Two halters of rope around your neck, and two bodies jammed hard against your sides, is all it takes to hold you while he slips his blade beneath your eye. You hear the wet slide and suck as he scoops the eye out. He does the other, they roll together in the dirt. Does it … Continue reading
My father knew stone. He’d sit cross-legged at the hearth, felt cloth on knee, bent over with hammerstone, wooden punch, and bone tine, knapping at flint or chert, knapping it to knife point, sickle blade, arrowhead. I’d watch the stone give way beneath his deft blows: fine flakes splintering from face or rim. The curved … Continue reading
Do not judge me by my size I am almost invisible on a white page I could be mistaken for a spec of dust. Power is not in how big you are, power is in how big your actions are. Oh! The responsibilities I have Please, can’t you see my size! A barrage of words … Continue reading
Maybe she’s made a shelter from mulga branches and spinifex out on the plains somewhere. I imagine her walking from the west in grey light, barefooted, a walking stick in her right hand, a small lyre dangling at her waist. She must arrive as the clouds in the east begin to roil with the day’s … Continue reading
Dimitra Harvey has a Bachelor of Performance Studies from Theatre Nepean – University of Western Sydney, and a Master of Letters in Creative Writing from the University of Sydney. Her poetry has been published in Meanjin, Southerly, Mascara, and Cordite; her poetry has also appeared in Australian Poetry’s Members Anthology Metabolism, the 2013 Jean Cecily … Continue reading
Once on the old port of Sunda Kelapa, Betawi cradled the East Indies spices. When tropical rain poured over her plantations of mangosteen, hibiscus, guava, nutmeg and cloves, she would surrender to the heat under her banyan tree and sleep heavily. In her youth, she bathed in the sap of pomelo rind and her nipples … Continue reading
In my hard boots I wandered into a field of thistles crushing violet weeds, bits of bricks and tiles, broken glass from a house I once knew. My mouth was wild, foaming her name. I heard my child’s moonless moaning and my house bursting into a cake of flames. After the rain, by the river-death, … Continue reading
Do not say a prayer, shed a tear, nor place a wreath on my grave, but bury me instead under a mangosteen tree once I’m stiff like lead. Once I’m dead, drip mangosteen milk, and wring the sweet white arils till its juices soak my funeral shroud. And when I die, embalm my head and … Continue reading
The gods do not make great-grandmothers like they used to. Mine reeked of damp earth, nutmeg, grew betel vine to feed her habit, chewed and spat betel-quid till her lips ochered and teeth blackened. She reeked of damp earth and nutmeg, plucked vine leaves at subuh, wrapped them into quids, chewed and spat them till … Continue reading
Mona Zahra Attamimi is Arab-Indonesian, born in Jakarta. She lived in Washington DC and Manila before settling in Sydney at age nine. Her poems have appeared in Meanjin, Southerly, Mascara Literary Review, and the recently published anthology, Contemporary Asian Australian Poets. She has studied Anthropology and Women’s Studies at The Australian National University and the … Continue reading
The dull chock of carrots, free-wheeling turmeric circles on the chopping board say I am home again. The creaking of the eaves against the retreating sky speak of cold windows, the eyelash-and-louse tobacco loose in the top-right-hand draw smells like my father’s office, half a world of time away. In the garden a lemon tree … Continue reading
At Kuranda for Oodgeroo Noonuccal When I was a girl, I won Your award for my poem: Walking Together. I didn’t know your name inscribed on the trophy I only knew Kath Walker. When I was a girl, I knew Our land belonged to Darkingjung whale people. I knew Budgewoi meant meeting of the waters. … Continue reading
Blue water and blue fibreglass reflect the sun. Salt and cinnamon grease our battered skin and pumpkin flesh. Still-damp costumes chill our nipples and trace wide outlines of our arses on the lounge. I have the Jack of Diamonds. It’s my left bower. I shuffle my suits to suit this new addition. The breeze is … Continue reading
The Darker Continent Sestina for Elizabeth Bishop Step off the pier and into the unknown, flushed from the balmy cabin, out of breath, piqued by dreams of a feathered samba dance, your heart is like a squirrel in a cage, preparing eagerly to test the dark: the frontier you imagined ‘cross the sea. What drove … Continue reading
I am shadow I demarcate one blade of grass from its brother and unite objects together on the wall hat-stand couch- corner pot-plant I make shape out of line and frame form I follow and lead I am shadow black bird in water twin in air I take flights of fancy that cost nothing It … Continue reading
Sometimes heart or head leads you by the hand on hill walks To the sudden sparkle of water seen through trees metallic glint of shot silk and silver To the serene surface of one-of-three dams and the ducks held tight by the water’s skin pulling at its seam pleating its calm dragging the thin top … Continue reading
Funny how a yawn travels through a room a pied piper gathering all the rats In that instant we all draw from the same source a great swallowed gasp shoved into our lungs like socks stuffed in a bag and the long outward sigh That we try to hide it up our sleeves makes us … Continue reading
Many things have a grain best not to go against Even slicing ginger we come across it the fibrous root close enough in this way to its woody neighbour oak or pine An anchovy can be slid along the tongue only in one direction without the salty bristles catching A dog, a fish, a man’s … Continue reading
Sarah Rice is an art-theory lecturer, visual artist and writer. She holds a PhD in Philosophy and a Graduate Diploma in Visual Arts. She currently lectures in Art Theory at the School of Art, ANU. She works collaboratively with visual artists, runs art/poetry workshops, and gives poetry readings in the ACT and nationally. She was … Continue reading
How the Dusk Portions Time Then one evening, after the gallery, hung with invisible abstracts, you take me apart to flesh the miniatures: a fleck of craquelure, speckles of mascara from my shadow eyes, already panda-streaked. I fail to notice how you slip the pieces in your coat pocket. Distracted as I am by wolf … Continue reading
Poem and Dish 