Linda Stevenson is a founding member of Melbourne Poets Union, facilitator of poetry groups in gaols and community centres, contributor to anthologies. Chapbook “The Tipping Point”, a collection of eco-poems published in 2015, feature guest poet on Radio 3CR “Spoken Word”. Active as a poet within the online poetry sector, hosts regular Salons at her home in Frankston, Victoria
Cutting it fine, right down
to the hem, the bundled stitching.
We name it she passed away…
right down to the day when it’s
almost too late to scrounge for a pattern
or patches for worn parts.
She doesn’t approve of their machines
or most of their pharmaceuticals,
so she hacks with blunt scissors
at the cloth of resistance, its weave
and design, its propensity
for covering up; sews like crazy,
creates a brand new garment,
folds it like tomorrow morning.
Peter Clive lives on the southside of Glasgow, Scotland with his wife and three children. He is a scientist in the renewable energy sector. As well as poetry, he enjoys composing music for piano and spending time in the Isle of Lewis.
This is just to say
a tiger left his cage
They were small
and green and sour
so he went back
into his cage.
unknown to him
the cherries grew ripe
and heavy and red
and juicy and sweet
and I found them
and ate them.
I ate the cherries.
I’ve left some more
in the icebox
The tiger found out
about the cherries
and destroyed his cage.
to the icebox
he found out
it was empty,
with a note attached,
and tigers can’t read.
some plums there
waiting for a tiger,
so I scored out
and wrote in
and everyone was happy.
Fiona Stevens is a poet and fiction writer of Irish and English descent. She lives in New Zealand, where her prose and poetry have been published in Brief and Ingenio. She has also previously been published in The Blue Nib.
The House Tchaikovsky Built
what did he see in Tchaikovsky?
a builder he raised houses
the downstairs garage a subconscious
subterranean workshop cave
at night a devouring electric saw growled and screamed
interfering with the tv signal upstairs
we waited for all-clear sound and vision
longing for ordinary transmission
I played punk rock on the family
stereo anarchy in the living room
the walls rolled their eyes
a whole lot of noise
he played sarah vaughan, joe turner, louis, ella
bop debop,top 40 radio
tall and bearded crossing the room to release
music from its cover those big fingers
weather hard hands holding vinyl
ready for the 1812
my sinking heart and rolling eyes
a whole lot of noise
he taught me how to build a house
in summer when the gods are gracious
to young soldiers
the plans laid out across two workhorses
first slow and sure the digging
the mud sodden trenches for foundations
upon these the structure stands or falls
violins and handsaw the bow across
sharp sound slices rising under the great blue eyes
the floor a violent passion nailed
then orchestral sweet
on the scaffold the lift and blows
the joists the sounds of war
brass and the drill
battle bells and planing
cannons and drums
thunder hammer storms
the taste of sawdust motes and cymbal echoes
in swirling air
master and maestro constructing
dwellings to dream in
the hammer beating still
in my chest
FOR YARROW WHO LOVES SNOWFALL AND SKINNY DIPPING
Summers we spent by the creek
ducking under the chain link fence
prancing past the bull, head lowered
ready to run us back to town
where the sensible people stayed.
Towels, floppy hats, sunscreen
tumbling insensibly from our packs
onto the moist mossy rocks above
the warm aqua green water bank
framed by a malleable, marbled sky.
Michael, ran away at fifteen from a chaotic home
was reborn with unruly ringlets and sun kissed nose.
“Yarrow” looked forward to all his tomorrows:
He loved bright sunlight, sandstorms,
and making angels in the snow.