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Australian

Poetry Collaboration

#22

 

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from Meuse Press –

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SPIRIT OF SYDNEY-

POETRY ALIVE

 

 

From among over 400 submissions 20 poems were selected to be read at Manly Art Gallery.

Some of the country’s leading poets presented alongside energetic local voices. This is a selection from the day.

Sunday 6 December, 2015
Manly Art Gallery & Museum, West Esplanade Reserve, Manly

This event was part of Destination Sydney Exhibition
at Manly Art Gallery & Museum (5 December 2015 - 14 February 2016).
In an unique collaboration, three major Sydney public galleries presented the
work of nine major artists to celebrate the important influence Sydney has
had on some of Australia's greatest painters; Lloyd Rees, Brett Whiteley,
Elisabeth Cummings (Manly Art Gallery & Museum), John Olsen, Kevin
Connor, Peter Kingston (Mosman Art Gallery) and Margaret Preston,

Grace Cossington Smith, Cressida Campbell (S.H. Ervin Gallery).

This project was supported by the D.I.G. (Dream. Inspire. Grow)
Manly Sustainability Program at Manly Council.

 

http://www.manly.nsw.gov.au/attractions/gallery/

 

 

 

FEATURING (in order of appearance): Alan Jefferies, Rae Desmond Jones, Beth Spencer, Anna Couani, Paul Scully, joanne burns, Norm Neill, jenni nixon, John Carey,

Martin Langford, Jenny Pollak, Susan Adams, Michele Seminara, Ross Donlon, Thoraiya Dyer, Margaret Bradstock & Andrew Franks.

 

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

 

¯

Alan Jefferies

Sighting, 1988

 

 

A man is lying face down

in Botany Bay.

I’m not certain

if he’s swimming or he’s snorkelling

or he’s just plain pretending

but he’s definitely floating

in smaller and smaller circles,

hanging from the sky like it was a banner

Bobbing up and down

in the very blue waters of Botany Bay.

 

He’s attracting less and less attention

from a group of well meaning tourists, who shout

and  point the other way.

He’s failing to interest

the traffic, or the shopkeepers,

this man seems so unafraid.

 

He’s neither black nor white

(often he appears quite gray)

I’ve heard it said

it happens every other day

A man is drowned

in the very blue waters of Botany Bay.

Previously published Sydney Morning Herald

¯

Rae Desmond Jones

Bandstand in Yeo Park (Ashfield)

(Opened by Ald. F. O. Hedger, Mayor 30 November 1929)

 

The twenty first century

Has dropped onto you, old whale

Whitening in the Sun

Rising from a sea of lawn,

Bleaching with slow dignity.

 

As you rise the clocks on each side

Point up with immobile fingers

To condemn the smoking lines

Of trucks & cars rolling

Along Old Canterbury Road

With such rude certainty

 

Your silence reflecting

A spring sky in glassy water

Feeding those hungry mosses patiently

Gnawing your base

¯


Beth Spencer

We Are the Rejected

 

The rejected in love

come down to sigh in the park

at Glebe Point.

 

The rejected drive down late at night

crammed in a yellow two door sedan

radio blaring,

arms flailing out of windows

hair a mess, mascara running.

 

We shout

'We are the REJECTED!'

across Blackwattle Bay

 

and wait

 

and the shark coloured water

creaks against the bank

'Hmmm... Hmm...'

like a $90 shrink.

 

'We are THE REJECTED!'

again, just to be sure

because it is comforting to be something

even if it's only this

 

and up on the other side of the bay

the cars cruise by

headlights politely averted.

 

But we are everywhere,

in the dark in the bushes, on benches

kneeling or leaning against the white rails

resting our foreheads against lamp-posts

bumping them against fences (boop, boop).

 

As dark falls on Glebe Point

you can hear the rustling of the

grievers, the deceived

listen to the

'Hmmm… Hmmm…' of the bay

and see the cars drive away

(the unrejected, with places to go, busy schedules).

 

The chimney stacks:

(no comment).

 

The skyline glitters

out of reach

like a big birthday cake

for someone's party that the rejected are

too dejected to go to

(and weren't invited in the first place).

