Monthly Archives: April 2013




Lizz Murphy



My coat hurling around my body my calves all my

doubts Hair whipped into snarls Tawny thistles

scratched into ochre flats The wind-vexed

farmhouse crouched hay-dry A single rankle of

geraniums tacked upright with a choke of chicken

wire A washed white porch My knocking plucked

away Collar and tie under overalls been-to-church

smiles His snaking hand guides me across the river






Matthew John Davies



Bought and sold are the reins of taped encounters
To the floundering of pillows and Bar-X found
In the crush of a doona’s sick sigh

The crevices sought out/in
Their purpose: gainsaying
To the weary, the known
And the return back
To unpeeled skin






Top row (left to right): Kit Kelen-Cecilia Cheong, Carol Archer-Loene Furler, Carol Archer-Anna Couani, Virginia Shepherd-Carol Archer

Second row (left to right): Carol Archer-Loene Furler, Anna Couani-Kit Kelen, Sean O’Connell-Carol Archer, Carol Archer-Sue Rawlinson

For more images from this project visit




Paisatge ganges





Amazon Warrior





Andrew Burke



‘In poetry, being off duty is / part of the job.’ – Bernstein



Terms and conditions apply.












Susan Hawthorne


a tortoise swallowed a mountain

having thought that the mountain was slow and steady

like her good self


the tortoise was shocked to discover

that many hidden things go on in mountains

this particular mountain was in eight parts


it seemed to the tortoise who was learned in mathematics

that it was an infinity of mountains

because on every slope in every ravine


on peaks and in the deepest caves

there were multitudes of mountains inside mountains

each of these contained yet more mountains


in fractal form

not only that but each of these multitudinous mountains

hosted different kinds of creatures


in one a small girl played with a ball

in another a man curled like a ball his eyes blinded by some unknown disease

in yet another a mouse crawled up the rocky slope


a rope climber without a rope

a cloud hung over another mountain in conversation with trees

and there was more much more


but by now the venerable tortoise was getting bored

and regurgitated the lot

she deposited this ball on the peak of the nearest mountain

and let it roll




The word giri in Sanskrit has many meanings and these meanings are the source of this poem. The dictionary is a marvelous source of associative thinking.













Personal History, Volume 1



Philip Hammial


Time? It’s the hour of those with simples at waist

& throat. In the news: Rio Carnival’s smallest G-string

(a 4cm patch covering her modesty) cost its wearer (model

Viviane Castro) & her samba team vital points. Those oafs


in that horse outfit, if they stumble again they’ll be shot

for glue. Who left the lights on forgot (more oafs) to tidy

up the abattoir. Did mince make Herman hot? You bet but

vet that & bet on Henrietta instead. As born some grace


she took, & water too. Of course we checked

the big meal option. Not as dumb as we look. Even

if you do take the mouth–watering out of the boy

you won’t stop the corrected self how it invariably


comes to naught. Or will you? Call it program fat & it

just might. As the reading was drove as listeners steered it

we supposed them (those words) cradle-deep. A big mistake

that put us back (not again!) on the chitlin’ circuit


with Herbert who seriously said: “Certified menace

take your leave!” Anyone still reading? Attention

wavering? Most of you by now is probably completely

chill. Me too, but side forks don’t scoop what I want: rise


on a target, twenty-four threes! Time? It’s the hour

of the tongue with two hands (an image stolen, possibly/

of course, from Vallejo). If so, astute reader, pick

up your phone & dial 000 & I’ll delete immediately


& substitute another – a mouth with three arms – which

as it happens I had on standby & one that’s obviously

my own even though it does sound a bit Spanish; however

if you still have a problem I’m prepared to make


another offering & this one’s final: teeth with twelve

fingers. In the news: The missing dollops were discovered

in the possession of trollops. Told you not to trust

them lip-smacking ladies. Brew wrong: Everybody brain


wash! Not me, I got no quack curin’ wit lectricity. Dear

Reader, I beg to delete this previous as unsuitable to

your high station: Triple Q. No? Stay it must. Then I offer

as compensation: a thigh to caress with your palsied



hand. God, you actually did. You’re so vile. So shame.

If only we hadn’t met at that dog venue. Patient

Reader, is it time to invoke poetic license? Bring on

the grunts & groans & the right to fife. Blog-sense


our focus now, a zeitgeist of orals as shovel-ready

as consumer-sparked violence over party hair, huge

swaths of economy at risk as China snaps back. Another

stone? Add it to the pile. Up to her neck in sand. For her


will I make a stand? Too busy with a satrap’s

lashings. See if you got true grit. If you’re turned

to good account. Crooning some forgotten psalm,

is that why you look so alphabetical? It don’t (take it


from me) become you. Should never have been left

to your own devices. And may I point out

that you’re still sticky – those lashings too liberal.

Numbered your days, nights too.


























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