Vanessa Page


I am a long acceptance of things rusted on a passive agent of decay: a sick flow, blooming/spreading down weathered stair treads, the rotten stench of paperbark trees rising, a window-slung bed sheet, trapping heat. I am complicit. I give …

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Thursday night, 1979

My goldfish died the night Dad pushed the fridge over. The machine lay on its side, exposing lines of dusty metal coils that were somehow terrifying, – all those parts, not meant to be seen. It was the surprise of …

Posted in 91: MONSTER | Tagged


the sea offers up your name…the sea offers up your name the sea offers up your name…the sea offers up your name offers up your name, offers up your name, offers up your name… your name, your name, your name, …

Posted in 77: EXPLODE | Tagged

The Instinct of Sharks

Go back to the start, before the loneliness of this two a.m. mating season carried you home: watch the bruise on your thigh shrink and disappear from your skin starve the sideshow alley clowns, take back the deal with the …

Posted in 74: NO THEME V | Tagged


i There’s a complex certainty in coming home. It keeps on, something like faith – shakes the red dirt shoulders of the Maranoa and prickles up a spine of Ooline trees to the west. I have not travelled nine hours …

Posted in 72: THE END | Tagged


This spit-polished veneer has street appeal and is open for inspection. In these shutter-speed days her family portraits bear the least resemblance to anything real, paintbox-bright statements, all flourishes and filters – tumbling and spreading from the news feed’s mouth. …

Posted in 66: OBSOLETE | Tagged

Review Short: Vanessa Page’s Confessional Box

Australian poet Vanessa Page’s latest collection, Confessional Box, is equal parts personal and critical, examining emotional relationships with a terse, engaging style. As the title suggests, there is a strongly self-aware element to Confessional Box. The poems are relatively open, encompassing a range of points of view and personas, but these are not wholly simple reflections of human relationships. Rather, Page presents a series of evolving sections, embellishing on memories and balancing broader criticisms against more personally orientated notions of access and invitation.

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The Torpey Spoon

for Evelyn, Elizabeth and Janet Home is the colour of sunlight through the kitchen window, a lemon-curd glow as day infuses thin air. I’m inside with my young daughter, crafting a version of love from cooling figs and a row …

Posted in 60: SILENCE | Tagged


This issue is a poetic conversation between a source poem and ten poems found from within its lines. It’s a refraction of language and image through poetic prisms, an intersection of the familiar and unfamiliar, blurring the edges through the 11 authors’ interpretations.

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Territory is suburbia is an atlas of orange-bricked battlelines. Where driveway mouths spit mortar like broken teeth and cold wars cauterise domestic skin. This is where I have mapped you.                                               mango pulp                                               bruise-lidded sky                                               a storm hymnal When the sky …

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