Author: Christine Elizabeth Murray

“Love: After Neruda’s Sonnet XXXIII” by Ingrid Casey

Love: After Neruda’s Sonnet XXXIII   Florica walks behind Inspector, to home where she’s not at-home. Children’s eyes and begonias meet her here, on this threshold, waiting for her to give them chocolate, water.   Her crushed velvet skirts have followed his silver through tracts, across karst; Carpathia, Kiev, Berlin. Now here, to eternal damp and clouded summers and loved masonry.   He sees the amber of the sun in her kitchen eyes at day’s end; she’s a building that flies without buttress.   He lets her make coffee and listens to her laugh peal in time to the boiling water, bells in unison.   Erasmus   Anwar and Pierre flew to the university town on this damp island at the edge of Europe two months ago. Zarabe and gros blanc, they are a marbled unit, lines blurred. She is too cold, he rubs life back into her but she’s not singing any more Creole love songs because the fruit here is so shit, she says. She watches droplets of condensation on the window with …

“Morning in the Garden” in Şiirden 37

My thanks to Müesser Yeniay who is editor of Şiirden Magazine (of Poetry) and who translated “Morning in the Garden” for issue 37 of the magazine. The poem first appeared in ANU 48 (Editor, Amos Grieg). You can read some of Müesser Yeniay’s work at the following links, Three Poems, Phoenix and other poems, and Kafes (The Cage) and other poems. For me, poetry  can be about cross-cultural pollination (translation) and it can occur at very simple levels, without the trumpets and big budgets. Ekphrasis need not be limited to the image, nor need it be static. The issue is always quite simply about the poet’s response to the poetry of another. I am very grateful to Müesser for her translation of my work.

“Disarticulation” and other poems by Clare McCotter

Selfie With Thelma after Thelma and Louise   In the Southwest desert shedding turquoise on an old man’s palm she trades time for a beat up Stetson hat. Only a day or two since she posed with rose red lips black sun glasses and Audrey Hepburn headscarf marking the start of their journey with the big Polaroid held at arm’s length.   A snapshot of two smiling faces left lying on the backseat of a convertible loaded down with all the stuff they thought they needed pencilling in borders shoring up boundaries soon smudged with ochre earth lost in the dust from a stampede of stars.   Everything looks different now doused with dirt they are part of place gunning the engine before flooring it for the canyon cliff. Out here at Dead Horse Point there are no shallow graves wooden markers or name plates only a thunderbird still whipping up storms suspended in a high solitary leap of faith.   Disarticulation in memory of E M   For them the grave gave no rest. …

“Mallards” by C. Murray

Mallards This is the crossroads, this is where it is. Black cat has killed a male chaffinch. There are rusty feathers all over, feather blown they roll down the steps                            |they indicate a way| your freedom,                             robin heralds it,                             someone has put up bunting                                                                 even, and you are caught on that first step of your descent in a pause of red, of white.  “Mallards” is © C. Murray & it was first published in ANU 48

The Light Dancing” and “Lizzie” by Catherine Conlon

The Light Dancing When I close the door my father’s coat slow-dances against the dark wood. It is old, this coat, marked by many winters, labours of a lifetime done. I imagine him in the front yard screening sand for the new extension, coat collar upturned against the breeze, a cigarette ashing towards his lip. There’s a light in his eyes when I stop during play to prattle and hear him say “you’re the best woman in the house” Now coming from the Big Field, the day’s farming done, his great hands in deep pockets. Dark shoulders that bear a darkness coming, the last of the light dancing on his wet boots. (first published in Ropes 2015. Issue 23) Lizzie I had a child’s view of her, black stockinged legs without shape of calf or ankle at my grandmother’s hearth, the fire shining in her laced-up shoes. Balls of wool from an old shopping bag, and her tongue like the clappers as she looped and purled. Her needles took up the light, flew like red …