Ian C Smith

Ian C Smith is.

Your hair was so yellow

Here in Great-grandpa's hut an invocation of eucalyptus. Mist appears most mornings on this ridge caught in rough branches' cobwebs. I rebuild what is worth preserving employing hand tools from the past my favourite, his antique adze. Hammering ricochets down …

Posted in 29.0: PASTORAL | Tagged


Carved images face distant Easter Island, eroded remnants of unknown events safe now, one would hope, for eternity here high above this open boat, loaded, preparing to leave that anchored ship, the unravelling swell taking leeside water peeling back, baring …

Posted in 07: NORTHERN TERRITORY | Tagged


Fletcher’s juggling Bligh’s shrewd attention with bayonet, cutlass, maps, musket & pistol, a stance crying out for halcyon poise. Collar open, hair loose, lapsing into Pidgin, he could be a C20th film hero, even sports the unshaven scoundrel look suitable …

Posted in 06: NEW POETRY | Tagged


The Polynesian widows remain faithful to their rituals now John Adams stands alone. The shouts & laughter of children mingle with the cries of gulls echoing over fields where the widows work surrounded by the unchanging ocean wearing flowers in …

Posted in 06: NEW POETRY | Tagged


Under an oppressive sky two men shaving in an open boat after a four-thousand mile marathon soaked, their limbs swollen, unable to lie down excepting a brief landfall at New Holland, death’s sour breath blowing them ever westabout. John Fryer, …

Posted in 06: NEW POETRY | Tagged