'Pope Pinocchio's Angels' a new poem by Michael Farrell

Michael Farrell

    Angels are made from banksia. They are grown in Prague, are
Exported in all directions, and turn grey in air. They
Only fly in places where the ground is hard. If
You try to count them they turn into numbers. If
You try to call them they turn into names. They
Are not decorative at parties but illustrative, of Guernica, for example

... More

'Weight' a new poem by A. Frances Johnson

A. Frances Johnson

It is a kind of sleep we must learn,
seasonal as spiders, our bodies
weights no web can hold.

... More

'Net' a new poem by Alice Allan

Alice Allan

sparrow strung up
one foot knotted
in an accidental
backyard trap

I bury her
neck soft as ribbon

all year
she crouches at my
kitchen table

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'The Things the Mind Sees Happen' a new poem by Belinda Rule

Belinda Rule

They are stored in a box,
jewelled eggs:

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Geoff Page: 'Seeing People'

Geoff Page

Seeing people who remind you
just a little of the dead
is always mildly disconcerting –

something in the face, the gait,
the shoulders from behind,
those likenesses that don’t surprise

... More

Tina Kane: 'Time Watch'

Tina Kane


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Gig Ryan: 'Rent Time'

Gig Ryan

Anywhere’s more homely
than this field day to mortality,
accumulating severances
that wrangle distance
like before and after’s rosary of rue.

... More

Stephen Edgar: 'The Art of the Fugue'

Stephen Edgar

So, summoned by that call across the wide
And complicated city, pressed
And yet reluctant to arrive,
We found among the ranks of the distressed,
The sick, the stricken and the stupefied,
Her shocked, unconscious form in South Ward Five.
And then I turned aside.

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Lost Property

Tracy Ryan

To be alone in the wide room
in the house’s crooked elbow, turning point
for extensions as the family grew
and grew – and grew – to be alone in the one room
nobody needed now, though it might be resumed
like land, for guests or blow-ins, at any moment,
without notice (and that was part of
the appeal, the very tenuous feel of the place) to play the ... More

Man on the Moon

Stephen Edgar

Hardly a feature in the evening sky
As yet  near the horizon the cold glow
Of rose and mauve which, as you look on high,
Deepens to Giotto’s dream of indigo.

Hardly a star as yet. And then that frail
Sliver of moon like a thin peel of soap
Gouged by a nail, or the paring ... More

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