1.
Crow in Car Park
From a power pole set in black bitumen,
His jagged bleating reminds me,
Of parched paddocks.
What better place to deliver his dark eulogy,
Than from the cross-beamed comfort,
Of his suburban strainer post.
Tim Edwards
2.
The Japanese Lunch
The Japanese lunch
Has taken over,
For who can argue
With culinary grace
While the rude
Patron contrasts so
Deliciously with the food.
B. W. Shearer
Click here to listen an MP3 audio file of this poem, as read by B.W. Shearer.
3.
Vignette of the Shoalhaven
On dry sand
the old boatshed
leans on its shadow.
Mark Miller
4.
Enclosure
Seeking
the
big picture
he
instead
fell into a smaller frame
and
ever since has been
unable to break out of
it
unable or
unwilling
Will Fraser
5.
Prelude for the Damned
He is like a man who
has lost a sense of himself
driven by moment-hunger
thud of blood
twist of bone
he cannot see the future
or remember what has gone.
D. C. Hastie
6.
Convertia
They say after the storm
you should check the tide pools
for fallen stars.
Look beyond your reflection
for the spits of ore
and green charcoal.
Rake your fingers through
the sand, for the silver debris
of whole galaxies.
Even ask the starfish, lift it
carefully from the pool
place it in your palm
feel the tubefeet,
miniature hydraulics
and whisper your intent.
Andrew Slattery
7.
Letter (II)
The answering machine holds the ghost of you.
Your half-choked breathing.
The words you couldn't say.
The ground is fire-ground.
The bed, too vast to cross.
(I cannot play Leander any longer)
Kate Middleton
8.
Conceit
In an empty field
I found a metaphor.
It was dying,
no longer connected to its roots.
Recognising it from my childhood,
against my better judgment,
I tried to revive it.
Cameron Fuller
9.
December (Eschaton)
At the last day
the students leave the gates and exit into Summer.
They ramble out in packs, together,
but wander from each other;
Drift off on roads alone
looking for home.
Matthew Arkapaw
Click here to listen an MP3 audio file of this poem, as read by Mark Arkapaw.
10.
Bat
There's a bat
in my sink
abseiling the frypan.
A soggy myopic
misery.
It wall-hugs the shadows
like some bespectacled spinster/
before I release it to the night
with wishes for improved navigation
and encounters only
with those gentle