness
with cigarette butts
half a foot deep
locked in that generational stillness,
grey water
strangling every dream
and it’s all the way across town
but I swear
that the graveyard
has sent its hoar-frost here to roost,
I can almost taste the down-payment it’s made
on every kid I used to teach
how far the stars seem now
from the grill of a fast-food sweat shop
or the single-hinge backdoor
after daddy-o
puts in another nomination for shitbag of the year
and I’m supposed to impress upon them
the everlasting importance
of proper essay structure?
on the way home I slaughter a thousand bugs
with my windscreen
and somehow it feels hopelessly right.
Ashley Capes (Victoria)
wishing wells
surrounded by lawns in increments of neat,
neater, neatest
with nice old trees too, their bark gnarled
as if waiting for the pencil
of a still-life student
but when I lean over
it’s just typical small-town grimness
with cigarette butts
half a foot deep
locked in that generational stillness,
grey water
strangling every dream
and it’s all the way across town
but I swear
that the graveyard
has sent its hoar-frost here to roost,
I can almost taste the down-payment it’s made
on every kid I used to teach
how far the stars seem now
from the grill of a fast-food sweat shop
or the single-hinge backdoor
after daddy-o
puts in another nomination for shitbag of the year
and I’m supposed to impress upon them
the everlasting importance
of proper essay structure?
on the way home I slaughter a thousand bugs
with my windscreen
and somehow it feels hopelessly right.
Ashley Capes (Victoria)
2017/12/20
Gentle Lives
Your letter came, Irene
It rose up through the thorning patch
And flowered Robert's grave
I — know you spoke proud
I saw the name of your son
I ache when careful words
come, Irene
Your husband's here, Irene
When wardens cleared his tulips off
You drove a bramble deep
You sing to him still
You — held for twenty-five years
You found the strength to wait
here, Irene
Your colour left, Irene
I crawled beneath the airing shelf
And wishing to be found
I whispered your name
I hide behind a Daniel
I — crush when gentle lives
leave, Irene
Daniel Hutley (Victoria)
It rose up through the thorning patch
And flowered Robert's grave
I — know you spoke proud
I saw the name of your son
I ache when careful words
come, Irene
Your husband's here, Irene
When wardens cleared his tulips off
You drove a bramble deep
You sing to him still
You — held for twenty-five years
You found the strength to wait
here, Irene
Your colour left, Irene
I crawled beneath the airing shelf
And wishing to be found
I whispered your name
I hide behind a Daniel
I — crush when gentle lives
leave, Irene
Daniel Hutley (Victoria)
2017/12/14
Our Tree
(For my brother Michael and my sister Margaret)
Our tree, lissom, muscular,
Stood forever tall against wind and rain,
Shading against intrusive suns.
Only the time-blind Moonbone
Sees the ants gnawing its guts,
Its fall, long as shame.
Naked in the dust of passers-by,
It and the sheep it killed
Grow grey together
Until Half-Eye’s quickening
Transforms worm etchings
Into airy silver chimes.
Peter Burges (Western Australia)
Our tree, lissom, muscular,
Stood forever tall against wind and rain,
Shading against intrusive suns.
Only the time-blind Moonbone
Sees the ants gnawing its guts,
Its fall, long as shame.
Naked in the dust of passers-by,
It and the sheep it killed
Grow grey together
Until Half-Eye’s quickening
Transforms worm etchings
Into airy silver chimes.
