Alan Gould is an Australian poet, novelist and essayist.His seventh novel, The Lakewoman,was launched at The 2009 Melbourne Writers’ Festival, and his twelfth volume of poetry, Folk Tunes, has just been published by Salt.Among his many awards, he has won the NSW Premier’s Prize For Poetry (1981),The National Book Council Banjo Prize for Fiction (1992), The Philip Hodgins Memorial Medal For Literature, and The Grace Leven Award for his The Past Completes Me – Selected Poems 1973-2003.
Nathan Curnow’s latest collection, The Ghost Poetry Project (Puncher & Wattmann), is based upon his stays at ten haunted sites around the country. He has featured widely on ABC and with further assistance from the Australia Council is writing a new play based upon convict stories and escape myths.
for inspiration, directing my hosts with a pen’s arrow
from the signs of my splitting headache.Inside
the plane the cabin of my head is rocked by
turbulence.Great sails and anvils are bright
arctic pages, the story of a doomed expedition.
This is the lesson—do not stay with poets
the night before flying out, drinking ensues
and they just want to have sex or complain
about their rejections.I left them moaning,
friends of mine, making love like friends,
bearing all but their vocabularies, competing
in wild noises.Aren’t we all falling, our egos
packed with a plastic whistle to draw attention?
If the plane lands safely there is a rental car
waiting, some compartment I can crash in.
Another brittle booth, certain to betray me
when the impact finally comes.I am cranky
this morning, hurtling toward the chapter of
my decline.But with a pen and a pose I go
to work as if spirited by questions of ‘soul’.
I just want to get off.Go, get fucked.
We are turning into cloud.
Love Note On Serviette
Inspired by an account of the ‘prisoner’ who in 1899 threw a love poem
weighted by a stone over the wall of the Fremantle Lunatic Asylum.
my own fond love
this portion find your path
I feel myself beyond myself
am able to choose this rock
to traffic these words
put your cold on me
gazing forever upward
throw me something
I love you I love you
lavender is making sense
notice the rocks
I have practiced this
promise me yourself
I found a secret passage
beneath the Peppercorn trees
it is forbidden by the Pope
instead he blessed me
with a hole in the wall
I have imagined
that you wave
much like you throw
throw me something
be my gracious garden
your voice climbs over
a lavender ladder
do you want to
hear me breathing
I am feeling myself
the stiff sin of a sinner
the Pope is always watching
The Frame Around Us
Following my night in a ‘haunted’ hearse
again my weight on the edge of your bed,
words fall like empty shells, your ticking clock is
Pinocchio’s face, hands point to alwaysspeak the truth
my up-late brainteaser, I beg you to tell me
but your body is a ruthless mime, signalling all
that you refuse to say, scared the words will turn to flesh
a shrug of your shoulders, you are locked,
it is late, I am so tired of this coming and going,
one day I will tell you of this grand adventure, what it did
and did not achieve, these long road-trips,
a night in a hearse cocooned in my sleeping bag,
I saw shadows spill over the ceiling’s canvas, slide off
above my head, slowly at first, each one fell
the way I have become my poems, retreated to
my cluttered desk, I am disappointing to meet in person
stranded by language, designed for answers,
neat squares on a page of black, filling the boxes
with crude solutions, revising, we are grubby crosswords
down and across, the hands of your clock
trim away the night, as if time decides the rules
of the puzzle, keeps changing the frame around us
just lie down, we are safe for now,
it takes more than courage and words, waiting
to tell you of all I have seen, tonight I will not budge
Kirk Marshall is the Brisbane-born(e), Melbourne-based author of “A Solution to Economic Depression in Little Tokyo, 1953”, a 2007 Aurealis Award-nominated full-colour illustrated graphic novelette. He holds a Bachelor of Creative Industries (Creative Writing), with Distinction from the Queensland University of Technology, and a first-class Honours degree in Professional Writing from Deakin University. He has written for more than fifty publications, both in Australia and overseas, including “Going Down Swinging”, “Voiceworks”, “Word Riot” (U.S.A.) and “3:AM Magazine”. As of 2009, he is the editor of “Red Leaves”, Australia’s first (and only) English-language / Japanese bi-lingual literary journal (http://www.myspace.com/redleaveskoyo). His debut short-story collection, “Carnivalesque, And: Other Stories”, will be published by Black Rider Press in 2010.
