Monday, February 21, 2011

New Poetry by Jonathan Clare

Writing in The Quiet

If you knew me I'd be a famous man.
Maybe with nothing but at least a friend
if you say goodbye it'd give me a chance to say hello
Because maybe, if you told someone that you knew me
They could know me too

- Jonathan Clare 2011

In The Wild

Students lounging in an air of their own in a bubble a sphere of a world where the population is one but simultaneously everyone.
 Lounging in unconscious content unthinking of anything but the sun and its glare and their squint to protect their eyes and occasionally brushing a hand slowly through their hair.
 Lounging on sandstone created some aeon ago.
 Lounging with their backs to the baroque with their backs to society with their backs to the world and tomorrow.
 Lounging maybe with another but cast off he/she is like some sidekick companion barely even noticeable.
 Lounging with a camera floating and glinting its pink casing away from their face and onto everything.
 What a snapshot.
What a picture to misconceive.
They just snapped a picture of me,
And how beautiful it is to watch the students lounge like reptiles warming blood,
How strange it must seem (vaguely a mist in front of a cloud)
But they caught me with a click and they caught me catching them catching me
Sweetly insidious beings.
Us loungers,
We are the mundane religion
Modestly rebelling against mundane religion.

- Jonathan Clare 2011

Monday, February 14, 2011

New Poetry by rob walker

Cloze procedure

we are at the zoo when
your doctor calls you

talk about the lump i
fill gaps from a half

conversation sun beats
on our bare heads  i

think of cancer nervous
meerkats sit up take

notice as you ask a
phone do I need an

ultrasound we all turn
heads inquisitively

awaiting an answer

- rob walker 2011

rob walker is an Adelaide poet.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

New Poetry by Tricia Dearborn

Night vision

I take off the clarity of the world
and place it on my bedside table.

No use for it with my lids pressed
neatly together against the dark.

Slowly my brainwaves settle
into delta rhythm. Old lovers

breathe into my ear, or leave me
yet again. I fly. Breathe underwater.

Watch tornados gather. Waking, I fill
the kettle, translate the night’s happenings

into ink. The morning news
from the land the sleeping see.

- Tricia Dearborn 2011

At the laundromat on rue St Florent

My tired reflected face is framed
by the curving leap

of my jeans ­—
always the last to relinquish

the final skerricks of damp,
not dry till the rivets

will singe your skin.
I watch as the jeans submit

with seeming grace, or joy,
tumbling to rest, then leaning back

legs spread as they’re lifted and tossed
across in streaming freefall.

Like the fearless girl lining up again
for the wildest ride.

Though later, when the denim
flattens momentarily

to the glass, it’s more like
someone get me out of here.

- Tricia Dearborn 2011

The answer
If you want to take your mind off your troubles, create a god. It’s easy.
Toss back a few too many drinks. The Hangover God demands greasy chips and egg and bacon rolls; asks that you tend the altar of your headache, surrender to a queasy inability to come to grips with the world. 
Pick a fight with a loved one. The God of Relationship Dramas encourages outbursts and recriminations. Practise door-slamming and seething silence. Make offerings of blame and blazing rows.
Or step onto the God of Perfection’s hamster-wheel. Forget the roses, forget the sunsets: focus on getting it right; being first; being best. For penance, each error a tiny whip.
The Caffeine God will smite you if you haven’t performed the holy rites by nine. Enjoy the temporary bliss. Be warned: this god will mess with your nerves if you dare to leave the fold.
The God of Thinness says less of you is always better; asks that you stand side-on in front of mirrors, sucking in your stomach; do secret, impromptu skin-fold tests on belly, upper arms and thighs.
Or bow to a God of Mercy and Compassion who’ll throw you in hell if you cross the line. Forgo your sensual animal nature; spend your precious human hours striving not to sin.
To take your mind off your troubles, create a god. Forget you created it. 

- Tricia Dearborn 2011
Tricia Dearborn is an award-winning poet and short-story writer whose work has appeared in literary journals and anthologies in Australia, the UK, the US and India. Her poem sequence ‘The Ringing World’ was joint winner of the 2008 Poets Union Poetry Prize, and her poem ‘Come In, Lie Down’ appeared in The Best Australian Poetry 2008. Her first collection was Frankenstein’s Bathtub (Interactive Press, 2001). In 2009 she received a Developing Writers grant from the Australia Council for the Arts. She is currently completing her second collection.

Wednesday, February 09, 2011

Two Fires Poetry Competition

Two Fires Poetry CompetitionFirst prize worth $1000
Closing date 1 March 2001
Two Fires Poetry Competition for poem up to 30 lines
Download entry form from
Results will be announced at the Two Fires Festival of Arts & Activism in Braidwood NSW April 1st to 3rd.

Enquiries 02 48461075

Friday, February 04, 2011

New Poetry by Mike Berger

Fire in the Kerri

Running like hell straight
for the billabong; fire biting
my arse.

Pushed by devil winds,
flames jump and explode.
Gum trees are matchsticks.

Orange tongues searing the
sky; dense smoke stings
my eyes.

Whirlwinds wind in
tight circles. Blackened
earth gapes where
fire danced.

Diving headlong, the
cold water steals my breath.
Bombarded by flaming embers;
choking in the dense smoke.

The roar of the fire passes;
leaving trees smoldering,
emitting bright orange glows.

Despite its brutal charge,
the fire was an awesome 

- Mike Berger 2010

Mike Berger is an MFA, PhD. He is retired and writes poetry and short stories full time. He has been writing poetry for less than two years. His work appear in seventy-one journals. He has published two books of short stories and three poetry chapbooks. He is a member of The Academy of  American Poets.

A video homage to poet Jim Harrison by John Hospodka

 According to Wikipedia.......

James "Jim" Harrison (born December 11, 1937) is an American author known for his poetry, fiction, essays, reviews, and writings about food. He has been called "a force of nature,[1]" and his work has been compared to that of William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway.[2] Harrison's characters tend to be rural by birth and have retained some of the best of an agrarian pioneer ancestry by dint of their intelligence and some formal education. They have attuned themselves to the best of the natural and civilized worlds, surrounded by excesses but determined to live their lives as well as possible.[3]