 

We are the world's nocturnal shuffling creatures,

hunched shoulders, long thin overcoats

pale lined faces.

 

Short, fat, balding, beautiful, long-legged,

smart, witty, dull and mean.

We come in all types.

Shuffling through the trees,

leaning against the white rail,

knocking our heads against lamp-posts

doing hand-stands in the dark,

avoiding the dog shit.

 

'We are the rejected,' we shout and we hear the echoes

and sighs all around us in the bushes and on the benches,

a woman is kneeling at the white rail.

 

'Hmmm… Hmm…' says the water.

 

'We are the rejected!' we shout.

 

'Not my problem' say the cars going up the hill (somewhere).

 

We are the weepers, the left

the ones with

big question marks in our eyes

the ones still hoping.

 

Gnawed fingernails, chewed hair.

 

'We are REJECTED!'

 

'Hmm… Hmm…' says the water.

 

We are the rejected.

Previously published in The Party of Life (flying islands)

¯

Anna Couani

Ideas for Novels 7

 

Sydney gives you space to breathe

with its up and down hills

and huge liquid ambers

 

skinny peninsulas

deep deep harbour

 

anonymity

lost in the crowd

 

trams that live on

in Australian novels

 

my generations

in the inner city

 

a blessing

a curse

 

the city as it is lived

 

the Greek kids

four brothers

who built canoes

from corrugated iron

and tar

to sink like a stone

in Rose Bay

 

the glittering church windows

of John Radecki

Polish great grandpa

nestling like forgotten jewels

in corners of the city

only discovered by us atheists

fifty years later

 

Mum and Dad snapped in Lee Street

just as it is today

with the old stone wall

the steep slate roof

looking like Ingrid Bergman and Gregory Peck

in Spellbound

especially as they were doctors

and the shot was in black and white

 

the excitement of the CBD

all of us walking those streets

different feet

different decades

across 140 years

 

Uncle Con’s café in George Street

long and narrow

and Con, ex-army cook

frantic at the grill

way down inside

how did he stop customers

from running off without paying?

 

John Radecki’s stained glass factory

in Dixon Street

near today’s Food World food court

when the buildings were entirely blackened

and grandma toiling to keep it afloat

struggling with her heart condition

and her proud husband

 

Uncles George and Con

later on

with the fruit barrow

horse-drawn

just outside

the old Anthony Hordern’s building

spinning those paper bags

carrying change in those leather aprons

 

Auntie Nellie in the Oceanic Café

for 65 years

                   on the other side of Central Station

Mum on the till

pregnant with me

                   strange she was taking time off her own work

                   and 10 years later was working just up the hill

 

those Poles and those Greeks

 

the place more like an American city

for us

seemed like we were in the wrong movie

¯

                               Paul Scully          

Henley Park Canto

                                            33:54:30 S,151:6:190 E

 

This cul-de-sac sits like a thermometer bulb at the bottom of a street lined

with housing of various degrees–Californian bungalows, miners’ cottages

adapted to open-cut suburbia, stucco incursions that conceal grandiloquent

stairways while the next generation experiments with sheepishness.

 

Nearby,  a distant view would have sketched calligraphic brushstrokes

in gold-clearing light, stick figures stepping on egg shells while their hands wove

jing in the bountiful void between the cresting sun and resting moon. 

                                                                                                           South-east,

acres of bermudagrass lie still in regimented fields, while athletes, joggers

 

and mums in three-quarter tights pushing bivouac strollers hug the convention

of perimeter.  On weekends the fields thud and scrape with the long ball booted

forward by a thirsty fullback and sprigs that bite the turf for grip, or

the vertical alignment of a bowler in delivery stride and the deliberating willow

 

of a watchful batsman.

                                            Foam-soft, low-swung play equipment breaks

the park’s sporting stranglehold and evokes hardier memories.

      My thoughts

            rove, like Rilke’s dog, around the corner to the off-leash strip beside the back fences

          and its yap for a greater allotment.  It peters out at the slope the graders forgot

 

and the garden border of the Blind Centre that has toiled for decades to be

seen.  Across the road the forever “new” nursery has retained the cocky cages

and fish ponds of its predecessor, though its owners reportedly hunger

for tenements.

