Apologising to unicorns is problematic. They rarely understand our purposes. Tenderness will often be seen as the manipulative gestures of a fear that seeks death – for itself and others. Unicorns sleep most comfortably in heavy traffic where the hum of self-absorbed commuters leaves them invisible. To find a unicorn in a forest is like … Continue reading
Peter Boyle was born in Melbourne in 1951 and has lived most of his life in Sydney. He is a poet and translator of Spanish and French poetry. He has worked most of his life as a teacher, first in high schools and then with NSW TAFE. His sixth collection of poetry, Towns in the … Continue reading
Anyone who has died that I knew: I can feel their essence. Still here. It’s not a thought or a memory I am having. It’s a feeling. They are here, with me. They are abiding. My grandmothers, my grandfather, my dearest father. Even the boy who fell off a cliff when I was at school. … Continue reading
Was there ever any way This plump and comely assassin— Named for all knowing and unknowing—would not know how To meet all prying with a look both tender And intense, both Peaceful and implacable, merciful and savage—sad, Yes, but by no means sorry— Surprised but not unduly— Across the threshold of her forest lodge? … Continue reading
No one is going to come and save you. And because of this you must fold your clothes at day’s end despite the urge to abandon them to the backs of chairs. You must shake the crumple of sleep from the sheet. You must clean your teeth. Wash the teaspoons. Fold your pyjamas too and … Continue reading
We thank the clouds that come and go and sometimes linger We thank the cumuli for the brooding that arrests our busyness our preoccupations We thank the storm clouds for our passions and the lightning that splits the dead stumps our hearts had become, opens them to the rain We thank the quills of cirrus … Continue reading
They are a stand of bitter wisdom trees eyes revolving inwards like moons beguiling faces smiling down upon us. They don’t mention (or only in passing) the ways the world is slipping from them: the deft departure of the boyhood friend, the driver’s license routinely revoked, the inability to leave the bath without resting —shamefully—on … Continue reading
for Germaine Greer after the Festival of Dangerous Ideas In the cut lip of the coliseum within its raised arches of white I came, in twenty-twelve, to see you fight. For every man who loves to loathe is a woman who loves to love: my mother made you our household god. And I believed she … Continue reading
In the abandoned hours, I can hear The boorish sibilance of garbage trucks On their rounds. The shy, nocturnal air Builds a brittle nest with strands of fear. Insomniac crickets tick, like manic clocks, In the unmown expanse of the vacant lot Where, last week, on the razor grass, A young woman was raped And … Continue reading
Your plumes are as black as the dresses and jackets we wear at the edges of burial plots. I’ve read stories of the storms you portend; how you are a cipher to an inch of rain. For weeks, I’ve watched you plane the sky’s bayberry vellum, seen falling light transpose your silhouettes into a straight-cut … Continue reading
There is no Poet of the Month for December. This month we shall indulge in new poems, for some of the wonderful poets that I featured as Poet of the Month in 2014. It has been an absolute pleasure for me to get to read and of course to share their poetry. You can find … Continue reading
She looked so pretty in her blue jacket and shoes. Colours make me happy, she said. And you make me happy, I said. Or I wish that’s what I had said. All the colours have passed out of her now, like blue leaves drifting down from the trees. © Richard James Allen “Explosively powerful … Continue reading
For Chee and Stephen Who I was in the past, Who I will be in the future – What distractions these are From who I am now. Who I am now, Here, with you. In this moment, You have rewritten my past. You are rewriting my future. What I don’t understand about Who I was … Continue reading
of course the trees are my friends they are like me ~ busy busy bees growing in slow motion they embrace me when I enter the garden they remember that I water them they teach me how to be still they teach me how to be busy busy busy only very very slowly they teach … Continue reading
“I think that human beings lock birds in cages because they themselves are incapable of flying” – Unknown Mirella Salame is a young Lebanese artist whom I met last Sunday at MACAM, Modern and Contemporary Art Museum. She is a participant in the Age of Wood sculpting competition. Her performative installation is titled freedom and … Continue reading
for Karen Your beauty cannot be translated, but I would fail not to try. It generates a weather no meteorology can describe. It is most like a flower, a flower with moods. An unstill life, in no need of arranging, it arranges itself. It is not fixed, so how can I fix it? It doesn’t … Continue reading
Richard James Allen was born in the New South Wales country town of Kempsey. He spent the first ten years of his life in Vietnam and Japan. Upon his return to Australia, he began writing diaries. Gradually the entries became less and less literal and more and more imaginative as he moved from recording to … Continue reading
Last Letter That night, your final night alive, I turned from your locked red door still holding your letter, a thunderbolt that could not earth itself. Shock remade my brains, and the prevalent devils of ill-love added to the huddle of riddles that failed to divulge their unhappy import— was that your plan? Dellarobbia, my … Continue reading
A pervasive hum, invasive lights, white gown swooping hairy legs, a skinny ghost whose nest-like-head buzzes with static and stinks of cigarettes; a woman afraid to be sent home convinced that death is imminent, and from a key locked room a wail ascends the air to crest the brutal surface of sedation. While I drink … Continue reading
Fifteen thousand years I have slumbered In my icy casket, a hoary Princess waiting Not to be kissed, but punctured By the pick of a prying scientist. My blood, dark as a fairy tale Leached insidiously into the Siberian snow, And my flesh flared red and fresh Enough to eat. My lower limbs devoured By … Continue reading
Poem and Dish 