The running doll (Tricia Dearborn)

Posted on October 31, 2017 by in Heightened Talk

the doll in my dream
is one of those old-fashioned plastic dolls
with arms and legs that move

but this doll has no arms
no head

as it runs, its naked torso
turns rhythmically from side to side
almost as if its body
were saying no

as it turns you can see into first one
armhole then the other

the doll is hollow, its chest
empty

armless, the doll
can’t push away

headless, it can’t
understand or strategise

lungless, mouthless
it can’t cry out

how easy to stoop and catch
a running doll, to make it
do what you want it to do

 

____________________________________________________________

Tricia Dearborn’s work has been widely published in Australian literary journals including Meanjin, Southerly, Island Magazine and Westerly, as well as in the UK, the US, New Zealand and Ireland. Her work is represented in anthologies including Contemporary Australian Poetry, Australian Poetry since 1788 and The Best Australian Poems. She is on the editorial board of Plumwood Mountain, an online journal of ecopoetry, and was Guest Poetry Editor for the February 2016 issue. Her most recent collection of poetry is The Ringing World (Puncher & Wattmann, 2012). She is currently completing her third collection, Autobiochemistry, with the support of an Australia Council grant.

Come inside (Saddiq Dzukogi)

Posted on October 17, 2017 by in Heightened Talk


A Small Bridge

My body becomes a room no one lives in
while I wait to read it to myself

at the courtyard, standing before
a plant wrapped in my stare

lips on a yellowing leaf caught
in the jazz of branches, I swim

through the lingering chlorophyll
of a fading tree, leaking

a brackish desire, struck out
of an evening sky dust floating

softer than air, the body becomes a room
that opens a small bridge that unlocks a small

world, the tree a skeleton
with the right amount of clorophyll

to photosynthesize, what is going seaward
circumvents the air, the warmth of children

playing, the sound of people
dismantling a canopy, to be free

means to hold everything, dreams, lovers
and still hold nothing, something like the moon

pressing over a lake, finally showing
her face, half my scars

are like my father’s, my grief still floats

in my eyes, a body becomes a room
full of silence

 

Come inside

Pilgrim, sit beside me,
in an uncluttered pail,

I shall serve you
my grief as food,

eyes’ salty water
as wine. Be ready

like fingers inside a
hollow pocket:

you’ll know the inside
of my body,

the sidewalk
everyone tramps,

a lock the welcomes
many keys knows

sometimes keys
do not listen. Blunt or sharp

the teeth unfasten
me, the ephemral

minutes of resistance,
a wax with no candle-

thread to burn;
come, pilgrim—a firehose

 

____________________________________________________________

Saddiq Dzukogi studied at Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria, Nigeria. He has poems featured or forthcoming in literary publications such as: New Orleans Review, African American Review, Pittsburgh Poetry Review, Juked, The Poetry Mail, Chiron Review, Vinyl Poetry, ELSEWHERE LIT’s anthology of contemporary African poetry, The Volta, Construction and Welter, among others. He was a guest at the 2015 Writivism Festival in Uganda as well as at the Nigeria-Korea Poetry Feast in the same year. Saddiq is the Poetry Editor of online journal, Expound, and a three times finalist in The Association of Nigerian Author’s Poetry Prize. Saddiq lives in Minna, Nigeria. He can be found @saddiqdzukogi.

Sestinas (Pete Spence)

Posted on October 3, 2017 by in Heightened Talk

Image credit: Pete Spence

Variations on a Theme

a serpentine trail through the day
no straight lines between the dots
clotting up the veneer and pageantry
and hoops of thickening sound
like varnished shadows of purpose
roosting among the flags and waste

watching the growth of waste
overbalancing the day
as if time had purpose
is there room to join the dots
or a place to beckon sound
awash in a fury of pageantry

clouds in a flutter of pageantry
scoot with the wind across the waste
and centuries of eroded sound
reflecting shadows as the day
falls between the gathered dots
juggling arbitrary purpose

slyly the stealth of purpose
shadows the epigram of pageantry
too busy joining the dots
to notice the forecast of waste
accumulating and coveting the day
in a feverish plethora of sound

heavily blanketed by sound
the faceted stains of purpose
greet again another day
afloat and filled with a pageantry
caustic and ebbing waste
on an assemblage of dots

in vitriolic disdain dots
carve monuments of sound
out of a plateau of din and waste
impersonating purpose
cloaked in the frayed pageantry
clogging the estuary of day

a line of dots lift the stucco day
above the waste of certain purpose
gripped by sound and passing pageantry

