It was a cold summer that year. What I remember is the chill on my skin as you stripped me in fiendish haste, the raw southerly swelling and parting the curtains of the rented room. Now, when life begins to leave itself why is it this figment that clings? Such a light thing, and yet … Continue reading
Christmas is in the air. You are given into my hands out of quietest, loneliest lands. My trembling is all my prayer. “Five Days Old” – Francis Webb Given Poolside baby showers herald the summer pregnancies. Sweat caresses swollen knees; mothers tally labour hours; giftwrap is everywhere. Christmas is in the air. But by the … Continue reading
I prefer (wish list for autistic primary schooler) serious illness to surprises computers to my brother reading number plates to Christmas morning straight lines submerging my ears in a warm bath to waterslides deep fat fryers to matchbox cars torture to haircuts libraries to birthday parties standing ankle-deep in ocean tenpin bowling to climbing … Continue reading
I am a sundial In a sunken garden. On the days when you show your face I bask, all those long warm hours. You only see me when I glow, borrowing your radiance – but behind me, where you cannot see, circles a cold shadow blade. It gets longer the closer you are to leaving … Continue reading
Melinda Smith won the Prime Minister’s Literary Award for her fourth book of poems, Drag down to unlock or place an emergency call (Pitt St Poetry, 2013). Her work has been widely anthologised both inside and outside Australia and has been translated into Indonesian, Chinese, Burmese and Italian. She is based in the ACT and … Continue reading
The Detention Centre Christmas Island With closed eyes he looked at me silently gazing brazed lips whispers and sounds firmly locked in heavy feet sitting lightly on an empty seat. I crossed the blue waves crashed, pulled me down — I saw death a thousand times and time again, death looked me in the eye. … Continue reading
i want it to read: ‘don’t hurry’; be happy you’re not unhappy. we all kind of collided with something resembling loss, turning to stone sometimes as if somewhere else lovers right now could never be kissing throat to throat, or babies be squeezed out to play in all this. © Matt Hetherington Previously published in … Continue reading
everything is as cool as this drink and as warm as the amber sunlight the right amount of salt tastes sweet so make it crunchy and add a good friend to talk with and the living gets even easier so often we are dreamt into the rarest of places in fact, there are no facts … Continue reading
i want, i want, i want whatever it might be that i happen to be wanting today it is a view uninterrupted of where the desert meets the sea instead what i get is a plane-flight over rivers of roads superb ideas that pass like smoke and birds that cut nothing i won’t take my … Continue reading
when i leave i hope i will carry the spirits on my skin i will carry the earth in my legs the sky in my eyes when i leave i hope i will carry the birds in my feet the trees in my shoulders the people in my chest when i leave i … Continue reading
Matt Hetherington is a writer, music-maker, and moderate self-promoter living in Brisbane. He has been writing poetry for over 30 years, and has published 4 poetry collections and over 300 poems. His first all-haiku/senryu collection ‘For Instance’ was published in March 2015 by Mulla Mulla Press. He is also on the board of the Australian … Continue reading
In a kitchen in Brisbane three of us sit sharing tea and talking about dislocation how hard we find it to feel really here, to feel we belong. Each of us an unplanned baby. (An accident, or a surprise if you’re being nice.) Never felt that sense of unequivocal right-to-be, to take up space. … Continue reading
In the park at Richmond River the ibis converge on the scraps like clumsy ballerinas. One bites the tail of a water dragon who stares at me astonished, like perhaps we knew each other in a past life. Across the way a row of Queenslanders lift their skirts to avoid puddles and cars drive by, … Continue reading
I woke up this morning afraid of the world then a man threw up at the bus stop. I stared the other way, he had tears in his eyes and so did I, but all I could remember was Bobby Brady saying (at 5.25 last night) that if it worked for a girl it might … Continue reading
Beth Spencer is the Poet of the Month for February, and this week she is offering Poem and Dish readers, an eBook copy of her book of poetry Vagabondage. To go in the draw, please follow Poem and Dish, like this post and leave a comment so I can contact you. You can specify in … Continue reading
Leaving is like breaking something not a single crash smash on the floor but a long drawn out rugged exhausting tearing asunder God is in the details as I pick them apart The fine bones The hush I remember that first time unbidden I heard it, as I was outside walking with my cup … Continue reading
On the station the aging Nazi skinhead is just another baldy now, he’s finished his last minute Xmas shopping. Poking out from his festive T-shirt those swastika tattoos on his neck have paled to a gunmetal grey. Torn cotton shorts on a multicoloured rail station, it seems like all his arguments have been fought to … Continue reading
after Elizabeth Bishop’s ‘Giant Snail’ (for PS Cottier) A peaceful life is arduous to attain; desire’s not enough, nor positive aim — one side’s withdrawal is always the other’s gain. What germ inside us inclines towards hate? It seems to me there must be something rank and spindly tangled in the hub of our hearts … Continue reading
Beth Spencer’s awards include The Age Short Story Award, runner up for the Steele Rudd Award (for How to Conceive of a Girl), the inaugural Dinny O’Hearn Fellowship, and assistance from the Literature Board of the Australia Council. Vagabondage, a verse memoir about the year she lived in a campervan (UWAPublishing, 2014) was her first … Continue reading
i. my darling, this night and your mouth soft ochre under the tallow that wakes us – where we taste salted-wine, sea-grass, and I pull the sea’s black reach from under your skin – sea witch, your squall of dark pearls undone, your hair a black furlong. And I give you sea-flowers, relics – a … Continue reading
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