Tag Archives: Poetry

Shoe-horn

I am helping my mum into her new Saucony trainers that are black with white soles. We have left the shop where we bought them; without a shoe-horn, she has a problem. Kneeling before her, I draw at segments of the cross-woven laces, snug in their eyelets, spread the collar of each shoe, smooth out […]

before take-off

i settle back into my budget airline seat i shall be occupying for the next seven hours i close my eyes, and nestle deeper, feeling unexpected ease it does not bother me that all i can hear is carry-on bags scraping into overhead compartments because i listen the way i would listen to the river […]

What I Know

The State Library in late evening is an ancient world: low light outside trickling through glassed-ceilings, wooden floors gleaming against the dimness, shadowed figures about to leave. These quiet hours you walk into the musty odours of old volumes, feel the movement of a hushed dialogue, like stiff wind upon brushwood. The time of your […]

The New Connection

People today use their cell-phones way too much. They are busy all the time. You see their mouths move animatedly while they are driving. They don’t stop at pedestrian-crossings; they go in the wrong direction on one-way streets. In the office tuck-shop workers satiate their eyes with someone else’s lunch on Instagram. Across the table, […]

The Writer

On Tram 48, running from Balwyn North to Victoria Harbour Docklands, where all the footy bums come on-board, enroute to the stadium, there is one who has a large-screen cellphone in which she uses to write, from stop to stop. She touches upon the alphabets, without obvious hesitation, quickly, her thumbs tip-toeing across the keyboard, […]

Thomas

I got off the city-tram last night, and turned up a narrow alley-way, that led to the bus-stop for my connecting ride home. The doors to coffee-shops were closed; a black umbrella lay broken in one corner; and on the concrete ground was imbedded a message of the heart. Somebody loved somebody who loved her […]

Dark

What pleasure there is in sitting up on the couch in the small hours of the morning, sipping hot milk, looking out the window, where strings of orange bulbs on the horizon gleam like self-assurance, reading Whitman’s sublime Leaves of Grass, steeped in Chopin’s sweet Nocturnes, watching doctors on the silent tv fight to save […]