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Keywords: New Poems

  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    The treachery of sand

    • Les Wicks
    • 16 March 2020

    Anchored in the treachery of sand, wearing waves until the snip of a certain comber shreds them landward. They call this weed. There are people here too busy in their pleasure. They stare further out across the stolid hungers of tankers queued to feed national necessity, rapacity.  

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Resilience and trust, in crisis

    • Deborah Singerman
    • 15 March 2020
    2 Comments

    I still mainly look back. The bushfire legacy lives on. It acts as a benchmark for assessing tragedy and hope. I cannot get the searing images out of my head of red, angry skies, of flames raging frighteningly, embers flying, and firefighters miraculously persevering against the odds.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    No stranger now

    • Earl Livings
    • 24 February 2020
    2 Comments

    I circle the huge granite standing stone sunwise three times, as my ancestors did long before the designs of cranes and coins, of theory. ‘Tell me how and what they thought.’ No answer but the wheeling murmuration of a thousand starlings. A stubble field.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    I am part of it

    • David L Falcon
    • 17 February 2020
    2 Comments

    Beyond sunlit planes of sea and sand/Like the shade on my front lawn/Nightshadow creeps over continents/Cities light up in glowing clusters/While the deserts hide their campfires.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    A discovery of connections

    • Najma Sambul
    • 11 February 2020
    2 Comments

    The group had come together by the chance enquiry from one churchgoer who asked another if they could dedicate time to this — to us. So, we clambered into a mini van with our meagre possessions, and the myths and half-truths we knew about Australia followed suit.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    After the fire

    • Andrew Hamilton
    • 10 February 2020
    6 Comments

    After the fire/they found a nail preserved in glass/and piles of dust and ash. After the fire/this place lost its memory/of trees cleared, a slab hut/of fences, a verandahed timber house/and a circle of orange trees.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Fellow creatures

    • Ross Jackson
    • 03 February 2020

    With blazes nearby, TV news bars well on fire, we human animals are panicked, feel the shudder of rotors above our roofs. Very soon thirsty helitankers will thunder down to drink from our neighbourhood lake. May we remember tomorrow, nothing will be more worried than pelicans in broken reeds, the night heron in its naked tree.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Ormiston Gorge revelation

    • James Orrock
    • 20 January 2020
    2 Comments

    Rest in late afternoon silence, the vision quest in flight / Red ramparts attenuate to pink mauve in muted light; / Only gold could slake the Depression fever of Lewis Lasseter / Lead to an alchemy of empty jam tins and broken beer bottles / Fibula and femur disjoint, wrecked on iron pyrite reefs.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Fire poems

    • Bill Rush, Rory Harris, Collen Keating
    • 13 January 2020
    2 Comments

    It's as though it's suddenly turned winter, the way the earth is covered over and the grey stretch of ash is drawn up to its chin like a blanket. And though it's day, the bird-less quiet is a kind of night, and everything we ever thought we knew has been turned upside down, the first now last, and the last first.

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  • RELIGION

    Christmas in a time of fire

    • Andrew Hamilton
    • 17 December 2019
    15 Comments

    This year the contrast between the original story of Christmas and its Australian circumstances has cut even deeper. Bushfires have taken lives, destroyed properties and spread smoke and ash over cities. If the theme of the first Christmas was one of hope and joy, behind the bushfires this year lurks anxiety about the future of the world.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    This delicious failure of common names

    • Paul Hetherington
    • 09 December 2019
    2 Comments

    You don't know the word for butter, so you spend seconds miming the way it froths in the pan. The owner of the shop says nothing. You want to buy their famous pesto, but it's nowhere on display. You speak to other customers, who nod and frown. Eventually you point at fragrant cheese and a melon that smells of ripest green.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Two elegies for a vanished farm

    • Jena Woodhouse
    • 02 December 2019

    After spirit-lamps were doused the house drew in upon itself; its clutch of dreamers moaned and tossed in stifling mosquito nets — each isolating sac of mesh a Magellanic cloud.

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