Peter Dawncy

Peter Dawncy lives in the Dandenong Ranges east of Melbourne. He has an Arts Degree with majors in English and Philosophy from Monash University and is currently completing Honours in poetry writing. For his thesis, Peter is undertaking a study of Philip Hammial’s poetry through Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari. He hopes to begin his PhD next year. Peter has had poetry and fiction published in various Australian journals and magazines, and in 2010 he was the winner of the Monash Poetry Prize and came second in the Monash fiction-writing competition. His play, The Logue of Thomas P. T. Lawrence, was performed at the Arts Centre in June 2010.



    satellites coalesce  /  fold 
                                  the corners to the
          belt above
                               triangles as
                                                    squid jigs 
                      at the jetty’s end
                                in fluorescence by
            the dried 
        white-bait clumps 
                             snapper  catch
                                     gloves welcome
                                  container ships with
               for salt meets sky
                        Melbourne woven in it 
                                    Eureka deep green
                          iceberg siege
              seen from afar
            by the 
        research vessel en route
                         to the Antarctic snowfields



      over floodwater



      smooth,    wet pavement

                     over stars




      as monkeys march

              to flightless geese



      pour   further


                    wide and windless


           a fleece

                    bobs by





                hauling in    mulloway—



                       a picture


            and somewhere


                  a frame   discards

                              its portrait


       and searches for a 

                     foreign landscape.


              for now, moonlight

                    skewers   a dog’s nose,


                 bogong moths whirl,


             a shadow

         opens the door,   sneezes,

                           closes the door—


           tap shoes

      seem too polished

                     for a winter worn





autumn storm

spiralling tongues
twirl, slash the billowing
gun-powder  grit
beneath the blue gum and
above the clamouring
bracken.  milk thistles levelled
as dogwoods sneeze, black-
birds dive for the pine copse
and ferns puff dust
from their beards as
they lean and squint.  a black-
wood teeters and quakes,
topples as its feet rent
the earth
like a child shredding
wrapping paper.  somewhere
in the composting depths
a little girl in a green
and white dress
gets her hair caught
and screams for her mother.