 

Neatly Beyond the Articulate

are clouds articulate
are grooves? the neatly
folded air nods warily
as a hem runs past aclutter
muttering in technicolour
with a full range of gestures

collecting the outlines of gestures
is easier than collecting the articulate
where everything is in technicolour
slowly gathered and neatly
compiled and stacked in a clutter
of daybreak jogging by warily

filaments of light fall warily
on the shadows of gestures
dissolving into a clutter
beyond the articulate
recently fallen neatly
into dreams in technicolour

though scheming in technicolour
should be taken warily
with a grain of salt and neatly
in a little water that gestures
as if  articulate
exclaiming in the mess ah! clutter

is sound soluble? O clutter
of densely packed technicolour
are dreams articulate
or inclined to gather warily
a variety of gestures
to violate fiction neatly?

remnants of sunshine are neatly
stowed away among a clutter
of disused gestures
pale and drained of technicolour
amid the mess the air is warily
amused at a cloud that seems articulate

now being neatly beyond the articulate
a frown gestures explaining in technicolour
the use of a clutter scattered warily

 

____________________________________________________________

Image credit: Norma Pearse

Pete Spence was born in Ringwood in 1946, into a poor and struggling family. He survived Pink’s Disease to have a childhood that dreams are made of. Pete started writing in his early teens, destroying such novice work years later, now to his regret. He was first published in Makar magazine in the early 70’s, then for ten years did no writing whilst attending to numerous adventures (e.g. sapphire mining in Queensland and New South Wales). In the early 80s he was published in Meanjin with a poem written during a New Year’s Eve party (as-it-was-happening, à la Frank O’Hara, who in Pete’s view then was top dog!).

In 1984 Pete began Post Neo Publications, a fiasco that produced a handful of good books by Australians and an American (Hannah Weiner). Three main areas in his work developed at this time: visual poetry, mail art, and traditional writing. The writing split into three different styles, one inspired by the New York School, one by the L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E School, and an odd group of things that don’t fit into any school. His first published book was FIVE Poems (Nosukomo 1986).

Through 1989 to 1996 Pete made a number of films, some screened internationally at Oberhausen (Germany), Viper (Switzerland, in a programme with Stan Brahkage) and festivals in Australia, with screenings in the UK and Melbourne in 2011. His recent adventures include learning to paint (very Rothko!) and making small three-dimensional works with wood à la Louise Nevelson and Ben Nicholson. He lives in Kyneton, Victoria with his partner of many years Norma Pearse and their son Perren.

QPF PHILIP BACON EKPHRASIS AWARD WINNERS 2017

Posted on September 26, 2017 by in Arrests of Attention, Events, Heightened Talk

Queensland Poetry Festival’s Philip Bacon Ekphrasis Award, now in its third year, is named after one of Australia’s premier art dealers. All the paintings used in the competition are personally selected by (and from the collection of ) Philip Bacon, the patron of Queensland’s only ekphrastic prize.

The word ‘ekphrasis’ comes from the Greek ‘ek’ (out) and ‘phrasis’ (speak), as well as the verb ‘ekphrazein’, which means to call an inanimate object by name. Artistically, ekphrasis is a rhetorical device in which a visual object, usually a work of art, is vividly described by another artistic medium — in this case, a poem of under 12 lines in length.

Michele Seminara and Nathan Sheperdson announcing the award winners at QPF 2017

This year’s Philip Bacon Ekphrasis Award judges were Nathan Shepherdson and Michele Seminara. First prize went to Dael Allison, second prize to Magdalena Ball, and Joe Dolce and Maddie Godfrey were highly commended.

The judges commented that ‘because the award is for a twelve line poem, its constraint can be both a challenge and an advantage. This is counterbalanced by the fact that the poets have five paintings on offer as their subject. For the poet and reader this allows a multiple lane approach. All the shortlisted poems are works whose sum is greater than their descriptive parts. It’s not a simple process to make successful poetry from artworks that are already high calibre images of self sufficiency. The insight and contemplation of the poet invites us to step inside and outside of each frame. This was particularly evident in the case of Dael Allison’s winning poem, ‘Gethsemane, Bribie Island 1958′, which impressed the judges by responding not only to the artwork, but to the life of artist Ian Fairweather. The judges were struck by the analogies Allison’s poem drew between the last reclusive years Fairweather spent on Queensland’s Bribie Island, and Christ’s final night spent praying in the garden of Gethsemane. This multi-layered approach was what ultimately set the 1st prize winning poem apart.’

