Ah, Carmen, alas! Be quiet! Be quiet, my God!


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Darling, darling, doesn’t have a problem
Lying to herself ’cause her liquor’s top shelf
It’s alarming honestly how charming she can be
Fooling everyone, telling them she’s having fun
Darling, darling, doesn’t have a problem
Lying to herself ’cause her liquor’s top shelf

The darkness of oneself returns Now that the house is empty, James K Baxter.


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“Even as a junkie I stayed true [to vegetarianism] – ‘I shall have heroin, but I shan’t have a hamburger.’ What a sexy little paradox.” 

― Russell Brand, My Booky Wook

The sea always filled her with longing, though for what she was never sure.” Cornelia Funke, Inkheart

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Sea Monster (Poetry)

by Mikaela Borgas, Booleroo Centre District School – Australia

I look out at the wailing sea
Every wave like an arm
Curling to get me
To swallow my body in the blackness

The moonlight reaches down and touches the water
And the whirling blackness shimmers back in glory
It is whispering to me
Every crash of a wave is another word

It wants me to go out there
Into the blackness
Into its clutches
It knows I wont resist


They’re calling from the wilderness, the vast and God-like spaces, The stark and sullen solitudes that sentinel the Pole.


Robert W. Service


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Date palm

stands sentinel

o’er scattered stones, and dreams

long dreamt of boneless soils well tilled

by settled soldiers


I have never heard a more eloquent silence.” Laurie Halse Anderson, Speak

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Mithridatum of Despair

We know no mithridatum of despair
as drunks, the angry penguins of the night,
straddling the cobbles of the square,
tying a shoelace by fogged lamplight.
We know no astringent pain,
no flecking of thought’s dull eternal sea
in garret image, of Spain
and love…now love’s parody.

See – chaos spark, struck from flint
and the plunging distemper, flare in the dawn’s dull seep
of milkcart horse, morning horse
chaos horse, walking at three to the doors of sleep
with the creamy poison.
convulsions endure
from nine to five,
all life immure.
and still alive.

we know no mithridatum, nor the remembered dregs of fear,
the glass stands dry and silted; no end is near.



We know no mithridatum of despair as drunks



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As we became subjects of King Alcohol, shivering denizens of his mad realm, the chilling vapour that is loneliness settled down. It thickened, ever becoming blacker. Some of us sought out sordid places, hoping to find understanding companionship and approval. Momentarily we did — then would come oblivion and the awful awakening to face the hideous Four Horsemen — Terror, Bewilderment, Frustration, Despair.


An empty head gets the easiest sleep. Norwegian.

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All my words are gunning for extinction, all they can tell
     us is:
live more.
The photos you retrieve are a scream -
heart-battering reams of fortune, shadow and sleep,
                                                 as if "the sun fell . . . 
or leapt."

Your tenderness has given me love to keep nigh

Tenderness, a poem by Helen Margaret Crutchett, Australia


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“What is Christmas? It is tenderness for the past, courage for the present, hope for the future. It is a fervent wish that every cup may overflow with blessings rich and eternal, and that every path may lead to peace.” 

Agnes M. Pharo 

Wake not a sleeping lion.



A final word from our November Poet-in-residence, Jayne Fenton Keane

Recently I’ve barely had a chance to look outside my favourite window. Today I see two lorikeets sleeping with their heads tucked into their back on a branch outside. We had wild weather last night. Lightning bolts as wide as my forearm struck the hills across the lake.  It must have been a sleepless night for the birds clinging to the swirling branches.