Tuesday, February 19, 2019

New Poetry by David Ades

When the Time Comes

When the time comes
bury me in the graveyard

of stillborn, of abandoned projects,

begun with good intentions
and fluttering banners of hope,

left in a litter of bones

in a crush of circumstance,
a hail of lost opportunity

and grieved, each one,

for what might have been,
if only the drum of my efforts

breached the walls of implacability.

- David Ades 2019

David Ad├Ęs has just moved house (again) and swears (again) that he will NEVER EVER move house (again)! He is the author of Mapping the World, the chapbook Only the Questions Are Eternal and most recently Afloat in Light (https://uwap.uwa.edu.au/products/afloat-in-light). David lives (in his latest house) in Beecroft with his wife and three children.

Sunday, February 17, 2019

New Poetry by Terry Wheeler

last night in bangkok 

that thousand mile
stare of a soi cowboy

girl tables away
praying tonight she

will find something 
to smile about

the band’s heart of
gold a train wreck 

tall skinny white hair
german keeps stepping 

outside for a smoke
thai guy in hawaiian 

shirt eating peanuts 
been here centuries 

next band are killers
seen last year kick

off with white wedding 
drummer solid a seventy

year old legend skull 
capped faded clash 

t-shirt segue into
achy breaky heart

billie ray cyrus meets
motown soul where

creedence clearwater are
still called the golliwogs

- Terry Wheeler 2019

Terry is a Brisbane poet.

Tuesday, January 29, 2019

New Poetry by Claire Roberts

After Gustave

Here is the horizon 
Dark blue
Followed by a faint line / stretch of 
And the imperceptible point between
Where they don’t meet /
Touch but are laid out 
Side by side

These are also sunlit
Clouds rolling as
A wave does under
The surface of 

Above the…
Spread out like 

Crystal blue then
Dark over the depths
Or under the shadows of the 
Clouds before it turns
Sand coloured over / toward 
The revolving
Storm breaking 
With sunlight

Culminating / until 
A thin blue stripe advances / 

Overlaps the
Announces this is paint.

- Claire Roberts 2019

Claire Miranda Roberts is a current postgraduate student at the University of St Andrews. Her poetry has appeared in Island Magazine, Southerly Journal and Cordite Poetry Review. 

New Words and Images by Wayne H. W Wolfson

Narrative Sixteen

 Lucy had that way of looking both beautiful and tough that let me know that I would not be any good for her. At least not as promised by the end of countless movies. 
 I was looking for a hanger for my jacket as it deserved better than merely the back of a chair. 
 She was in the other room. I had said water would be fine but I swore that  I heard the pa-pop of a cork being pulled, echoing the cadence too of a thousand French waiters hitting three fingers against puffed out cheeks and  pursed lips in acknowledgment of their approval and that they will get on it right away. 
 Motion creates the illusion of accomplishment. Sharks are over achievers. Something caught the corner of my eye.

 I had no idea where the light switch was and so decided to stand still and wait to see if it made its way into the strip of night sky that was spilling in through the ill placed window. 
 She came in holding two glasses. With a laugh:
"What are you doing?" 
 The light.  A long centipede slowly crawled along the horizon line where floor meets wall. 
 It was all yellows and oranges with spots of molted black. There was a wet reddish piece of meat in its mouth which is managed to continue to carry. 
 I shuddered and rapidly slapped both my shoulders in confirmation that nothing was on me.
 Lucy too was transfixed.
 "I cant believe I used to smoke those things."

- Wayne H.W Wolfson 2019

For further information about Wayne's writings and art, just click on the link below.


Saturday, January 19, 2019

New Poetry by Karen May

Dreaming in Music

I wake sometimes
to a dream of music
the notes play
and laugh in the dark

and just for a moment
let themselves be read
like clear and shining words
lined up along the stave 

like the sudden illumination
of a foreign tongue.
But then the score elides
and their keening begins.

What is it that they grieve
as I drift between
the land of words
and music’s seas? 

Do they sing
elegies for wisdom
laments for learning
a grim coda to virtuosity? 

Do they cry
of the blue dance of the depths
stilled, last chords 
fading, words failing? 

Do they sing and sing
of all the light
that might have been.

- Karen May 2019

Karen May writes poetry, sometimes combined with art practice. She grew up in remote areas of Australia and has worked in universities, NGOs and Canadian foreign affairs. For a long while now she has lived in the Southern Tablelands and Canberra.