Suite of Haiku
Electricity:
a strobing head, a cut lip
My blood gloves his fist.
They hug me once as
pillows of breath are wrestled
from my lungs: farewell.
Cities capture light
and reflect them back on streets
slick with midnight rain.
Through the winter he
watches from his register:
I greet him for smokes.
Moon suspended as
she smiles into her scarf and
replaces her phone.
Wolves whine at my door –
On the beach, they chase waves and
devour turtle eggs.
I write, knowing a
succession of dead poets
expect something grand.
He is heartbroken.
She is not. She is waiting.
He is years behind.
She lies amidst reeds:
her nude back is bruised where the
ladybirds collect.
Fog hugs the king’s legs
as he forges through bracken:
a fox turns to watch.
Omar Musa is the 2008 Australian Poetry Slam champion. A rapper and hip-hop artist, he counts amongst his experiences having swum with piranhas and alligators in Bolivia and teaching Aboriginal children in outback Australia. The Malaysian-Australian baritone has backpacked almost every continent and has a treasure-trove of stories to tell. Raised in the orange brick flats of Queanbeyan, Australia as part of an artistic family, the 25-year old says he wants to “introduce a new level of poetry to Australian hip-hop.”
Musa was a winner of the prestigious British Council’s Realise Your Dream award in 2007 and relocated to London to work in the UK hip-hop scene with grime star Akala and slam poet Jahnell. He has been played on Triple J and has recorded with J Records band 2AM Club in Los Angeles. He recorded his debut The Massive EP with veteran producer Geoff Stanfield in Seattle, USA, of whom he says “I finally felt as if I had found the perfect sound to compliment my lyrics.”
“It is a strange animal of an EP,” says Musa. “Written in London, recorded in the States by a Malaysian-Australian, it definitely has an original feel.” Navigating between underground hip-hop and mainstage performance poetry, Musa’s work is unique.
Musa’s first poetry collection The Clocks was launched at this year’s Ubud Writers’ Festival.
Brooke Linford was co-editor of Egg(Poetry) from 2002-2006. Her work has appeared in several Australian publications. Brooke currently lives in Victoria where she works in Administration and studies Italian.
Fifteen
I loved you at fifteen
days of green cordial
nights of coconut ice
you understood me
or fooled me well
we stole garden statues
drank warm beer by the river
coloured our hair for $3.50
you’re covered in scars now
I’ve heard
and I know
you could never love me
the way you did at fifteen
Motel
I’m barely here
restrained
and untouching
tucking holidays
into the gaps
with irrational insistence
can I love you more
than that
more
than any frantic grab
at poise
at calm
I can love you more
than that
screened windows
and borrowed sheets
tucked into your arm
with a $3 dinner
I don’t care what’s on
any movie
in any room
with any view
Taste
there are books spread out
a circle of love and heartache – slowly
a drop of red pools
on my top lip
I notice in the mirror how tired
my eyes are
tugging the curls from my hair
I translate
halting
using my fingers
using my tongue to taste the difference
Julie Chevalier is a Sydney poet and short story writer.Her work appears in Antipodes, BlueDog, Famous Reporter, Island, Meanjin, Overland, snorkel, and Southerly.
Women of Antiquity 2002 was joint runner-up for the Judith Wright Poetry Prize for New and Emerging Poets, 2008. A Cylinder for the Tree Trunk won the National Short Story Competition 2009 run by the Society of Women Writers NSW.
She teaches at NSW Writers’ Centre, South Coast Writers’ Centre and Sydney WEA.
Hot Momma Angels of Gangland
Waiting for my flight I spotted Hot Momma Angels of Gangland, Taboo Tattooed Chicks, Paparazzi Razor Murders and Sharks at the Bar so I ventured over to the bloke reading The Stoned Zone at the cash register and said, ‘Any big gold-embossed airport poems?’‘Poems don’t sell,’ he said.I know poets are charitable so asked, ‘Freebies?’‘Against company policy.’He clamped his lips.‘Any doorstopper short story collections then?’He tried to sell me Music for Airports but I said I’d already been there and palmed him A pantoum for foggy circling.
