Posts tagged ‘2018’

Tuesday, 2 November 2021

Packing a Punch by Scott Thomas Outlar

Not every poem
has to hit a homerun
pertaining to the wit
with which it is presented.

It is not perfection
that is expected,
only the pursuit thereof.


Date: 2018

By: Scott Thomas Outlar (19??- )

Friday, 20 August 2021

Recalcitrant Paperbark by Ross Jackson

roosting ibis unknot her leafy brows
unpick her twigs
long shadow off her shoulders
entices mosquitoes into reeds

planted in mud
her one big leg bared
solid stance of a peasant woman

skirts hoicked above the surface
lace petticoats damp
at the hem

like fists at the sky her thickset
limbs defy
any storms that would see

her curly crown

From: Jackson, Ross, “Recalcitrant paperbark” in Eureka, Vol. 28, No. 3, 11-Feb-2018, pp. 59-60.

Date: 2018

By: Ross Jackson (19??- )

Monday, 12 July 2021

Nursery Crime by Andrea Ward

Ring a wrong of jangle keys
a pocketful of dearth

Four and twenty blackbirds
chime havoc in the heart

Shrink the heart with shaming
Make it keep account

Twist the song to locking
Pluck the clockwork out

Purse the savage silence
Stitch the gaping mouth

For if the throat should open
if the captive sing

then infinitude of blackbirds
terror taking wing.


Date: 2018

By: Andrea Ward (19??- )

Sunday, 27 June 2021

Orison: February, Eugene, Oregon by Garrett Kaoru Hongo

for Al Young

Months of heavy rain and the back lawn is an emerald pond
with islands of fig and apple trees and their dirt collars
darkening under the pixilated gray of a computer-screen sky.

I’ve cinched my desires in a handful of thin books,
wired the dwarf pines and maples in their pots on the deck
and instructed them in Soul Train and break-dance poses
to beguile my children and signify what’s past.

Which is various: Motown and min’yo blaring together on the PA of my high school gym,
emanations of soul and shamisen from the living room stereo
back when I was a child, Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come”
rising like a willow tree by a smooth-flowing river
banded with a long slick of stars streaking across its back
in a wall-hanging of calligraphy and gaudy prints over the Silvertone console.

I tell myself I’ve drifted too far now to go back,
my karma the boat of a dry leaf caught in the swirls of that river
taking me from ghetto to this immaculate garden without stain or confusion,
everything so calm and forgotten, the anguish I have
like the darting squirrel that emerges, a nervous and comic thing,
unavailed of all the refulgence and splendor that surrounds him
and would inspire a lapse from instinct and pain
if not for the immutable worry that jags through his heart like a dance.


Date: 2018

By: Garrett Kaoru Hongo (1951- )

Monday, 24 May 2021

Portrait by Neika Lehman

When I was 24 I was cheating on my boyfriend
and my mother had cancer. Now I’m 28 I sleep with
women, read dirty poetry and laugh at jokes about
theorists I don’t understand.

My country is dry, but when you think of my country
it is wet. I am de-colonial frantic, a blip in your ocean.
These days I have more freckles than I do sins. I
carry my ancestor’s see-through jawbone on a string
around my neck. I am beneath a she-oak of social
media. I am always already falling for you. We have
already broken up.

From: Blak Brow: ‘Portrait’ by Neika Lehman — The Lifted Brow

Date: 2018

By: Neika Lehman (19??- )

Thursday, 22 April 2021

Aubie: Kokoda: 1988 by Elanna Lowes Herbert

after the ambulance
the final rush from home
swept up by your past
your breath your war
the coma begins. short.
sharp. rattles of phlegm
covet the vastness your
unchosen experience your
retelling untold
crinkle sheets hospital sterile
wrap the remains of memory
around a wasted body. coma
inductions strong as birthing
surface pull terror up clutching
clots of humid night thoughts your
war distils over a horizon
seeps into whiteness a
Canberra Hospital room cold
beyond the July freeze. we wait
slowly. occasionally fidgeting. drawn
into fear your life’s end echoes
battle foetid Kokoda
Ioribawa Oivi
Gona strange murmurings
mates’ cries your reply
their unheard calls our
witness. your chosen
breath shouts. sharp.
short. useless as pain at lungs
drowning lungs
dying is never that
moment. you prepare.

From: Herbert, Elanna, “Aubie: Kokoda: 1988” in Meniscus, Volume 6, Issue 2, 2018, p. 11.

Date: 2018

By: Elanna Lowes Herbert (19??- )

Saturday, 20 February 2021

As the Days Pass by Kamini Roy

As the days pass, darkness overwhelms me
I see not the divine light; hear not that oracle
Childhood fancies, dreams I think countless
All those yearn to believe as truth…
Of my present condition, like many others
I too move, meet chores: Oh! What feat
I hoped, how noble could I do but
Awakened to fetters in my hand cruel
Inability ceases this life
Unceasingly overpower, not a drop of strength
To combat, bewail in vain
In my heart hopelessness resides
In the anterior depressing signs rubbed
Stopped flowing tears, sigh, lament
Laugh when the world laughs, but impossible
This constant self-oblivion, what arcane warmth
Keeps me awaken, underneath the oceans’ waves
As hot current within the secret chambers
Beneath the calmness and felicity of life
The river of despair streams perpetual.


Date: c1889 (original in Bengali); 2018 (translation in English)

By: Kamini Roy (1864-1933)

Translated by: Srirupa Mahalanabis (19??- )

Saturday, 13 February 2021

Are You in the Mood? by John Kenney

I am.
Let’s put the kids down.
Have a light dinner.
Maybe not drink so much.
And do that thing I would rather do with you than anyone else.
Lie in bed and look at our iPhones.

From: Kenney, John, Love Poems for Married People, 2019, Transworld Publishers: London, p. [unnumbered].

Date: 2018

By: John Kenney (19??- )

Friday, 22 January 2021

Fears and Feelings by Edilson Afonso Ferreira

There are certain weekends and holidays
when I feel myself somewhat insecure.
I worry if walking ghosts have not occupied
the void of empty streets and closed doors,
looking at me as an intruder or suspicious
on their ways.
I miss hearing the sound of hammers and
hoes, the strident come and go of saw blades,
the brushing of pens on paper or keyboards
being typed throwing feelings to the world.
I love the imprecations of painters and artists
when they can’t find the pure art they look for.
I love children screaming through the sidewalk,
running endless races only they are capable of.
I love the noise of people on streets and alleys,
corners and places,
moving to destinies only they are aware of,
hard struggling to make their lives a story.
I love hearing someone making something,
even if it is the buzzing of bees.


Date: 2018

By: Edilson Afonso Ferreira (1944- )

Wednesday, 13 January 2021

The Science of Jumping by Belinda Rimmer

Born of birds
I suited the science of jumping.
For years, plimsoll shod I’d leap through the air,
land bottom-up in the midst of a stormy sandpit.

I won medals, courted crowds
who shouted my name with trumpet breath.
I believed in everlasting childhood.
Hated the dull hunched ache of breasts.
They threw me off kilter –
no more hop, skip, jump.

In dreams I’m often perched in trees –
a tribute to that time
when I was born of birds.


Date: 2018

By: Belinda Rimmer (19??- )