                               The dog comes to heel, returns to the leash at the cyclone fencing

 

on the boundary of the pool that abuts the cul-de-sac.  In the civilian lane a burkini

reveals girlish joy within the strictures of her faith.   Alongside lap swimmers

ply their litanies of stroke and kick.  Those who shudder at the merest whisper

of respiting breeze seal themselves in the humidicrib of the heated pool.

 

I remember I first apprehended truth’s elasticity in this pool as my father cajoled

me into swimming–an Olympian propelled me to the 33 yard mark; my brothers

and sisters share this experience in their own measure–and that the coelacanth

has inhabited the deep Indian Ocean since the Devonian Era, and swims on. 

¯


joanne burns                                                        

    keyboard   

                                  

                                          coin inacup   here's a milkcrate

                                          linguist   instant noodle meeting potts

                                          point poodle   pique explosions along

                                          the golden mile   a battered telephone

                                          dangles after a drug deal mangle in the

                                          pissed off phase   000 to go   a deficit of

                                          glory how happy is that happy hour, naive

                                          tequila squealer   why not have a contemplative

 

                                          spritzer at the photogenic

                                          fountain, sacred as a spindly homer

                                          in the setting sun   pinochet-ed of late

                                          by a ring of stark black bollards as snappy

                                          tourists circulate, weekend urinals proliferate

                                          evangelists pluck out their whiffy

                                          tunes

 

                                          clutching clipboard quizzes girls in party

                                          hats romp by making notes on cop

                                          shops adult entertainments colourful identities

                                          conserved on grubby pavement plaques   such

                                          enthusiastic squizzers   this surge to win a prize

 

                                          ibis scratch their arcane dialects into the random

                                          rubble     the duke of darlo-road's ghost, his face

                                          still glowing like a roast, begins to rattle that

                                          lavish chain of keys =

                                        

  ** 'the duke of darlo-road' [or Darlinghurst Road] was a Kings Cross figure during the 1950s

¯

Norm Neill

cbd

 

The early-morning hum of cleaners swells

to fitful choruses of snarling engines,

clattering construction sites

and shuffling grumbles of the workers’ feet

 

that echo from the cliffs of glass that glint

like waterfalls snap-frozen overnight,

their chill intensified by wailing

sirens and the flashing neon signs

 

until the sun warms tiny yellow flowers

glowing in the cracks in Hosking Place

and a cellist with a purple beanie

busking Ode to Joy by the Town Hall steps.

¯


jenni nixon

harbour spin

 

sandstone and sparkling glass buildings

grasp the sky of infinite riches

lose yourself in a city of green park beauty.

trawl down deprivation alleys where the homeless beg

on pavements with cardboard signs  

the more enterprising sell copies of The Big Issue.                

this harbour city thumping under constant reconstruction           

in a ‘bag lady’s waltz’ twirl of traffic through tunnels

burning rubber over buried shell middens

of the Gadigal people of the Eora nation    

on to freeways and down  thoroughfares into back alleys

in an eternal search for parking.

 

‘Goddess Asphalta     grant me a place  

within walking distance

that I can take time to get back and forth

before ticket inspectors overflow their coffers.’

 

a city of red traffic lights    stop-start flash headlights

on high beam reveal uneven footpaths filled not with gold   

but pedestrians   in a non-stop rush for shop sales and coffee.    

take a deep breath   as bicycle couriers flit out and in        

before braking screech of tyres and beeping horns.

in this violent city fuelled by alcohol

built on convict sweat and corpses

where  Eternity is a prophecy scrawled in chalk.

musical fireworks explode on the bridge stitched in steel

lovers like a statue   kiss at Museum of Contemporary Art.

thousands of fruit bats fly over the harbour

flutter high above St Vincent’s hospice      

where a dying poet crafts revisions.

