34-37 Degrees South, 2024 - Signs

SIGNS

34-37 DEGREES SOUTH
SIGNS
2024
An Anthology of Poetry
from the South Coast Writers Centre Membership

Published 2024 by South Coast Writers Centre,
https://southcoastwriters.org
Copyright ©2024. All rights reserved.
Copyright of individual poems is retained by the authors.
Cover image: Signs in Yellow, Paul Klee, c.1937, Alamy Images
ISBN: 978-0-9923236-2-2
All photographs by Peter Frankis except p.39 Rottnest Island,
Western Australia, m.fildza fadzil on unsplash.com
Typesetting: Peter Frankis
This book is available to download on the South Coast Writers
Centre website, https://southcoastwriters.org/34to37south

Acknowledgement of Country
This publication was produced on unceded Wadi Wadi land
and the poems were written by poets living and working on the
unceded lands of Aboriginal people throughout the South Coast,
Illawarra and Southern Highlands of NSW and wider parts of
Australia. On behalf of the poets in this edition, the editors
acknowledge and pay respect to the Traditional Custodians and
Elders of these lands, the continent’s first storytellers and poets,
and their continued spiritual and cultural connection to, and
custodianship of, Country.
p iii

Foreword
Based at Coledale, near Wollongong, the South Coast Writers
Centre serves writers and the public between Helensburg and
Eden and west into the Southern Highlands (approximately
34 to 37 degrees South latitude).
This is the third anthology from poets in the SCWC
membership. This year the focus is on the theme of Signs.
In this engaging collection, I’m pleased to again see some of our
well-published poets such as Tim Heffernan, Dr Elanna Herbert,
Sandra Renew and Kai Jensen joined by newer writers, giving
the reader a sense of the variety and diversity of the poetry of
our members. We’ve also incorporated a visual poem from South
Coast poet Elizabeth Walton as well as a striking audio poem
from Illawarra-based poet Susie Fagan.
I congratulate and thank every poet who submitted works to
this third anthology. It is available in both hard-copy and in
digital form. As with previous editions, we are also bringing you
the voices of the poets reading their work on the publication’s
website.
I am delighted to present 34 to 37 Degrees South for 2024.
Dr Sarah Nicholson
Director
South Coast Writers Centre
October 2024
p v

Introduction
Signs are everywhere. They surround us, direct us while we’re
driving, walking, or shopping. We look to the skies, walk the
beach, watch the sun setting behind the escarpment, the shadows
lengthening. We see signs of environmental collapse or green
shoots of renewal. And poetry itself is sign-making: signs of resistance,
of change, of love.
The collection is divided into three chapters. The Body brings
together poems about bodies changing, about illness and ageing
as well as surviving and triumphing. The chapter starts with a
wonderful piece, Edita Pahor’s The Signs of Low Sugar, familiar
to anyone living with diabetes. The final chapter, The World,
offers a wider view—whether it’s road signs, a coffee shop in
Namibia, the particular aesthetics of suburbia or the clear waters
of Rottnest Island. The middle chapter we’ve called The Dance.
Here you’ll find works on the social worlds we live in and the
sometimes difficult task of making sense of the signs and signals
others send us, as in Paris Rosemont’s Chaos Rode into My Life
on a Shiny Black Kawasaki and Elias McKinley’s Kitchen Dance
—moves common to anyone who has ever shared the task of
cooking in a small kitchen.
The editorial committee, Linda Albertson, Judi Morison, Shay
Keats and Peter Frankis would like to thank each of the poets
who submitted work to this, our third anthology. To those who
were selected, congratulations; to those who missed out this
time, keep writing, keep working at this most difficult craft.
p vi

Our thanks also to this year’s reader panel—Jonathan Cant,
Moira Kirkwood and Kai Jensen, who along with the Editorial
Committee read all the submissions and provided clear feedback
and guidance. And a special thanks to Ms Shayanne Keats,
SCWC’s University of Wollongong intern who joined us for
this project.
We hope you enjoy reading these poems and also listening to the
poets performing their works and talking about the making of
these poems.
p vii

