Still nouns
this is a poemthat will choose its words slowly because too much hastewill have it galloping offwith foam-flecked flanks across aninfinite desertof despair searching for verbsand adjectives tofill the pitiless blanknessthat might open beneath itsstalled and lonely feet
instead it might breathetrembling and still all the nouns that hold themselves here
it could observe each sand grain it would feel each wind rippleand smell every beatof the sun and in furtherstillness a singleraindrop just one slow raindropwhose silver heaviness will
promise everything
–Debi Hamilton
The talks fail
Words should not be loved so much.We ought to see through themto some other place, but insteadwe are mad for them, booming at usfrom speakers, spitting as we pass.See me! Buy me! Love me!
Lives revolve around such baubles.Monkeys know how to throw the stuffso it sticks. That's what you want— congealed essences, storiesyou can taste as well as read.
Just like carbonpoetry makes the world hotter.What's wanted is meaning; we getemissions, radiating from scalpstoo thin to hold the gasses in.Every last lineescapes into the too-heavy sky,like a problem we do not believe in enough.
Will we make it to higher ground?Or will our nightmares drown us,our throats awash with useless sound,gurgling into oblivion?
–Jeff Klooger
Distracted muse
Isn't it amazing, poets,what comes between us andpoetry?That privet root I didn't noticetill I was hanging out the washing.And the car registration —Gods! they'll never give me another pink slip.No, I am not going to do another load of washingor pick up that piece of old spaghetti(Even the lizards are trying to hypnotise me)or think about the dog's fleasor the two micethat went walking in the kitchen last night.Only a strong coffee can get me started now.If I could just track down that green folderor is it the blue one?No, lizards, you will not have your wayfor I must needs reflect onmy poet's epitaph.
–Brendan Doyle
The other me
The other meFinally freeNo longer on useless shopping spreesNo longer overeatingKnowing the difference between right and wrongSinging a happy songBright and cheeryNo longer dull and drearyA brand new womanNow packing to go on great holidaysWanting to live life to the fullNo longer tied to ones obsessions and possessionsLike a lonely boat tied up at sea
–Isabella Fels
Debi Hamilton is a Geelong psychologist who has recently taken to writing poems and short stories, some of which have been published over the past 12 months.
Jeff Klooger's poetry has been published in his native Australia (including in Eureka Street)