Poets & Poems
By Anna Jacobson
Mum gives Nana a shower cap
disco ball sequins sewn on top
aqua brooch pinned above the frilly trim.
‘I got one for my birthday too.’
Nana’s laughter ...
By Evelyn Araluen Corr
Beyond your stage
the audience murmur
men and women weep
and silk their skin bare,
for here and gone and taken.
Held by mostly mountains now
you wear crowns
By Manal Younus
I watched my grandmother weave
She’d sit on the concrete
Her henna covered soles
Pressing down on the plaited lakha reeds
Smooth beneath her foot
I watched her ...
By Bonny Cassidy
Malcolm Howie, painter of fungi
bound his watercolours and died, aged 36.
From age 16 he was unable to walk, and towards the end of his life
only able to ...
By GT Sewell
The wind carried the words through Bakery Hill.
For the white, and, the blue. The blood that was spilt.
So many have gathered, so many shall fall.
We are in ...
By Lorna Munro
Maria My place is pink.
Willow Taste of the salt and sand and wind.
Ada The pale silvery eggs at dusk.
Jennifer Is this where I truly belong?
Abigail I ...
By John Bennett
The Opera House squats on Djubuguli, once a tidal island
facing a sandstone cliff bracing our first farm whose sandy,
tough conditions dealt a pitiful crop of wheat and ...
By John Stokes
(from ‘flower-drum sequence’)
Here it was lost, that blood-quiet ground;
guilt and imaginary loves gripping
the shade trunks of bitter-vine
that joined one year to another
across the face of ...
By Magdalena Ball
First there is touch
teasing evergreen into position
hot plasma in the morning
you can feel the tension
the garden on full alert
By Stuart Cooke
sclerophyll forests, where the wind
moans in yourm leaves, a storm beating
in muffled drums at the entrance
to the underworld, the lands
By Paul Scully
Envy prowls the highway-perimeter
Modest bungalows interspersed
in turn-of-the-century streets
California among the porticos and finials
Black, always coke-black
somewhere in his outfit braiding the mottled manilla
and bottle green ...
By Tony Lintermans
Rosewood, a tree that I have never seen
except embalmed in chairs, rises each night
in a forest of thick cries writhing
under bulldozer blades at Dorrigo.
A hundred years ...
They tried to regrow the forest.
Met on alternate Saturdays
with baby trees in tubes,
buckets, plastic tree-guards.
The rows of holes, sheltered
seedlings, rations of water
their day-off task ...
By SCCC Poets
By Peter V.
“The loss is not the imprisonment of four walls, but the imprisonment of your mind.”
How many of you have truly learnt their lessons?
Did they lead ...
By SCCC Poets
Give me the chance to make it right
Only then you’ll see the man in me
Who don’t make mistakes and ask for forgiveness
By SCCC Poets
“Impress” that’s the way I dress
When you’re down on the ground you need some finesse
“Rubble” that’s what I leave when dealin with trouble ...