CONTENTS
Acknowledgement of Country
Foreword
Introduction
iii
v
vi
1. THE BODY
The Signs of Low Sugar Edita Pahor 2
St. Bartholomew’s Hospital,
January 1970 Amelia Fielden 4
Salvage Kathleen Bleakley 6
My teeth are breaking
but what does it mean? Myfanwy Williams 7
Ignoramus Susie Fagan 8
Your fingers Bríd Morahan 10
Progression Stephen Meyrick 12
‘Scalding burnt flesh…’ Susie Fagan 14
2. THE DANCE
Chaos rode into my life
on a shiny black Kawasaki Paris Rosemont 19
Burriwurri morning
(Fishermans Beach, Port Kembla) Nicole Smede 20
Shifting Sand Christine Sykes 22
When to Book a Chin Wax Elizabeth Walton 23
Exit, Pursued by a Bear Kate O’Neil 24
SeinLanguage Jonathan Cant 26
After The Day of the Dead Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman 28
jesus uses facebook Tim Heffernan 29
Fuel for future fossils Tim Heffernan 30
You Can Always Tell Moira Kirkwood 31
Tribute concert Sandra Renew 32
Strawberry Moon Sandra Renew 33
Space between Janette Dadd 34
My Uncle Kate Shelley-Gilbert 35
The Kitchen Dance Elias McKinley 36
p viii

3. THE WORLD
djiraali ganggarr blood blood Nicole Smede 40
we dwell in song-less signs Myfanwy Williams 42
Not my king Elizabeth Walton 43
Signs of the Times Kate O’Neil 44
Modern aesthetics Linda Albertson 45
Storm Rider Kate Shelley-Gilbert 46
Signs in the Dust Krishna Sadhana 47
Into the Tanami Joan Cornish 48
Coffee at Conny’s Stephen Meyrick 50
Exploration Kai Jensen 52
On the road Kai Jensen 53
The Indicators Elias McKinley 54
Lifting up the Sun Ed Southorn 55
charcoal lizard tongue Neil Bramsen 56
three reasons to swim elanna herbert 58
ABOUT THE POETS 61
p ix

1. THE BODY

The Signs of Low Sugar
Edita Pahor
3.5
The street is long and unfamiliar
A scene from someone else’s memory.
3.2
I have lost my hat
Too much for my head to hold.
Lost my shoes
There is no ground.
3.0
I meet someone
Who speaks to me.
They have no relation to
Me. I do not love them.
An army is crossing.
2.8
I am in a car park.
I have murdered someone here.
I must tell.
1.5
The singular event has happened
The aliens have landed
On this Earth.
And left.
A lovely lethargy in indolent cells.
p 2

1.00
I am in a shop
Full of sweetness
Why am I here?
Say it!
Sugar is the cruelest fruit.
p 3

St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, January 1970
Amelia Fielden
breakfast time over in the kids’ cancer ward
a familiar click-clicking
along the corridor
guide-dog Hope leads Sheila
to her nine-month-old daughter
Emma stands at the end of her cot
hanging onto the top bar
she can see her mother,
gurgles mumumum
Sheila lifts Emma out
they cuddle in an armchair,
golden Labrador settled
on the floor beside them
the big purple-marker cross
on Emma’s bald head
shines under fluorescent light
a nurse takes Emma away
to be sedated
for her daily dose of radiation
Sheila and Hope
spend wintry hours outside
in the courtyard, waiting
p 4

Sheila feeds Emma
sings her to sleep with Brahms’ lullaby
‘…in dream’s paradise’
before she leaves with Hope
they’ll be back tomorrow
the next day, the day after,
until all signs of tumours are gone,
until they can take Emma home
p 5