Congratulations to the shortlisted and winning poets, and thanks to Queensland Poetry Festival for allowing Verity La to publish the poems and artworks that inspired them.

Ian Fairweather, ‘Gethsemane’, 1958

Gethsemane, Bribie Island 1958 (Dael Allison)

after ‘Gethsemane’ by Ian Fairweather 

evening draws sludge-grey over bribie’s huts and bungalows. soon men will lie
in attitudes of the dead, night a purpose to give themselves up to. all day black
cockatoos – yellow-tailed and red – gossiped in the island pines, cracked cones
hard as olive pits, dropped them to the sand. sharp points pierce my naked feet.
how to convey geometries of this lonely place, trampled paths, grubs burrowing
oblivious under bark. can abandonment be measured on cardboard? lamp-light
makes time and colour fugitive, load the brushes before the kerosene runs out.
paint an offering, a chalice of wine or blood, poisoned in hindsight. all things
can be renounced: jam-jar, row-boat, life – that grand obsession. escape fades
into distance. mopokes hoot three denials, no knowing if they watch, or sleep.
line and resolve circle and meet at the point of surrender, marked with a cross.

 

Agony in the Garden (Magdalena Ball)

after ‘Gethsemane’ by Ian Fairweather 

it’s here, just this spot, soft breath of life against my cheek, insistent, the way you
break into angles against my hips, your lips moving unwilling through the maze
darkness comes from within, inherent, so when night finally arrives, this grove of
olive trees resolves to lines and shapes, your eyes shaded by the weight
blood tears, the world broken into abstraction, there is nothing I wouldn’t do now

scale the walls you’ve placed around yourself, find you in the spaces the cracks
where starlight bends, where nothing is visible, not even your face, sensing only
the edge of your jaw, your shrugging shoulders, thin as a ruler’s edge, tortured
into the confines of an ever repeating death, waiting, slipping, your prayer
layered in green tissue, envy, solace, and just this spot, waiting always for
another word, another breath, the trees creak sweet agony, soft, ready to submit

Garry Shead, ‘Homage to Rembrandt’, 1999

Homage to Shead (Joe Dolce)

after ‘Homage to Rembrandt’ by Garry Shead

Come now, Erato, and I’ll tell you, not
of Matthew’s angel, Jacob’s wrestling,
the Shepherds’ vision, or old Abraham’s
entertainments, departures from Tobit
and Tobias; nor will you see phantoms
of the Master’s darkness, the three of four
children dead (with their mother), seductions
of nurse and maid, the pauper’s burial;
not chiaroscuro’s light and umbra,
but Boyd’s Tinkerbell muse, held by a leg,
the painter’s eyes closed, about to be slapped,
Saskia/Judith watching at the door.

Michael Zavros, ‘LS06’, 2011

Three Winters (Maddie Godfrey)

after LS06, by Michael Zavros

I am not thinking about his hands, only how promises turn cold
like forgotten tea cups on bedside tables. I am thinking about
all the warmth I have held without knowing its shape, how empty
palms wait like tarmac. I lost so many lovers like house keys
I stopped locking the door. Knew that the wind would prove itself
a companion, of sorts. I am not thinking about those Roman remains,
excavated skeletons still holding hands after two thousand years.
two thousand winters. I am not thinking about you as skeleton,
all the ways you remain. I’d invite scars of soil beneath my fingernails
just to excavate the shape of your hands. it has been three winters.

 

Too Late for Taxidermy (Joe Dolce) 

after LS06, by Michael Zavros

No nerves, arteries or veins,
no Versace, dressage or pretty boys,
Lion Skull Number Six,
free of bare ass,
stares outward, turbinate bones
of nasal cavity,
once enhancing a hunter’s sense,
now immune to cologne,
bodiless, six hundred pound bite,
clamped tight,
hearthole in the head,
bone bowling ball trophy.

