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)

cradle of extinction

a cradle and a darkened glass
the moss of our extinction
hoarded here

the brush of skin and ash and hair
their fall a cry of loss
made infinitely small and rare

the tree that holds a family
comes to this
a hand-made dress
of Limerick lace

the bones of heirs
laid down to fade, to rest


Marjorie Lewis-Jones (New South Wales)

On seeing Kiama

When I reach the first glimmer of the sea
my heart sings.
Is it my sea-faring DNA welling up
or the sheer beauty of the day?

Gone from my head are concrete bollards,
road work and forty miles an hour,
cyclists pedestrians police cars,
watch for the cameras

I slow to savor the glisten, the gliding swell
the furling white, the tiny figures
surfing the lift with boards
in salt wind.

Let the road ragers toot, P-platers
overtake     This is my own moment
I am halfway home
looking at the sea.


Jennifer Dickerson (New South Wales)

She/He

She says, Dating only leads
to breakups or marriage
and you’re not fit for either.

She says, You’ve never inhaled a novel,
so you’ll never understand
why my mind stutters
Lo/Li/Ta
whenever I go down stairs.

She says, You’ll never know why
I call you Old Sport after too much gin,
or why I am so sure
the meaning of life
is forty-two.

She says, I don’t understand
physics or Schrödinger.
I hate that sexist song you sing
on the Wednesday bus into town.

She says, Let go of my hand,
stop drinking my tea.
You could never meet my parents
with your pants slung that low.

He says nothing,
just spreads jam on the crust
of her last loaf of bread,
telling bad jokes
until he picks apart her frown
and the water in the kettle goes cold.


Ashleigh Mounser (New South Wales)

Helmet

He bought a helmet for his heart
and wore it out on dates.
It protruded through his best shirts
as ladies stared at their plates.
He bought a helmet for his heart
it made it hard to breathe
He said very little to the ladies
who wondered what was beneath.
He bought a helmet for his heart
encasing it in lead.
The ladies told him quietly
a helmet is for your head.


Thilini Wickramasuriya (NSW)

Yaka Yaka

Endless troopie hours
         between craters and dunes;
there was no need to speak.
         We pull up at what’s left of a town.
He in the Wu Tang Clan gear
         and red, yellow and black bandana
shows me where his nephew hung
         himself from a playground crossbeam
after too many sniffing hours.
         Wind from battered pink plains
brings blanketing dust, heat,
         a wave of Painted Finches.


Lorne Johnson (NSW)

Lake Gregory

By the blinding
salt-pool
three brothers
fresh out of a Broome lockup
down XXXX and stare through
weed-haze
at three brolgas
beginning their
final dance.


Lorne Johnson (New South Wales)

‘XXXX’, pronounced ‘four-ex’, is an Australian brand of beer.

Concurring Currents

I wish I’d kissed you
When you asked to see my eyes

But I was transfixed
By the curl of your lips
And the scarce sincerity
In your words

I wish I’d kissed you
When I saw you that last time

But my mind was set
On the russet shade of your hands
And the curious churning
Of the world


Olivia Burgess (New South Wales)

No apology for Liz

Here lies Liz
she’s tired

Here lies Liz
she’s lazy

Here lies Liz
this is fiction

Here lies Liz
truth untenable

Here lies Liz
overworked

Here lies Liz
earning her keep

Here lies Liz
unable to get up

Here lies Liz
like roadkill

Here lies Liz
told to keep still

Here lies Liz
too scared to move

Here lies Liz
accommodating a man

Here lies Liz
in silence


Here lies Liz
a snack for wild dogs

Here lies Liz
cold and hog-tied

Here lies Liz
grisly find for joggers

Here lies Liz
aka jane doe


Here lies Liz
on an autopsy slab

Here lies Liz
not donor material

Here lies liz
In bits in bags
weighed, examined,
& here lies Liz
cut and sliced,
& here lies Liz
labelled, numbered


Here lies Liz
dead (assuming she once lived)

Here lies Liz
safer in a long box

Here lies Liz
burning again


Here lies Liz
in the
crematorium
niche

another
hole
in a
wall.