Salvage
Kathleen Bleakley
Flat white after monthly grief therapy
stir honey, slowly melting
the cafe next door Salvage
how could I have missed that sign over
four years of post-therapy coffees?
Five years since you began
Salvage—the chemo when the highest dose
isn’t working
enough to shrink tumours to zero
At the Salvage meeting
in the mouth of a blue whale
massive lymphoma could’ve swallowed
you and me too
Afterwards, at the bicycle cafe
you ordered a burger with the lot
I could just manage a cuppa
one sip in the wind
and I spilled it all over
my lap, hot milk in my crotch
tears slid down cheeks
Mr Barista handed me
a red velvet latte—on the house
p 6

My teeth are breaking but what does it mean?
Myfanwy Williams
My teeth are breaking, and this is not a dream,
mouth: eroding sea cave alive in the cursing.
Perhaps the signs are clear: Mercury is mean
so, my mouth evicts bones from my jaw.
Nothing else stores biography like bones:
parched opiate tundra, trauma’s fault lines,
now the moon is swollen, my teeth falling
as runes carved from pear tree branches,
symbols soldered into felled tree bone
my eyes deaf to all divination.
p 7

Ignoramus
Susie Fagan
I remember the day my brain broke.
Left hand writing, finger tingling, mind numbing
That thing, you know it—what was it again?
Drink some water—nothing to see here.
Brain soaks up the h20 and swishes a memory from storage
Collapsed synapses rise to the occasion
’Til they all fall down again.
The Domino Effect
This is not a game, I say
I yell at my mind’s eye
Who doesn’t want to witness the oncoming crash
Too much to do
Too many to take care of
Too long to see a decent doctor
p 8

Soon whole life sentences go missing.
I am a prisoner on a sinking ship
Going down with the gold
I’m not yet too old to go
I keep inflating my pierced lifejacket.
Staying afloat with fear
’Til my senses are empty
And I’m drowning in denial.
p 9

Your fingers
Bríd Morahan
last I saw your hands, fingers, puffed like fish from dark fathoms
whose eyes have never formed, or those swollen at tidemarks
whose eyes have fed the gulls—
fingers not held in victory, and no flipping of the bird
full, yet flaccid, inert, they lay across your still-strong chest
signs of fluid—fatal—and strange, unknown to me
Not your deft, strong fingers, the ones that ruffled up my hair
after mass on Sundays, dried between my tiny toes
after Saturday’s bath—
me, draped in scratchy towels in the Vulcan bar fire’s glow
Back then they knocked on wood for luck, tamped down the pipe’s sweet bowl,
trimmed cigars and drew cans of lager to your lips
They traced letters in blue ink, and taught me finger-spelling,
coded conversation of silent silly secrets,
they held firm the bike seat
as I wobbled down the drive, searching, felt the innertube
found the punctures, scratched and patched them, pointed to eclipses,
struck matches, lit fireworks each crackling cracker night
Many years have passed now and I recall signs—not base signs,
no solemn salutes—but glints in an elephant eye
at the zoo, where I heard,
the red-and-green bird, low over the grave, the ute that
split the wake cortege right in front of me, rabbit sticker
stuck to its back window, a silent rebel cry
p 10

In the gaudy RSL room projected photos rolled
through a version of things—your image with normal Dad
-size fingers when you waved
to camera or raised a glass in cheers, while my brothers smoked
cigars when the bar closed—all signs you were not far
And of course, my fingers, they are yours, still here
p 11

Progression
Stephen Meyrick
Across the oval, the numbers on the scoreboard blur.
The optometrist is unsurprised.
The wing mirror sheds new light on a familiar face:
fine lines radiating from the corner of the eye.
At each visit to the hairdresser the colour of the sweepings dulls.
The baseball cap once worn for cool
is needed to defend your scalp.
Doing sit-ups at the gym, you roll
onto your hands and knees before you try to stand.
The government sends you free bowel-cancer test kits.
A dewlap runs from chin to throat.
Your father’s lips show through your smile.
The inside of your triceps sag:
empty bagpipes in a plucked chicken’s breast.
Sleep comes in segments
as when your children first came home—
but now the needs you tend to are your own.
Awakening, you descend the stairs,
careful to place both feet on each tread.
p 12