 

____________________________________________________________

Dael Allison is a poet, fiction writer, essayist and editor who is undertaking a Doctorate in Creative Writing at the University of Newcastle. Her research focus is the literature of the Hunter region, and her creative project a short-story cycle based in the region. She has won prizes for poetry and essay, including the Wildcare International Essay prize. Her Masters in Creative Arts at UTS (2012) researched modernist painter Ian Fairweather. The result was a volume of poetry, Fairweather’s Raft, published by Walleah Press in 2012.  In 2014 eleven of Dael’s Fairweather poems featured in a soundscape in the ABC’s Poetica program. She has also had two poetry chapbooks published by Picaro Press (2010 and 2013).

Magdalena Ball is editor-in-chief of Compulsive Reader and is the author of several published books of poetry and fiction. Her latest novel is Black Cow (Bewrite Books) and her latest poetry collection is Unmaking Atoms (Ginninderra Press).


Maddie Godfrey
is an Australian-bred performance poet, writer and theatre maker. At 22 she has performed at the Sydney Opera House, The Royal Albert Hall, The Bowery Poetry Club and Glastonbury Festival 2017. Maddie was recently a writer-in-residence at St Paul’s Cathedral in London. She is not a morning person. For more information visit Maddie at her website or on Facebook.

Joe Dolce was born in the USA and moved to Australia in 1979. He is a singer, songwriter, composer, essayist, poet, and the writer and performer of the most successful Australian song in history, ‘Shaddap You Face’, which went to number 1 in fifteen countries. He is the winner of the 2017 University of Canberra Health Poetry Prize, with an 8-part choral libretto, and was long-listed for 2017 University of Canberra Vice-Chancellor’s International Poetry Prize. He was shortlisted for both the Newcastle Poetry Prize and Canberra Vice-Chancellor’s Poetry Prize in 2014, and was the winner of the 25th Launceston Poetry Cup. His poetry has appeared in Best Australian Poems 2015 & 2014, and has been published in Meanjin, Monthly, Southerly, Cordite, The  Canberra Times, Quadrant, Australian Poetry Journal, Not Shut Up (UK), North of Oxford (US), and Antipodes (US). Joe is a recipient of the Advance Australia Award. He is presently on staff at the Australian Institute of Music teaching Composition (with special emphasis on setting poetry-to-music). His latest book, On Murray’s Run (Ginninderra Press), comprising 150 poems and song lyrics selected by Queen’s Gold Medal for poetry winner Les Murray, will be launched on Oct 14, at Collected Works in Melbourne. For information visit Joe’s website.

Tide (Jo Langdon)

Posted on September 8, 2017 by in Heightened Talk

‘I just want to remember / in full, ugly color’ — Emily O’Neill

How it felt held under
the pier then released
like trash;

the words that came
after — ‘at least
he’s getting some.’

Joked away
on the long, quiet street —

Here’s a cork of anger
rising up — flotsam

to go no further than pebbles
glinting; the night
stretching out, out.

The waves came barely, barely:
there & gone & gone

 

____________________________________________________________

Jo Langdon is the author of a chapbook of poetry, Snowline (2012), which was co-winner of the 2011 Whitmore Press Manuscript Prize. Her second collection, Glass Life, is forthcoming with Five Islands Press. Jo teaches literary studies and creative writing as a casual academic, and is the creative non-fiction editor for Mascara Literary Review. She currently lives in Geelong, Victoria.

BLOOD OATH
(Magdalena Ball and Rob Walker)

Posted on September 5, 2017 by in Heightened Talk

 

‘Blood Oath’: a multimedia collaboration by Magdalena Ball & Rob Walker
(Music credit: ‘Transport to the Heart’ by Martyn Bloor & M Elwell Romancito)

____________________________________________________________


Rob Walker and Magdalena Ball 
live over 1,000 kms apart but they’ve collaborated on several poems, creating synergies in words, sound, and space. Their collaborative poem ‘Radiology’ was published in the Medical Journal of Australia and in the 2016 Best Australian Science Writing. 

Rob Walker  lives in the Adelaide Hills. He writes poetry, memoir, short fiction and occasional music. His latest poetry collections are Original Clichés (Ginninderra Press), tropeland (Five Islands Press) and Policies & Procedures (Garron Press). Find more from Rob at his website.

Magdalena Ball is editor-in-chief of Compulsive Reader and is the author of several published books of poetry and fiction. Her latest novel is Black Cow (Bewrite Books) and her latest poetry collection is Unmaking Atoms (Ginninderra Press).

