TheThe Poetry
≡ Menu

You sit down to write a report entitled, “How is it possible for one person to kill another?” An hour later you wander off into the streets, leaving a blank page pocked with dark nothings. You see people cover coughs, remove glasses, wave goodbyes, adjust headsets, thumb mobiles, stub out cigarettes and arrange hair in ways that suggest intimate worlds and private moments. Almost every action unaware, an unnoticed use of the hands. You wonder how many more steps in the direction of unconsciousness would be required for one of those pairs of hands to be raised against another. You fall into the hole between the hand and the heart and stay there because it is easier than answering such questions. Australian born Richard James Allen has published nine books [...]

dream in which you survive and in the morning things are back to normal

The Eggshell Parade brings you a The Noisy Reading Series reading and interview from poet Michelle Bitting. Michelle reads her poem “Free,” which appears in the winter 2012 issue of diode.

The story of Cain is built into the founding mythos of America, whose people were cast out of Europe to violently master "uncivilized" land.

Ghosts bristle from the grimy grout of cobbles and tiles. Foot -paths, the Ouija board. Feet pulled by forces to trace, decrypt names. Whispers just audible to haunted ears. Pedestrians strollers and filth, endless streets. My mind an accomplice a terrified toddler, curious climbs the steps toward the attic a house planted on dead memories. Eyes catch shadows, shoes read the Braille of faces. Shades surface beneath my boots, blacken the soles on the sullen trail, a ghost-infested city.  Ali Alizadeh's latest book is Ashes in the Air (UQP, 2011), shortlisted for the Prime Minister's Literary Award, Poetry. His next novel will be published by UQP in 2013. He is a Lecturer in Creative Writing at Monash University. He has a website:


She took her sweet time, I suspect, in order to release something rare, special, and dangerous -- a finished book.

The ecstasies of the “secular” are sacred.

Because the river is never still enough to reflect the sky, I want to stay. I want to say to strangers, who say I love you, it’s untrue. The mirrors of their eyes only blind me. There’ll be no ovation. There’s hardly a road. Home is a distant thought, hovering on a squall. I spot a chapel in the shade covered in lichen’s dull brocade. No-one’s looking at me, kid. Take a flake of rock, scratch the word Ingrid into bark, letter by letter. By the force of my hand, I might earn permanency. Let that plane leave without me. Ivy Alvarez is the author of Mortal (Washington, DC: Red Morning Press, 2006). She held both the MacDowell Fellowship (USA) and the Hawthornden Fellowship (UK) in 2005. Her poetry appears in journals and [...]

To the Night Shark

The Eggshell Parade brings you a The Noisy Reading Series reading and interview from poet Michael Homolka. Mike reads his poem “Family V,” which appears in the inaugural issue of Phoenix in the Jacuzzi Journal.

Bradstreet is an outlier of most received literary groupings.

So, thus far, I am both annoyed and delighted all at once, and I have a sneaking suspicion the poet would not mind that I be both annoyed (or irritated/agitated like a clam) and delighted all at once.

floats down river worries about mud lice and loss of power stops in no parking zones will recall a brief encounter with a Gospel piano enters the playground of roofs yields nothing to hungry dogs or startled onlookers no longer holds blood orange and old sausage bumps into bridges asks nothing of river bank mourns broken seals steals past ships notes other white goods on top of cars at the bottom of swimming pools cannot avoid direct sunlight releases carbon slowly into surging brown water born to beer once dated an esky hovers over houses is alarmed by outboard motor drifts past factories plays dodgem with bus stops glides through the drive through carries no change does not order a fudge sundae bears more than it’s own weight ferries the [...]


Abendessen The statues of Berlin spent decades underwater- during the final days all of them were tossed, all those iron men were tossed into the canals for safekeeping. Picture the face of Geothe caressed by weeds, at home beneath a sheet of solid ice unmovable through the darkest months. There are no ghosts: only statues. Haunting is a notion too obscene, there are no ghosts: this house is clean. tourists, students of human atrocity swarm and sip from glass phials her ashen residues as verigated diverse and seductive as any French wine, or Belgian chocolate. The water itself remembers, though its course is fixed: the tour begins at Zoo station and will conclude at the Jewish Memorial. But where do they sleep these innumerable children of trauma? do they make [...]