The government stops sending you
free bowel-cancer test kits.
Words, once your closest friends, call less often
and have less to say.
You start to count the time ahead in months, not years.
Each morning is a quiet celebration—
and inside every celebration, there is a quiet mourning.
p 13

‘Scalding burnt flesh…’
Susie Fagan
[Scan this QR code hear
this poem on the 34-37
Degrees South website.]
p 14

2. THE DANCE

Paris Rosemont
Chaos rode into my life
on a shiny black Kawasaki
wearing tight trousers
and a crisp shirt. I should have looked
the other way. But his engine
was revving so loud it drowned
out all sense and I ached
to be purring alongside
his sculpted machinery.
Come for a ride he beckoned, tiger eyes
glinting with mischief.
I should have known better
than to go riding with Bacchus. My body—already
humming with heat—had its own fancies.
Straddling him between
my thighs, we soared
bareback down
the snaking
highway. Towards
disaster
or divinity?
I am
yet to find
either.
p 19

Burriwurri morning
(Fishermans Beach, Port Kembla)
Nicole Smede
Gembla father mountain
Geera mother mountain
the light is chang’n
hear ’em Djiridjiriwan willie wagtail
hear ’em yangam sing last spirits
to rest before she comes
she is near.
see ’em colours breathe
see ’em fill up sky there
they getting ready for a new day
and when she comes
above that womb of water
there
she will ripple long and deep
she will meet our joyful cries
and hold us
she knows we been waiting
p 20

the budjan birds, full moon and witness
us here—all silent all still
us here—watching
waters break waters pool
and toes sink deeper
watching ’em go
into sand into earth into body
us here listen’n
to that breath that song
fill up Country
hear ’em yangam sing new spirits
when she gets ’ere
and we dance.
p 21

Shifting Sand
Christine Sykes
Like a snake in the spinifex on the sand dunes
That sinking feeling waits for a sign of fragility
To strike. My heart lies soaked in its own self-loathing
Lodged deep in my crevices—in every pore, in every vein
It lies—waiting to spring, to strike like the snake
Lifting my head, I allow a moan to emerge
It doesn’t relieve the ache, it doesn’t reduce the pain
I write out my latest mistakes, imperfections
sorrows on the shifting sand
Where they lie—waiting until the tide turns
Waiting for the waves to wash away my darkest thoughts
I walk on the sand, trying to walk out the despair
Face those who sit sullenly on my shoulder
Those judges draped across my back
signalling the moment to strike, to say
We always knew you weren’t good enough—imposter
Get out of this world, you don’t deserve to be here
My feet pound—my footsteps form sand pools
Champagne waves tickle my toes, caress my calves
Inviting me to cherish the moment—
A boy slithers a skim board across the shallows, shifts direction, falls off
shakes his head, stands up and tries again
Bubbles of light rise—I smile at the snake in the grass.
p 22

When to Book a Chin Wax
Elizabeth Walton
The tourist brochures
don’t do justice
to the endless cement,
crushed cans of XXXX
Great Northern, tradie plastic.
The call of nature
where an old fat lady
stops to do a nature
piss by a fir-sodden creek.
Tinkling deep green leaves
that can’t screen out the heat
of Bakelite playgrounds,
melting the bread, lambasting the Brie.
And in between we stand
naked before the truth
on borrowed lament.
Visiting the garbage world,
half-moon releasing,
pissing in the
p 23