 

in Taylor Square sticky summer heat

gays lift their gaze from each other to a flapping sky.

the sad face of the full moon

slowly climbs over the packed Sydney Opera House 

and everybody else is watching Reality TV.

a Manly ferry’s foghorn blasts warnings at tourists       

who scrutinize strange maps upside down in the Rocks  

hear faint sound of bells on warships at anchor

before opening doors to trendy stores and quaint pubs:

chocolarts    boutique belle      The Lord Nelson    Hero of Waterloo. 

listen to enfolded history of shanghaied sailors  whalers   whores

razor gangs    enthral on the ghost walk tour’s talk of rats and bubonic plague

that led to demolition of thousands of houses and green ban protests

to save what was left.

 

2.

in a multibillion-dollar playground at Barangaroo     

thin ibis stalk puddles on concrete

as a cocktail of lethal chemicals bleeds into Darling Harbour

through a pall of grey cloud the city sprawls

dotted with islands   netted by rippling water 

wooden finger wharves tease the surge

the wash of boats that scythe the bays.

over at Taronga Zoo   a giraffe nibbles treetop leaves 

fringed eyelashes blink at the best harbour views in Sydney.

 

in this throbbing city   another dance

an everlasting image etched into memory.

The Dancing Man   after the war    holding his hat high

pirouettes down the years in Martin Place

as bronze soldiers lest we forget

stand in sad remembrance at the cenotaph.

 

in Rowe Street once the heart-of-the-city

picture framers    printmakers   a bustling artist’s colony  

now the backend of tall building’s ugly laneway

graffitied  One Way   and  No Parking  signs

above rotting pamphlets   cigarette butts   syringes  

used condoms   there huddle the homeless  

who curl into threadbare comfort blankets

as shopping trolleys spill ecofriendly Woolies travel-bags

 

exhale    slowly

this city that never comes to an end

originally published swimming underground (Ginninderra, 2015)

¯

John Carey

Best Medicine

 

I have been feeding a wild kookaburra,

not because I need the company,

I tell myself, but because he has a withered

foot that puts him off-balance so his mid-winter

catch of annelids is never enough.

He visits for the grubs hatching in the rough

porous wood of the palm-tree in late August.

I call him “Byron” for the long metrical

lines of his song and the seductive imperfection

of his foot, an anapest in a platoon of spondees.

His mate seems larger and bossier

than most females, forced into a male

role by Byron’s deformity. Ladies

never take their love to town once the knot is tied.

They greet me each morning with a stifled

chuckle that settles into a sort of purring

as if to say: “ good morning, large-furless-

mammal-that-feeds-me”. Byron snags his meat

from the palm of my right hand. Each detail

of the ritual is repeated in perfect sequence.

Madame, always perching exactly twenty

centimetres from Byron along the balcony rail,

shivers and makes her long tail

swing up and down rhythmically like the pulse

of a mouse startled out of its cover.

She likes me to lob each piece of steak

gently within reach of her clapping beak

then she makes it disappear down her twitching

throat like a keeper’s gloves swallowing a faint snick.

They shake their heads to clear the debris,

give me the once-over, a final check

to see that my full stock of anthropomorphic

imagery is well and truly exhausted,

then off into the blue. This is not silliness

or lack of proportion. I am also kind to children.

¯

Martin Langford

                      The Currawongs

 

No matter how fine-grained the present –

a clearing of brilliant, nibbed grasses:

centreless, endless, a sea of blond etching,

stem-shadows rhyming with seedheads,

tiny white stars nestling deep

in the creases and blacks –

there are always the farewells of currawongs,

rising through neighbouring forest

and wheeling away: Goodbye to the moment,

Goodbye to the sacrament, detail.

One song, split up, amongst many;

carol of distances, echoing upwards and out,

through the high, tattered bark:

Goodbye ungraspable, looping and veering,

spiralling out through the trees…

Wherever, it seems, there’s attention;

where senses stand still in the gardens of forms:

through cold-shadowed cliffs, in the cities;

through reaches in parks; through the back-streets –

Goodbye to the moment, goodbye…

 

Goodbye to the Edens of presence

From sun doodling neon on water at Circular Quay;

from shops of worn sandstone;

from luminous weed and warm steps;

                 diasporas – the part-song departures –

        never more potent than out through a silence:

                 the pause before rain starts;

        through blue-shaded cumulus,

                  pale-green and wind-harried skies –

         blown leaf scraps, keening and belling –

                  leaving you, always, behind, at your birthplace:

         the bare rock no art can redeem –

                  the sweet-moment-just-passed.