Peter Burges (Western Australia)
Don't Load Me Now
I looked into her deep brown eyes
tears rolled dark within
a scent of pasture
sweet upon her breath
mood welling
pity stumbling
I looked into her deep brown eyes
love is a word
legs are for standing
ears are for tagging
don't leave me now
don't count me now
don't load me now
eyes are for crying
I looked into her deep brown eyes
I hugged her crying
I wept her crying
a stench of bbq
chuck brisket t bone eye fillet
eyes are for crying
ribs are for holding
air is for breathing
cheeks are for eating
tail is for swishing
flies are for dying
eyes are for crying
don't eat me now
cow is for being
cow is for mooing
cow is for grazing
cow is for eating
eyes are for crying
Allan Padgett (Western Australia)
tears rolled dark within
a scent of pasture
sweet upon her breath
mood welling
pity stumbling
I looked into her deep brown eyes
love is a word
legs are for standing
ears are for tagging
don't leave me now
don't count me now
don't load me now
eyes are for crying
I looked into her deep brown eyes
I hugged her crying
I wept her crying
a stench of bbq
chuck brisket t bone eye fillet
eyes are for crying
ribs are for holding
air is for breathing
cheeks are for eating
tail is for swishing
flies are for dying
eyes are for crying
don't eat me now
cow is for being
cow is for mooing
cow is for grazing
cow is for eating
eyes are for crying
Allan Padgett (Western Australia)
2017/12/06
St Edmunds
I have washed downstairs in
a cold, functional corridor — the wash block.
And now I am permitted to walk around with only a jacket
to cover the nakedness of my chest.
Soon, I will know that tiny moment when the body is confused between pain and ecstasy.
I have been talking or eating
in those areas where talking and eating are offences punishable by caning.
I watch from a distance I have discovered inside myself.
At night,
the Devil walks the corridors of this place,
A huge black insect
given substance from the sweated essence
of each boy’s secret anguish.
He is looking for
someone whose eyes will widen at His darkness.
Some boy who is still small, not yet cold and closed.
He will lie on top of the young body, sucking into himself.
While the boy tries,
until the last moment, to hold his mouth up where the air is.
In the morning,
the bell will sound loudly
next to any sleeping heads that have not already been called to prayer
and we will pretend not to notice the empty bed.
Jim Conwell (UK)
a cold, functional corridor — the wash block.
And now I am permitted to walk around with only a jacket
to cover the nakedness of my chest.
Soon, I will know that tiny moment when the body is confused between pain and ecstasy.
I have been talking or eating
in those areas where talking and eating are offences punishable by caning.
I watch from a distance I have discovered inside myself.
At night,
the Devil walks the corridors of this place,
A huge black insect
given substance from the sweated essence
of each boy’s secret anguish.
He is looking for
someone whose eyes will widen at His darkness.
Some boy who is still small, not yet cold and closed.
He will lie on top of the young body, sucking into himself.
While the boy tries,
until the last moment, to hold his mouth up where the air is.
In the morning,
the bell will sound loudly
next to any sleeping heads that have not already been called to prayer
and we will pretend not to notice the empty bed.
Jim Conwell (UK)
2017/11/29
the kiss
You find me in the secret place, that corner of
Rodin’s woods where his statues begin to thin,
forlorn in a sparseness of tourists who never
stray from the path or their first language,
where I’ve begun to wonder if I’m visitor
or visited, the wax heartbeat of a hot day.
You drag me to the shade where we hide from
the curator, wait for her to chain the gates,
lock us up in some out-of-hours limbic limbo,
insisting I’m a real boy: that an original rhythm
still thumps in me. — there’s room for two more here,
is what you said — already our skin peeling,
unfurling around ankles, discovering each
other’s earth.
The last light meets an unfettered moment, burns out
on our Balzac bodies, verdigris busy on new bronze.
Miguel Jacq (Victoria)
Rodin’s woods where his statues begin to thin,
forlorn in a sparseness of tourists who never
stray from the path or their first language,
where I’ve begun to wonder if I’m visitor
or visited, the wax heartbeat of a hot day.
You drag me to the shade where we hide from
the curator, wait for her to chain the gates,
lock us up in some out-of-hours limbic limbo,
insisting I’m a real boy: that an original rhythm
still thumps in me. — there’s room for two more here,
is what you said — already our skin peeling,
unfurling around ankles, discovering each
other’s earth.
The last light meets an unfettered moment, burns out
on our Balzac bodies, verdigris busy on new bronze.