To and From Hadamar
(Ben Hession)

Posted on August 31, 2017 by in Heightened Talk


It was nothing special, really, an overcast bus
making a non-descript journey: a sort of euphemistic ride —
the white-coated driver, the passengers chattering
about simple things, but in a way that caused examiners

to give cold stares or shake their heads, and recommend
this humane transfer to where there had been a party,
the night before, celebrating the 10,000th successful treatment:
in a sizeable heap lie empty bottles, piled against the bewilderingly

high walls. Soon, this new lot alights, meet more people in white
coats (who, to each other): “Are you still drunk?” “May I remind
you that this is important work.” “Come here, take a look at this one.”
“I don’t believe it, gold fillings! A family treasure! What a waste!”

Loosened bunting chases dead leaves across the gravel yard
as each traveller enters a large, sun-lit room. Then the door
closes, tightly. Their final destination piped in on thunder
from a truck engine, thickening clouds on weakening breaths.

Every passenger returns home — a name stuffed with random ashes,
an identical crematory urn filled from darkened skies.

 

____________________________________________________________

Ben Hession is a Wollongong based writer. His poetry has been published by Eureka Street, International Chinese Language Forum, Cordite Poetry ReviewVerity La, Mascara Literary Review and Bluepepper, as well as the Live Poets anthology Can I Tell You A Secret? Ben’s poem, ‘A Song of Numbers’,  was shortlisted for the 2013 Australian Poetry Science Poetry award. Ben is also a music journalist and is involved with community broadcasting.

 

Tom’s Lagoon (Louis Armand)

Posted on August 18, 2017 by in Heightened Talk


1.
Teeth in a jar, corks screwed to
arthritic fists. A ten-mile stretch
of frozen sky reflected in it.
They stoop there, anchored,
boy & old man pocketing scrap
from the condemned lot.
It’s not what was promised, but there’s a pattern in it:
an interior surface
gazetting the solemn
high reverence
of the late lamented.
Putting on the glad rags,
the wowsers fluff their wings on the power lines,
eyes out for a chance at a dog’s dinner.
The beseeched world
extends a charitable view –
things construed as y’d construe a missing link,
a tribe of unhinged dressing table mirrors.
They’re standing now
at the lopsided front door.
One breath
& the whole
thing’ll collapse.

2.
Well they set up shop there ’cause all around was swamp-
infested, making a campfire of their one lifeboat
& kept watch from under the charred gunwale. Y’d’ve
mistook ’em all for Rabbis. And this was the grand
beacon-on-the-hill that squirt Austrayan with the turd
in his buttonhole was busy praising to the portside of Blighty.
(They knew a good thing when they could sell it cheap.)
It was time, all hands agreed, to found a new master race,
so one of them gold-panning yanks stuck a Wiradjuri girl
up a stag tree & they sat around downing turps while the march
of the black cockatoos dressed them in feathers & buckshot
& gold raiment & made right royal bastards of the lot.

3.
Who knows, how long it lasts –
bringing in the salt harvest,
the dying species under a wire-frame moon,
life after the fact?

You lie there, a withered bathtub demagogue
dreaming a swansong’s bought encore.
Television. The cosmic dark horse
hanged with a two-dollar belt.

One last unbearable meal –
the man in the Houdini mindtrap,
the matchstick tower, the smear on the
sidewalk. Let these be warnings

to children weaving fairyfloss from your dead hair.
Spectral teeth grind-out 4 a.m. soliloquies.
The Indian Summer that year
stalked them more abjectly than ever.

4.
In the dead of night – creeping up to the bar
at the Australia Hotel

like a Burma Railroad demolition crew.
Another April fool

on a three-week binge, hoisting
the Southern Cross

& digging-in for a saga of recaps long as the Mekong,
taxing to a nation

with a five-minute attention span.
The night they burnt

the place down, tabloid photo-fit intaglios
of Australopithecus

with a lip stiffened by a piece of four-by-two:
Such is life, they said,

sensing the moment was historical. The closing-time
referendum declared

an anti-republic six generations antique
bred from Bex powders

& fluked sheep. The fire brigade rang the anthem
through the streets,

the Unknown Soldier wept. Hearing a parade
was in the offing,

the whole town lined up for miles around,
just for the chance to piss on it.

