Poetry - Year V - Number 42 - November 2020

Goulburn A muddy river flanked by gums wanders through town past rope swings hanging from high branches, rippling around snags and sandbanks, flowing home Tingalpa The bush spread to the reservoir’s edge. Water stretched out of sight round the peninsula. Wind-blown waves chopped across...

bucket list the crackle of plastic as an elephant’s trunk unfurls, accepts a sugared bag; gentle eyes and huge eyelashes smile as it stuffs it into its mouth. it’s so stupid, it’s eating my bag! shouts the nasty kid. I...

BEETHOVEN A memory within music, a ripening with vineyards overgrown, and your mind's ear in tune; alert with days you look through a small window at strangers, the relentless wave-pulse, uncorked knowledge on a journey through a territory where time gathers shards of meaning. A frustration of the...

The Solo PerformerThe tiny ballerina, hersummer run long over,limbs brown and withered,hanging hair disheveled,bends stiffly at the hip,shriveled hands stretchedto the tip of an extended toe,frozen in a permanent pose of thanksfor praise of...

Lie with me in this moment sink into the book of me where all my stories wait to be told. Take out the pages and read– It’s not quite Spring here– where Winter lags in the heat and humidity...

AMULET voice of Penelope 62 All the young men came in  But you were never there Standing as likely under a rafter  Off-center  Visible enough 63 As a still small-footed  Never old & wandering vine  Your trunk the exact imperfect Square pillar 64 Light red leaves  On a low...

Alma Desatada A serração desceu rápida e do-í-da.Veio duma latência em rodeios Açorianos.Solitário rochedo, suspenso em fosca água-lusa.Longe, o coro das oliveiras ao léu. Açores! Por quem te desatei as naus um dia... Volátil, irado, vulcanizado.Mouro-Sefardita dum...

Scar Tissue Land I don’t recognize the yellowed veins of wood chapping into hot, sun-hardened beams. It has been too long since I came here last: to the scar tissue land where my pets are buried. My brother,...

Pulse What of the drum its timbre a taut membrane between beat and rest systole/             diastole pounding blood to the surface, twinning one’s body to the world. If you give yourself to it, find yourself on a riverbank at night padding a cadence barefoot until mud...

The Hardest Part This song teleports me back to another time. The sun was high in the sky, and so was I. The music drives with its lyricism. And the days now are driven by algorithms. I think about...