Miguel Jacq (Victoria)
2017/11/22
Where do you go?
Where do you go at night?
Do you wonder where I go? Whether I am really here?
Yesterday I rode the train but wasn't really there at all.
Years before I took a boat but all I know is that I did not drown.
Where do we go, if we go anywhere at all?
I know where I want to go, where I have been.
Why can I not tell you where I am now?
I roll into you. You roll away
into another
space between us.
Leila Rahimtulla (Western Australia)
Do you wonder where I go? Whether I am really here?
Yesterday I rode the train but wasn't really there at all.
Years before I took a boat but all I know is that I did not drown.
Where do we go, if we go anywhere at all?
I know where I want to go, where I have been.
Why can I not tell you where I am now?
I roll into you. You roll away
into another
space between us.
Leila Rahimtulla (Western Australia)
Bad Faith
Most often I spot them way off in the distance:
something in the gait and the weight of their symptoms
is bearing the stamp of repeat prescriptions.
Alarm bells screech, I turn on a sixpence
to cross roads inventing a previous engagement,
catch a flower arrangement, bend to tie laces,
bury my head in shop windows replete
with cheap trinkets. I tread light on my feet
for dejected spirits make cock-crow visits
and patches of ice combine with the rain
to throw me off-balance; I clutch at displacement
before facing ex-patients again.
Or maybe my elbow shudders at fingers
as a “Hello, stranger!” wraps round my shoulder.
I spin to a name that I can’t remember;
a drug, diagnosis or simply disorder.
The furrowed flesh of distress and despond;
their failure to bond and exasperation
with trial separations from errant husbands,
the scars and bruises borne by the infants;
a rooted abhorrence roared at the parents.
I am emptied of empathic slaps on the back —
all my unconditional regard is packed
into yellow plastic bags for waste disposal
alongside the attire of the non-judgemental.
What’s once contemplated can’t be unthought;
they take me at face value; I sell them short.
Raymond Miller (UK)
something in the gait and the weight of their symptoms
is bearing the stamp of repeat prescriptions.
Alarm bells screech, I turn on a sixpence
to cross roads inventing a previous engagement,
catch a flower arrangement, bend to tie laces,
bury my head in shop windows replete
with cheap trinkets. I tread light on my feet
for dejected spirits make cock-crow visits
and patches of ice combine with the rain
to throw me off-balance; I clutch at displacement
before facing ex-patients again.
Or maybe my elbow shudders at fingers
as a “Hello, stranger!” wraps round my shoulder.
I spin to a name that I can’t remember;
a drug, diagnosis or simply disorder.
The furrowed flesh of distress and despond;
their failure to bond and exasperation
with trial separations from errant husbands,
the scars and bruises borne by the infants;
a rooted abhorrence roared at the parents.
I am emptied of empathic slaps on the back —
all my unconditional regard is packed
into yellow plastic bags for waste disposal
alongside the attire of the non-judgemental.
What’s once contemplated can’t be unthought;
they take me at face value; I sell them short.
Raymond Miller (UK)
2017/11/15
Orahovac poem
The man from Glasgow, surprisingly dull
and quick, like a sunshine of partial cloud,
stops near us and asks “These people, Serbs —”
We say they are Croats. It's not the same
to them. Take care. Think Scotland and England.
“Bugger that,” he says. “Do they have liquor?
Good stuff. Liqueurs and that?”. And we say Yes.
We are drinking Orahovac. Walnut.
We've had two litres in the last ten days.
We were surprised when we counted it. It is
delicious. He practices the name with us
and smiles: “Right then,” he says, walking off,
leaving his wife to speak apologies
and say that she prefers a glass of wine.
He returns with a brown bag: “Is this the one?”.
We say it is. “Right then.” He pulls the cork
and swigs a large mouthful; holds it; grimaces;
turns sideways to us and spits everything
on to the piazza. “Jesus Christ! That's bad.
What's that?” We say it's walnuts. “Is it now?