Previously published in Sensual Horizon (FIP, 2001)

¯

Jenny Pollak

On Broken Bay

 

I'm done for done in

undone

struck down by a thousand pricks of shimmering

light slipped sideways

inside my retina losing

my mind

Unhinged by sun

a hip of rock

this smiling lip of sand this topaz

tongue (the sea that sits

so still and flat it's stolen

the sky)

But listen —

for now I'm made defenceless by a trill so sharp

and sweet

it catches in my throat

If I were not already struck dumb

by light then here I am

unmade by song

and tripping

solo

somewhere between my ear

and eye as she sharpens her beak

on a shaft of sun

Rainbows hum and air peels back

from blue to white

through rain

and spills through

light and variable

(somewhere between)

Song and Storm

¯

Susan Adams

Under the Craze of Heavens

 

There is such a large edge

                               to this pre-dawn world.

Waves swell with timeless purpose

                               after the storm

and shore rebounds with noise

                               as they thrust

towards their end.

                               Each gathering

of water a tsunami belt of ruin.

 

 

The balloon of night is pierced

                               with javelin light,

day is again the repetition of begin.

 

 

In the slope of the folding waves,

                               lit by new sun,

seaweed ripped from dark floors

                               is graceful in the eddy.

Life caught in the skirts of this kelp

                               lands to the applause of sand.

Seabirds snatch at their breakfast.

 

 

Each our own heaven,

                               each our own end

as a tangle of weed discard.

                               Yet - every torn clump

was once a ballet on a wave.

¯

Michele Seminara

Southerly Buster

 

A bloody sun rose through misty veils
another steaming white day.
Morning smoked on the red roofs
swarming the hills,
the barren headland
curled like a scorpion in the blinding sea. 

 

At the wharf
people burst out of the turnstiles
flushed girls in floating dresses
twisting in streams through the streets.

 

Cicadas skirled from the foreshores,
trees rose up to dissolve into light
and picnickers deliquesced
in the cool pools
of deep green between the pines.

 

The afternoon, wearing on,  
shone copper, the whole ocean
rolling in molten motion toward the land,
meteorologists singing up a storm
as the people, waiting, wilted.

 

Dusk gathered, houses shadowed,
the eight o’clock ferry
trailed its golden lights out of the wharf,
street lamps yellowly came on…

 

In the gloaming, the wind charged in.

Dusty leaves twisted and blazed
the grass reared itself with a pugnacious thrust
rats streaked up from the waterfront
cockroaches scuttled into cracks.

 

The sea was running high
gathering force in mile long rollers,
a howling parliament of waves plunging
booming into the caves
then draining hissing back off the rocks.

For hours the squall drove from the south,  
battering at the window panes
chattering at the doors,
and bursts of rain rang like blasts of shot.

Then, an imperceptible illumination:
in the west, a faint low glimmer
announcing the setting of the moon;
in the east, dawn breaking behind the black clouds,
the pale contour of the Heads emerging
radiant
like a somnolent lover’s limbs.

 

 

* A found poem sourced from Seven Poor Men of Sydney, by Christina Stead

¯

Ross Donlon

The Manly Boys

 

They dived for coins where the ferry docked,

slotting loose change beneath their tongues

stopping us as we arrived for the day,

white faced and fresh from the suburbs.

 

Lolling in the water, the Manly Boys,

eye whites upraised and mouths silent

watched a tossed bob sparkle and flicker

then enter the water in a  flash

 

before they ducked under faster than the coin

spangled and sashayed, until fingers slipped silver

quick as a doubloon, into a pirate mouth.

 

From the other side of the sea’s glass,

they were a boy I could never be,

they a man-boy, seal-like, sea being

me a child on leave from a suburb, 

longing either to be that boy

or else the coin held tight in his mouth.

