Brian Purcell #26 At my mother’s retirement village


burke: HAIKU (redgum)

lizard in
a woodpile, looking
for its tree

papa osmubal’s ‘at a portuguese restaurant in macau’

Anna Couani #114



lanes are the best thing

about Surry Hills

The Cross and Darlinghurst

contain the heart

of migrant Australia

what all the migrants

have in common

hang iconic

in Australian paintings

bring the old countries

into the new country

dark with dim street lights


of the deco apartments

of Elizabeth Bay

the novelists who travel there

now the ghosts of trams

After a Hard Day's Night

After a Hard Day’s Night

27.4.16 (#117) Good Grief by Myron Lysenko

Good grief is when you learn
that the school bully who tormented you for six years

grew into a policeman

who died from gradual dismemberment of his limbs

at the hands of the higher sector

of your local motorcycle gang.

Bad grief is when your mother dies
in a nursing home in another country

and nobody tells you until you’re on your death bed.

Average grief is when the tadpole you caught
at the creek and carried home in your school lunchbox
dies a few hours later before it could turn into a frog.

Interminable grief is being a cheer squad member
of the St Kilda Football Club.

Suffering grief is when you keep on spreading
your grief at the loss of a loved one
while all your family and friends around you
just want to get on with their lives.

Collective grief is when the party
you vote for wins the federal election

but the major policies remain the same.



It’s like a spring cleaning

the wind sweeps clouds across the sky

It’s time for giving them back to the sea

where waves are bulging are making bumps trying to catch

the white masses above

it’s time for the laundry to be done great style

it’s time for draining the gray remains of winter

shift to a new green instead of dirt

make the eyes saturated with vividness which will

rinse out all traces of smokes for

from now on

each day might be a poem.




C’est comme un nettoyage de printemps

le vent balaye les nuages du ciel

il est temps de les rendre à la mer

où les vagues bombent et bossent essayant d’attraper

la blanche masse au-dessus d’elles

c’est l’heure de la lessive à finir en beauté

il est temps d’évacuer les restes gris de l’hiver

pour les remplacer par un vert tout neuf

que les yeux soient saturés de vivacité qui

lavera toutes les traces de fumées car

à partir de maintenant

chaque jour pourrait être un poème

Anzac Day
white cockatoos graze
in the ruins

Efi Hatzimanolis #77 Care

for my Aunt

You pinched out the blistering heart
of our last summer together, turned autumn’s head
craggy before its time, went then into a winter
of staring into the stiffened scenes of your future
tattooed on death’s back, and front.
How you managed to squeeze your way back to us,
when we’d visit your extruded body in its hospital bed
during that winter of one too many returns from the dead –
and once you woke to find yourself surrounded by my azaleas
crawling with the friendliest, most concerned
insects from my garden,
far too many for intensive care to permit –
they threw the pests out together with you. They
got one thing right, at least. You lasted
not a second longer than the twelve months they said.
It would’ve been ten months,
had they not kept dragging you
back from the dead
to fulfil their inescapable prognosis.

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