Man Washing on a Railway Platform outside Delhi
Judith Beveridge / Poetry

Man Washing on a Railway Platform outside Delhi

It’s the way he stands nearly naked in the winter sun turning on and off the railway station tap. I have seen people look less reverent tuning Mozart. I have seen hands give coins to beggars appear nonchalant compared to the way his hands give this water to his body. Don’t tell me this is … Continue reading

Oscillations
Poetry / Toby Fitch

Oscillations

Attracted to all things electrical, you passed along the way like a weird       storm then returned, waxing lyrical about your adventures: the glow-            worms that lit up the tropics like guide-lights on a runway; dinosaurs               grumbling in their graves; the plethora of cats that scattered when                  you moonlighted as a monsoon. And what about those … Continue reading

Parallels
Poetry / Toby Fitch

Parallels

The intervals between trains are shrinking,             streetlights shaking —                         one or two blink out             with every repercussion. Planes fly lower and lower,             guard dogs whimper, and                         every so often             a seismograph flutters                         as if to warn us             that the orbits are out of whack,                         that waves rake the ocean floors and the hairs on the … Continue reading

On the Slink
Poetry / Toby Fitch

On the Slink

        Bottles in gutters, alley cats on the slink                  under streetlamps that crystallise         in the corners of my eyes — shopping trolleys gliding by                   like giant legless ice skates —           this brittle night taken out of the fridge —                   it’s spring but cold still,                           still as glass.                    Sobering up, a breeze … Continue reading

Father
Dimitra Harvey / Poetry

Father

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

Sun
Dimitra Harvey / Poetry

Sun

It’s dusk, and I’m listening to an old Indian devotional, the woman’s voice is a coil of plum honey. As the sun slips down the empty western sky, the tiles of houses are silvered in light. At some angles the sun is forked by newly budded branches. I’ve stared too long at its gold-lash pinwheel, … Continue reading