¯

Thoraiya Dyer

Something Older

 

Is there anything that matters

more than haunting

you and I

this place where concrete desert

kisses

sizzling summer sky?

Who owns the stones? The ones

who gleam with wealth

we don’t possess?

Can they command the sea-swell,

sunlit,

foaming at the crest?

Or is there something older,

carparks cutting

through its skin?

And when we spirits, salty-cloaked

arrive

it waves us in?

¯

Margaret Bradstock

Barnacle Rock

(Reef Beach, Manly)

 

You will go back through the quiet bush

past Aboriginal middens

rainbow lorikeets nesting

                                in tree knolls

to the uninhabited beach

water dragons in pairs

scrambling up tufted rock

                     the vanishing beak of land.

 

Your voices tear

at the substance of wind

        a boy gathers shells

fragments of smashed glass

glittering like gemstones

the baby staggers in wet sand

demolishing fortified cities

                  with her plastic spade.

 

Now the kookaburra swoops, scissoring

                   ham from a sandwich

where a phalanx of crows

               falls on the picnic remains.

The mirage of a sail

crests on the swell

         like a captain looking for land

 

finding shellfish and bones of sea creatures

snapped branches jabbing like country

dividing winter

         from the frenzy of birds.

A man and his shadow

stride across skyline

         in the footprints of worn sandstone.

¯

Andrew Franks

Il dolce far niente

 

As the ozone at Freshwater surf collides

with chilled bluebottle peppered sand

demi-scorched toast clouds flutter from the Breville

Scrabble square cups of peppermint tea

are left languishing unmade

as urgent bills and rent are contentedly unpaid.

 

There is no hurry. The sun might rise. It might not.

…Il dolce far niente.

 

While the high octane clouds hum over the Spit

and Maritimo dreams collide with higher interest rates

a DVD spins idly in a sellotaped machine

and a disconnected Panasonic TV

ignores the errant doofer

as a cat falls asleep on the nice warm computer.

 

There is no hurry. The sun might rise. It might not.

…Il dolce far niente.

 

Marine birds scan the fleeing morning menu

whilst the waves approach the Steyne unbidden

solar slats turn the room into zebra town

and in the corner a Guild guitar

with mahogany looks

goes unplayed and neglected just like the piles of books.

 

There is no hurry. The sun might rise. It might not.

…Il dolce far niente.

 

The pre-lunch surge of commerce roars on

flowing through vast Warringah Mall.

In here the toilet seat remains doggedly up

and the taps are left to drip as the

water begins to rise

‘Cos we are not joining in today we are just gazing into each others eyes.

 

There is no hurry.

The sun might rise.

It might not.

…Il dolce far niente.

 

There is no hurry.

The sun might rise.

It might not.

…Il dolce far niente.

 

There is no hurry.

The sun might rise.

It might not.

 

…Il dolce far niente.

www.soulbaypress.com

 

NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS

Alan Jefferies is an Australian born poet and children’s author who now resides in Brisbane. Previously he lived in Hong Kong and was one of the co-founders of OutLoud, Hong Kong’s longest running spoken-word event. His latest collection “Seem”, is a bilingual edition (Chinese translation by Iris Fan Xing) published in Macao, China.

Rae Desmond Jones: born in Broken Hill, descended from Irish & Cornish miners. He writes heaps of poetry, and also two novels and a book of short stories. He was Mayor of Ashfield for a couple of years and enjoys making trouble. His volume L Ghazals should be published soon by Puncher & Wattmann.

Beth Spencer’s most recent books are Vagabondage, a verse memoir from UWAP, and The Party of Life, a bilingual (English-Chinese) collection from ASM/Flying Islands. Other works are a book of fiction and a double audio CD of ABC radio pieces. She lives on the Central Coast, NSW and at www.bethspencer.com.

Anna Couani is a Sydney teacher, writer and visual artist and has degrees in architecture, art education and TESOL. She worked as an art teacher for 30 years, mostly in Intensive English Centres in Sydney and more recently for 10 years, as an ESL teacher in high school. Recent publication: Small Wonders, Flying Islands Press.