Nuts? I hate the bloody things. You have it.”
He pushes me bottle and top; and strides
towards the hotel bar, his wife following.
Lawrence Upton (UK)
and quick, like a sunshine of partial cloud,
stops near us and asks “These people, Serbs —”
We say they are Croats. It's not the same
to them. Take care. Think Scotland and England.
“Bugger that,” he says. “Do they have liquor?
Good stuff. Liqueurs and that?”. And we say Yes.
We are drinking Orahovac. Walnut.
We've had two litres in the last ten days.
We were surprised when we counted it. It is
delicious. He practices the name with us
and smiles: “Right then,” he says, walking off,
leaving his wife to speak apologies
and say that she prefers a glass of wine.
He returns with a brown bag: “Is this the one?”.
We say it is. “Right then.” He pulls the cork
and swigs a large mouthful; holds it; grimaces;
turns sideways to us and spits everything
on to the piazza. “Jesus Christ! That's bad.
What's that?” We say it's walnuts. “Is it now?
Nuts? I hate the bloody things. You have it.”
He pushes me bottle and top; and strides
towards the hotel bar, his wife following.
Lawrence Upton (UK)
2017/11/01
Trust
I went to another dead end town
just to be somewhere else.
It was quiet
a few women in shops smiled at me
and i even got adventurous in Nando's
ordered something different.
There was a table in front of mine
about 10 young men on it
and time after time the girl came up with food and shouted it out
but they couldn't remember what they ordered
and some took other people's food.
Eventually they got it all.
As i was about to get up for a drink
one of the men got up
He was carrying his plate of chips
but as i got up behind him
he went for a drink
I thought he was going to put some sauce on his chips
but he didn't he just went back to the table
with his drink and plate of chips
I guess he didn't trust the blokes at his table
I can't blame him
sometimes it is hard to trust
Marc Carver (UK)
just to be somewhere else.
It was quiet
a few women in shops smiled at me
and i even got adventurous in Nando's
ordered something different.
There was a table in front of mine
about 10 young men on it
and time after time the girl came up with food and shouted it out
but they couldn't remember what they ordered
and some took other people's food.
Eventually they got it all.
As i was about to get up for a drink
one of the men got up
He was carrying his plate of chips
but as i got up behind him
he went for a drink
I thought he was going to put some sauce on his chips
but he didn't he just went back to the table
with his drink and plate of chips
I guess he didn't trust the blokes at his table
I can't blame him
sometimes it is hard to trust
Marc Carver (UK)
2017/10/11
Sentiment
It’s your bad handwriting
I like to look at,
your giant hands,
sharp stubble,
the grey in your hair,
the lines on your face,
jagged finger nails,
you picking food from your teeth.
I don’t want you to catch me
there
looking. I’m too afraid I’ll annoy you
by saying the wrong thing.
But I'll always be right there.
Unless the cat walks in.
Gayle Richardson (UK)
I like to look at,
your giant hands,
sharp stubble,
the grey in your hair,
the lines on your face,
jagged finger nails,
you picking food from your teeth.
I don’t want you to catch me
there
looking. I’m too afraid I’ll annoy you
by saying the wrong thing.
But I'll always be right there.
Unless the cat walks in.
Gayle Richardson (UK)
Hoarder
When I asked my brain to stop playing games with me
it made my eyes roll so far back
I could see flashes of where all the self-punishment began.
I felt so stupid the moment I realised —
It wasn’t my brain on a mission to destroy me.
It was just all that junk I chose to hoard up there.
Gayle Richardson (UK)
it made my eyes roll so far back
I could see flashes of where all the self-punishment began.
I felt so stupid the moment I realised —
It wasn’t my brain on a mission to destroy me.
It was just all that junk I chose to hoard up there.