Kathryn Yuen (New South Wales)

my legato heart

the cello soars
as we glide upwards
along the road
cut deep into
sandstone cliffs

afternoon sun
warms my hand
resting
on your knee —
the rubato section

violins
float in —
we descend
the curving ridge
of mount white

the cadenza —
vibrating strings surge
we turn the last bend
your smile caresses
my legato heart


Julie Thorndyke (New South Wales)
First published in USYD student anthology

apoggiatura

on a grey day
she walks from the station
and folds her dry raincoat
onto my stool —
I will sit taller at the piano

birdlike, this examiner
doesn't sit to listen
but hovers —
turning pages and pointing out
features of the music

next time
she conducts my exam
I must play her own sonatina —
she hurries me on
to the Chopin

a song written
on the train near Ashfield
says her note
… I hope someone else
still knows the tune

metal trunks full of paper —
so many melodies
hidden away

For Miriam Hyde 1913 – 2005


Julie Thorndyke (New South Wales)
First published in Yellow Moon
Also published in Women's Work

Twenty-eight squares

Never been
much of a knitter,
but this winter, driven
by sorrow and hopelessness
I resolve to knit squares,
twenty-eight garter stitch boxes
to calm my head and occupy my hands
with yarn and needles, repetition
like a prayer wheel as I worry
about the ones I love, and at the same time
create a little bit of warmth
to offer a stranger, and hope
that my awkward stitches
will not be spurned.


Julie Thorndyke (New South Wales)

Adam's Rib

under his thumb
let him think
he has won
knit two, purl two

another day
she plays for time
he gets his way
purl two, knit two

children share
but he wants all
can she dare
knit two, purl two

ticket bought
her day has come
time to run
purl two, knit two

on the stair
the game is up
she’s missed a stitch
he’s waiting there

no time left
for casting off
she is
           unpicked


Julie Thorndyke (New South Wales)

That Undiscovered Country

Inside the pages
of every novel I ever saw you
sink into; every book whose tortured paths
I travelled, whose country lanes I meandered,
whose highways I traversed in dubious company

inside each book we read, separately,
sequentially, sometimes by recommendation
sometimes serendipity, we entered
undiscovered countries

of time, place, plot and character,
meeting old friends and new, finding
soul mates, escaping villains, hoping
for a final verdict that would dispense
justice with a masterly hand.

We met ourselves there.

I do not fear for you, my friend,
gone ahead into that last undiscovered country,
the book cover closed forever
behind you.


Julie Thorndyke (New South Wales)

it is Gone

…it always was. The mirror
conceals her body. The tree
won’t cover her limbs. The sun
refuses to hide her tears. The roots

shadow her body. The tree
when she begs, it begins to run;
refuses to hide her tears. The roots
and dandelions growing feral

when she begs, it begins to run;
towards icicles wrapped in fire
and dandelions growing feral
in the darkness. It sprouts free,

towards icicles wrapped in fire
it festers, only daylight calming
the cloudburst, until the sun sets
and nothing is old because…


Chloe Higgins (New South Wales)

Eternal Return

the man says it isn’t like that
the woman says it is
the man says it isn’t like that
the woman says it is
the man says
the woman says
the man
the woman
he enters
she envelopes
they are one

they slide apart
the man says it isn’t like that
the woman says…


Richard James Allen (New South Wales)

Zero on the morning fug

In the pink of the Mormon,
he stole his soul away from
Garhd.        It was like
so derogating.
Forget it. Breaking
round the wrong door those
freaky mosquito things
        bouncing.
Where’s the shoe addict?
Walking through so many
gardens the wrong way

wasted on the goo fumes.
He was from the free falcon’s
feces.        Cheap grief for
the brokeridge.
Overwhelming? The sheets
smell finer than linoleum
kept in the sun to etch
        away.
Whole in the blind window,
leaking on the run, he’s kept
in the way of hopeless.

Then the sky called salmon
asked for the old craze days.
Wanton.        Peace locks and
jacaranda.
Cutting teeth to fade
sinking in the illustrious ticking.
        Unless
he’s blown away across the tree
tops and the spiral stops his moss.


David Graham (New South Wales)