Paul Scully is an actuary by training and a Sydney-based poet. His first collection, An Existential Grammar, was published by Walleah Press in 2014 and was short-listed for the Anne Elder Award. His work has been published in online and print journals in Australia and the USA.

joanne burns is a Sydney poet. Her most recent collection is brush Giramondo Publishing 2014. She is currently assembling a Selected volume of her poems, provisionally titled real land, spanning over four decades of publication.

Norm Neill’s poetry has appeared in journals, anthologies and the Sun-Herald newspaper. He has read at the Sydney Writers’ and Newtown festivals, and has been placed twice in the Inner City Life competition. He convenes a weekly poetry workshop, and publishes a free email newsletter listing NSW poetry events.

jenni nixon is a Sydney poet and performer. Readings at diverse venues include Sydney Writers Festival with Harbour City Poets. Recent poetry published with 'Spineless Wonders', 'Southerly', 'Overland', 'Homeward Bound' (India). Her book of poetry 'swimming underground' (Ginninderra) was published in September 2015.

John Carey is an ex-teacher of French and Latin and a former actor. The latest of his four collections is "One Lip Smacking" (Picaro Press 2013). He has read at the Sydney Writers Festival, Hobart, Adelaide and Melbourne.

Martin Langford has published seven books of poetry, the most recent of which is Ground (P&W, 2015). He is the editor of Harbour City Poems: Sydney in Verse 1788-2008 (P&W, 2009).  He has directed three Australian Poetry Festivals, and is the Deputy Chair of Australian Poetry Ltd. He is the poetry reviewer for Meanjin.

Jenny Pollak is a full time practicing artist and poet. For a period of ten years she also toured and performed as percussionist, flautist and backing vocalist with various African and Latin bands around Australia and in Latin America. Her primarily focus is in video and sculptural installation which incorporates poetry.

Susan Adams  Awards include: Commended 2012 O'Donoghue International Competition, Highly Commended Val Vallis 2012 ,Highly Commended Adrien Abbott 2012, Commended, Tom Collins 2015, short listed, Axel Clarke 2014, Highly Commended J.B. Yeats 2015. Read numerously on ABC Radio National. Co-editor of A Guide to Sydney Rivers, 2015.Her first book Beside Rivers, Island Press, 2013 Commended Anne Elder National Literary Awards.

Michele Seminara is a poet, editor, critic and yoga teacher from Sydney. Her writing has appeared in many online and print publications and her first single authored collection, Engraft, will be published by Island Press in early 2016. Michele is also the managing editor of online creative arts journal Verity La.

Ross Donlon hails from Strathfield near Parramatta Road. He has won international poetry competitions and hasread in many locations both here and in Europe. a sequence from his book the blue dressinggown was produced by Radio National.

Thoraiya Dyer is an award-winning, Sydney-based Australian science fiction and fantasy writer. Her short story collection, “Asymmetry,” is available from Twelfth Planet Press and her debut novel, “Crossroads of Canopy,” first in the Titan’s Forest trilogy, is forthcoming from Pan Macmillan. An ex-veterinarian, she loves bushwalking, archery and travel.

Margaret Bradstock has six published collections of poetry, including The Pomelo Tree (winner of the Wesley Michel Wright Prize) and Barnacle Rock (winner of the Woollahra Festival Award, 2014). Editor of Antipodes: poetic responses to 'settlement' (2011), Margaret won the national Earth Hour poetry competition in 2014, and the Banjo Paterson Award in both 2014 and 2015.

Andrew Franks Born on the South Coast of England. Franks has worked in local government, theatre, as an English language teacher, a cycle courier, a musician, a DJ, a radio show host and for media companies around the world. He has lived on Sydney’s Northern Beaches for the last eight years.He reads regularly at poetry events in both Australia and England. His third collection of poetry for Soul Bay Press will be published early in 2016. For more information: www.andrewfranks.com.au & www.soulbaypress.com.

 

 

 

 

 

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MEUSE PRESS publishes this collection.

All work © the authors.

 

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