Gayle Richardson (UK)
2017/09/14
before dawn
he wants her in the
morning
before the bird chorus
and the idea of daily news
breath like silk
cheeks flushed
body warm from the river of
dreams running through
her
he wants her in the
river
hair spooling out in rings
wild bracken water
nuzzling her skin
mossed wet rocks she climbs
to dry off
he wants her on the
rock
flesh open to the sun
skin turning in the
golden light
eyes closed and flickering
remembering her dreams
Kathryn Lyster (Australia)
morning
before the bird chorus
and the idea of daily news
breath like silk
cheeks flushed
body warm from the river of
dreams running through
her
he wants her in the
river
hair spooling out in rings
wild bracken water
nuzzling her skin
mossed wet rocks she climbs
to dry off
he wants her on the
rock
flesh open to the sun
skin turning in the
golden light
eyes closed and flickering
remembering her dreams
Kathryn Lyster (Australia)
2017/09/06
Utensil
They forgot to make me a boy. I was born and everything. Smelted in the forge. I’ve got a good bowl. Weighty handle. But they made me a not-boy. I know I’m a boy. I can feel my cock. Or perhaps it is the stirring of power tools. How can I prove my boyness to you? Or should I proclaim to be a man by now? I do not count age by years but soups. I know I am a man because I do not want to be a woman. Must find a beard. Waiter there’s a hair in my soup. I want to fuck things. I’m always hard as stainless steel. Maker’s mark stamped on my spine. I want to fuck things up.
Monica Carroll (Australian Capital Territory)
Monica's new book from Recent Work Press
Monica Carroll (Australian Capital Territory)
Monica's new book from Recent Work Press
2017/08/31
I knew
I knew the woman who
walked into the river that winter
it took three days to find her
bundled like a sleeping swan
in the frost-sharpened reeds
I was a child in those days
even mud-heavy emptiness
was something to make into a song
practised silently over tea
before going out to play
the new game of Drop Down Dead.
Andrew Turner (UK)
walked into the river that winter
it took three days to find her
bundled like a sleeping swan
in the frost-sharpened reeds
I was a child in those days
even mud-heavy emptiness
was something to make into a song
practised silently over tea
before going out to play
the new game of Drop Down Dead.
Andrew Turner (UK)
Whatever Happened to Infinity
They call me Nowhere; a non-place
known, at least, to non-people —
They think. But a where cannot
not exist and be a non-position.
Thus logic wins its arm-wrestle
with the Theys and the question.
And I might have a brother nowhere.
Let’s not stop at two. Everywhere
that isn’t somewhere’s nowhere, Brother:
on my right — nowheres in the noughts,
on my other — legion. Simple addition.
Cheers for Nowhere the mathematician.
I’m in love with Anywhere, leader of vague;
queen of can’t-pin-me-down-ness, blipped
into the gap between somewhere and yonder;
my lover, lost wanderer — Anywhere;
unseen but known to be somewhere;
alluring in her wherever.
Then omnipotent Everywhere, god of where-ness
king of location, in every corner
of planets and space. E.W. — slang for Universe.
But he’s only position and place-ness. Our cousins,
Thing-ness and When-ness, each harbour
their deities — Everything, All and Eternity.
E A M Harris (England)
known, at least, to non-people —
They think. But a where cannot
not exist and be a non-position.
Thus logic wins its arm-wrestle
with the Theys and the question.
And I might have a brother nowhere.
Let’s not stop at two. Everywhere
that isn’t somewhere’s nowhere, Brother:
on my right — nowheres in the noughts,
on my other — legion. Simple addition.
Cheers for Nowhere the mathematician.
I’m in love with Anywhere, leader of vague;
queen of can’t-pin-me-down-ness, blipped
into the gap between somewhere and yonder;
my lover, lost wanderer — Anywhere;
unseen but known to be somewhere;
alluring in her wherever.
Then omnipotent Everywhere, god of where-ness
king of location, in every corner
of planets and space. E.W. — slang for Universe.
But he’s only position and place-ness. Our cousins,
Thing-ness and When-ness, each harbour
their deities — Everything, All and Eternity.
E A M Harris (England)
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