the fall
against his sincere-blue poly shirt the returned serviceman carries a bouquet of daisies fresh from the petrol station … he’s come to the airport to meet his new RSVP best friend … a real looker if her photo is anything to go by … he needs more than this offering to compensate for posting a fifteen year old photo…his kid brother with the bedroom-eyes…he wonders if she’ll notice his own eyes aren’t green…his gamey knee…he was only nineteen…her email about midnight tangos … she’s flying Virgin — in your dreams — and here’s a woman crossing the tarmac carrying a bunch of flowers the yellow of her faded hair…she’s hurrying toward him as fast as she can with the sole of her orthopaedic boot built up so high
Jal Nicholl’s poetry has appeared in Retort Magazine, Stylus Poetry, Famous Reporter, Quarterly Literary Review Singapore, The Diagram and Shampoo Poetry.
Prelude
Conjecture what his studies were that year:
to ride a pony led by the harness
was far the largest part of his tuition.
Conjecture how he gathered in
the blackberry harvest; through what conceit
sucking, as he went, the juice of recognition.
Conjecture it was a rented domain¾
weevils in the grain-chute, dry vats in the dairy;
still, rule at that time was by divine commission.
Dona was born in Malaysia of Sri Lankan parents. She migrated to Australia in 1981. Her work has appeared in Poetry Without Borders, Sun and Sleet Zinewest, Reunion WEA Poetry Project,Auburn Letters Zinewest, She has exhibited her artworks and design, and has a short film and a play to her credit.
Muddy River (Malaysia)
a crocodile slides through the muddy river,
sampans glide with commuters
each stroke of the paddle closer and closer to shore
mangrove trees, their branches grasp like giant octopus
dance against the muddy river banks.
the river flows swiftly gathering dead branches
rubbish, household items, timber, gliding with the tide
this river once our childhood haven of mudcrabs and fishing
shimmers in the early morning sunshine
boats tied against the docks
now bob up and down in the murky water
an old wizened man sits, smoking a cheroot
watching fascinated, reminiscing the wonders of the river
a tourist boat advertising, ‘api-api’ tour of the mangrove swamp
is getting ready with his preparations for the night tourist
a shopkeeper is wiping down the outdoor tables and chairs
while Chinese music from a radio kills the serenity of the peaceful day
its just another day on the river in Kota Tinggi of my childhood.
api-api: firefliessampan: canoe
Woomera
a ragged group of refugees
stood on a high roof waving a white sheet, like a flag-
‘freedom, freedom!’ they chanted in Persian, Dari, Urdu
Pashto an Africaan, in Indonesian and Vietnamese
some wrenched the metal bars apart
others threw blankets over the razor sharp fences,
they climbed and squeezed through
to jump and hurl themselves into the crowd and run
from the arms of the waiting police
sewing their lips in protest
on hunger strikes for several days
queue jumpers, illegals, rejectees,
they were herded like animals
easier controlled and forgotten
they were locked away, questioned, watched and punished
long months of being detained inside this barred prison
it had taken its toll
brave, desperate, lucky?
they risked all to find freedom
now stateless without a future
did they have a right for their freedom?
just because they spoke in tongues
did they have to be locked up like criminals?
there were women, children, young and old
waiting for release from a nightmare called
‘W o o m e r a’
Anne M Carson is a Melbourne writer who is most happy immersed in creative projects. She gave up social work to write, teach and produce visual art. Her prose and poetry have been featured on local and National Radio and she has curated two PoeticA programmes on Radio National. She has been published in a range of literary journals and anthologies including Best Australian Poems, 2005.
The Hearse
All around us rude life swirls.Our guests
mill in the vestibule, spill onto the footpath,
sharing grief and reminiscence.No-one notices
the hearse pull out from the curb, the lead man’s
measured pace.The air holds its breath –
an undercurrent shivers out like an eddy
stirring just a handful of leaves.It brushes
my mind, prickling.My sister notices too.
The sky like a lid on a box, lowers.Underfoot,
the bluestone is hard.Death has us in a press.
We turn in slow synchronicity, each sealed
in our own sling of sorrow.Time opens,
draws us into a pocket of pain and departure.
We watch the hearse move away with our father’s
unaccompanied body.Around us, inside us,
molecules rearrange, adjust to his dying.
