CONTRIBUTORS

Ian C Smith

Ian C Smith writes in the Gippsland Lakes region of Victoria, and on Flinders Island, Tasmania. His work has appeared in Australian Poetry Journal, Eureka Street, Four W, Landscapes, Poetry New Zealand, Shaping the Fractured Self (UWAP), & Southerly. His seventh book is wonder sadness madness joy, Ginninderra Port Adelaide, 2014.

Sanctuary

Grunting for breath between gulps, he tears at a half-eaten bun not caring about the pain in his gums, garbage overflow lapping spongy shoes. His bowel hasn’t worked for days. He sees a piece of hamburger missed, squats for it …

Posted in 93: PEACH | Tagged

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 33: PASTORAL | Tagged

Pyrotechnic

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

Gesture

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

Christianity

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

Appearances

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