 

____________________________________________________________

Louis Armand is the author of eight novels, including The Combinations (2016), Cairo (2014), and Breakfast at Midnight (2012). In addition, he has published ten collections of poetry – most recently, East Broadway Rundown (2015) & The Rube Goldberg Variations (2015) – & is the author of Videology (2015) & The Organ-Grinder’s Monkey: Culture after the Avantgarde (2013). He lives in Prague.

Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal (Gayelene Carbis)

Posted on August 11, 2017 by in Heightened Talk

Lessons On Life From My Sister In First Year

I just want to enjoy things I don’t want to think about them. don’t you do anything for fun you can’t help yourself you have to deconstruct everything. you have to talk about the ultimate meaning of everything you can’t just watch something and enjoy it. ok yes there’s The Sound of Music I’ll grant you that yes you love it and you enjoy it but I’ll bet. see there you go you don’t love it just for the music and the story here you are. you have to analyse it and deconstruct it through some particular perspective and now it’s feminism of course. I just want to enjoy the fucking movie I don’t care if Maria’s some feminist heroine (or hero) refusing and resisting oppression and how she has her own autonomy that won’t be squashed by man or nun or even God Herself. why do you do that. can’t you just take anything on face value? what do you do sit there in the theatre tearing it apart ripping it to shreds every little bit every tiny part till there’s nothing left. can’t you just. shit. it’s not that. I’m not against thinking. I just don’t want to do it all the time. I don’t want to think or talk about the meaning of everything. I don’t see why you have to deconstruct everything and not just take it more lightly or something. you take it all so seriously. if you think about what it all means you’re going to end up being critical. you’re going to end up liking nothing. you’re not going to enjoy anything. that’s what happens if you try to work out things and the meaning in everything. and it will get in the way of having a good time. you’ll drive yourself crazy thinking about what it all means and everyone else. otherwise you’re just going to make yourself unhappy. all of us. love you. hey, you know helping me with my essays I couldn’t have done it without you. yeah well meaning really mattered then. but that’s what you have to do at uni. it doesn’t mean you have to do it all the time and everywhere with everything. dad says you think too much. mum thinks you’re full of shit. sometimes. I just think people who don’t think too much are happier. that’s what life’s about, right? I mean thinking like that. you’d be happier if you didn’t think so much, don’t you think? does it make you happy? yeah well, what was that thing you told me about? some title or book or something? oh yeah – why be happy when you could be normal? exactly. I mean like – really. you’d just be happier if you could be more normal. don’t you think?

 

____________________________________________________________

Gayelene Carbis is an award-winning writer of poetry, prose and plays. She was shortlisted for the Montreal International Poetry Prize, Fish Poetry Prize (Ireland), work & tumble Chapbook Prize and recently, the Adrien Abbott, Martha Richardson and MPU Prizes. Gayelene was awarded a poetry scholarship to Banff in Canada and read poetry in Canada and New York. Her new one-woman show won Best Premiere Production in the US this year and will premiere in Melbourne in 2018. Gayelene has taught creative writing, Australian Indigenous studies and script writing at Melbourne University, Deakin University and RMIT. Gayelene’s first book of poetry, Anecdotal Evidence, was published by Five Islands Press in June 2017.

I text you a photo of my knitting
(Tricia Dearborn)

Posted on August 4, 2017 by in Heightened Talk


the knitting lies curved
along its cable
it rests on the pattern

which covers my journal
in which is secreted
my dream of two nights ago

the one where I called our father
a cunt, a complete cunt
then walked out of the house

past the bedroom we shared
from the day they brought you home
in a bassinette

will you feel it
can my dream, through layers
of paper and card, through wool

and plastic and steel
through the ether, via satellite
find you, transmit to you

what you’ve forbidden me to speak of

 

____________________________________________________________

Tricia Dearborn’s poetry has been widely published in literary journals including Meanjin, Southerly, Island Magazine and Westerly, and in anthologies including Contemporary Australian Poetry, Australian Poetry since 1788, Out of the Box: Contemporary Australian Gay and Lesbian Poets and The Best Australian Poems 2012 and 2010. She is on the editorial board of Plumwood Mountain, an online journal of ecopoetry and ecopoetics, and was guest poetry editor for the February 2016 issue. She has been awarded several grants by the Australia Council, and a 2017 Residential Fellowship at Varuna, the Writers’ House, to work on her manuscript in progress. Her latest collection is The Ringing World (Puncher & Wattmann, 2012).