Poem

'Philip Hodgins – A Dream', a new poem by Brendan Ryan

Brendan Ryan
Wednesday, 04 May 2011

I walk toward a paddock bordered by cypress trees.
Philip Hodgins is on a tractor harrowing forty acres.
I can’t see his face but I know it is him
methodically going about his business,

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'Paper Gardener', a new poem by Ian Templeman

Ian Templeman
Wednesday, 04 May 2011

Friends knew he lived alone
in an old fashioned block of apartments
with large windows facing the sea
and a lift like a lion’s cage

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'Legionary Ants', a new poem by Francis Webb

Francis Webb
Thursday, 21 April 2011

The world, the tranquil punctual gyroscope,
Is more or less at peace after her fashion,
Broad bowels work, creatures rejoice or mope,

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'Holiday', a new poem by David Mortimer

David Mortimer
Thursday, 21 April 2011

the west coast of irish light
is inside everything and through everything
like the washing on the line, the pegs
the sky, the wind, this window, and your hands, your eyes

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'This Version of Love' a poem by Dorothy Hewett

Dorothy Hewett
Tuesday, 12 April 2011

This Version of Love

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'Openings', a new poem by Judith Bishop

Judith Bishop
Tuesday, 12 April 2011

I could say hello to things.
Theodore Roethke

i.
The hand’s wave,
when it comes –

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'Moonlight Sculptures', a new poem by Stephen Edgar

Stephen Edgar
Tuesday, 12 April 2011

Too hot and humid to do more than drowse
And slip – who knows how brief the interims? –
Into a chafed unconsciousness,

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'Dreams and Artefacts', a new poem by Lisa Gorton

Lisa Gorton
Tuesday, 12 April 2011

I

Patiently, ticket by ticket, a soft-stepped crowd
advances into the mimic ship’s hull half-
sailed out of the foyer wall, as if advancing into
somebody else’s dream –

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'Self-portrait at Sixty', a new poem by Tony Lintermans

Tony Lintermans
Tuesday, 12 April 2011

What am I? A crushed hominid.
A can of couscous, seeding.
A shudder of my former self, a
self-defrosting fridge. Good

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'Humility, a new poem by Alex Skovron

Alex Skovron
Monday, 11 April 2011

For months Mozart has been so crucial I haven’t played him.
The winds, filibustering the house, have heard
the chimney crackle and the paint strain
while the old obsessions went ignored. What was the point?

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