Green Is The Colour
Wilson’s Prom 2009
Cloaked in convalescence, the landscape without foliage
resonates with loss.Once forest, now individual trunks
stand out, painted the black of cinder and mourning.
I know the theory – bush regenerates after fire, birds
return, rise from ashes.But the burn here is heartbreaking
hillside after hillside – stubbled with match-stick thinness,
like the poor head-hair of chemo patients.In some places
recovery is obvious.Eucalypts have put on sleeves –
pressure bandages on burns victims you hope protects them.
Elsewhere a moss poultice covers the earth, blanketing harm.
No regrowth yet in the banksia forests – sounds are broken
and brittle.Seedpods remain silent.Their mouths will open
eventually, articulate with seed.I’ll trust seeds’ eloquence,
their tumble into the waiting ashbed – kernels of thought
into earth’s imagination.Green is the colour when
the regeneration wheel turns.Shoots will appear, new ideas
nosing their way into life.Already the grass trees thrive.
From burnt beginnings, single, solid spears rear into space,
fields of lingams insisting on existence.The tale of recovery;
I want to be told it again and again, until I have it by heart.
Corfu Asklepion
Beds align on the north-south axis.
Feet face out, heads in, a corridor between
Pods where we wrap ourselves,
Compose stories of the day before sleep.
We are the stamen round which our night
Petals furl; the stem where dream fruit grows.
Like the tundra wants rain, the wound wants the dream.
Salamander flare, lapse into sleep.
Let the Asklepian dog lick your lesions
The dream serpent bite you back to health.
Unwind the petals, the linens, the wings
Over wounds in the clean wind of night.
Dream on while the Dream Master
Walks the corridor between beds,
Walks between sleep selves, bestowing dreams.
Homoeopathically, just a little dream will do.
Asklepius was the god of healing in ancient Greece. Patients visited his sanctuary, slept in the Asklepion and hoped for a healing dream. He was said to appearas a dog licking or a snake biting.
Roberta Lowing recently graduated with a Master Of Letters from the University of Sydney. Her poetry has appeared in Meanjin, Blue Dog, and Overland journals. For the past four years she has run the monthly PoetryUnLimited Press Poetry Readings and Open Mic Competitions in Sydney. In 2007, she edited PULP’s Ilumina Journal.
North
The past is only just now reaching us
and the last perfect place of exile
is another gateway to the dead
Even when we smelled the blackened hands
of the officials abandoning the capsized tanker
we kept applauding those who cut arteries of rock
and severed the ocean’s silver-scaled veins
We lived at the heart of the crystal
surrounded by ice roses and frosted fossils
we thought we could merely open another door to another north
and the devil would rush by
When the shadows appeared out of that first bruise-coloured dusk
(bird-shaped, seal-shaped) we didn’t listen to the cracking
from the battles of past winterswe didn’t realize
our black pages would never be white again
As the graveyard pools washed up on shore
our cliffs were reduced to midnight silhouettes
tendrils of shotgun smoke froze above the slumped bodies
ropes hung rigid from wooden beams in the boat houses
In other places
the land is knocked down by noisy winds
or it murmurs in resignation
as it swells into blurriness after the winter storms
Places that die every winter
are revived by the returning sun
but in Cordova Alaska
there are no new beginnings
We must stand glistening like chandeliers
crystal knots of tears on our cheeks
as the snow
falls burning on our hands
The Country Behind Us
Strangers who drove through Badourie in 1938
must have thought the war already happened:
the bomb to end all bombs had bitten into the flat plain
and hissed out a grey wind, red around the edges.
It must have been more than the sun that bleached
the splitting fences and the cattle ribs that hugged the fissures,
Kirk Marshall is the Brisbane-born(e), Melbourne-based author of “A Solution to Economic Depression in Little Tokyo, 1953”, a 2007 Aurealis Award-nominated full-colour illustrated graphic novelette. He holds a Bachelor of Creative Industries (Creative Writing), with Distinction from the Queensland University of Technology, and a first-class Honours degree in Professional Writing from Deakin University. He has written for more than fifty publications, both in Australia and overseas, including “Going Down Swinging”, “Voiceworks”, “Word Riot” (U.S.A.) and “3:AM Magazine”. As of 2009, he is the editor of “Red Leaves”, Australia’s first (and only) English-language / Japanese bi-lingual literary journal ((1).jpg)
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