Exit, Pursued by a Bear
Kate O’Neil
Shakespeare, W. (1611). A Winter's Tale. 3.3: Stage direction.
Hirsute and in a hair suit,
the bear sweats it out backstage
waiting for his cue.
The heavens dim and for forty lines,
He listens to Antigonus,
(warned of loud weather and urged to be quick)
addressing the babe he has pledged to abandon.
His dream last night of Hermione,
bereft and pleading,
augurs ill for Antigonus—
a curse the bear must fulfil.
A savage clamour bruits his time on stage.
The pursuit is brief—
making a meal of the nobleman
a backstage bluff of sound and fury.
His moment over, the bear strips off.
Himself again, he watches from the wings
As the play turns
From things dying to things newborn—
This is the scene he loves—the part he wanted
p 24

For pity, the shepherd takes up the abandoned babe,
the son finds gold.
This boy knows his bears and the rule of hunger.
He’ll see what’s left of the gentleman,
and for pity, he’ll bury it.
’Tis a lucky day—
(for some, thinks the bear)
and they do good deeds on’t.
p 25

SeinLanguage
Jonathan Cant
1.
There we were in Florence, Italy, in the mid-1990s: a mixed group of complete
strangers (three guys—myself Australian, a German, a Spaniard—and an American
woman). We all met while sharing a bench table at a busy trattoria that served up
rustic Tuscan fare such as rabbit with goat’s cheese washed down with a nice Chianti.
2.
We decided to grab a beer somewhere. Beer is safe common ground, especially
when half the group is representing Germany and Australia. The only bar open—
and close by—was an Irish Pub. Four total strangers sitting in a timber booth.
Over Guinness and Jameson’s, the conversation was sporadic, until someone
mentioned Seinfeld. Talk about a universal language! SeinLanguage*, in fact.
Everyone chimed in. “A show about nothing” proved to be something: the closest
thing we all had to a common tongue. We amused each other with remembered
episodes, every classic gag, and all those painful George Costanza indignities.
3.
At closing time, the four of us went our separate ways.
Elaine got into a heated argument with a gelato vendor.
Kramer took a much-needed piss off the Ponte Santa Trinita.
Out of curiosity, George revisited the David replica at Piazza della Signoria
to get a closer look at the statue’s private parts. (It was a cold night.)
And I, “single, thin, neat, and in my late 30s”, went walking past the Duomo
wearing new white sneakers and a puffy pirate shirt. I soon got questioned
by the Carabinieri on suspicion of soliciting as a male prostitute—
not that there’s anything wrong with that.
p 26

The title SeinLanguage is borrowed from Jerry Seinfeld’s
1993 book of the same name.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with that” is a line from
the Seinfeld episode The Outing. It’s since become a popular
catchphrase—often used when homosexuality is mentioned.
It’s also been embraced by the broader gay community with
The Outing winning a GLAAD Media Award (Gay & Lesbian
Alliance Against Defamation) for Outstanding Comedy
Episode
p 27

After The Day of the Dead
Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman
we’re somewhere in Mexico. Somewhere
on an empty stretch of highway between
Sayulita and Tequila, where the sun shines
through bullet holes in the road signs
and leaning on a kick-ass black saloon
outside a cantina is someone’s wet dream—
a mocha-skinned guy with an oiled mustache,
death-white shirt and razor-creased dress blacks
tight across his groin. A gun fights for space.
He blows smoke from his San Andres Robusto
toward a wire cage just inside the cantina door
where a parrot screams Polly doesn’t want the cracker,
she wants the friggin’ cocktail and we giggle
at potential death in a pair of tight pants
a long way from where your love says ouch
when it burns itself cooking dinner. It said ouch
when I packed a bag and told you I’d be back
whenever. It said Ola when I got home alive
with a t-shirt that says I Luv Sayulita.
It says aye yai yai as it chilli-sizzles.
p 28

jesus uses facebook
Tim Heffernan
after a long time avoiding social media, choosing only to
appear to a few, jesus joined facebook. a step down from
omni-presence he could see the value in building his profile
in another medium. reluctant to request people to come
to him, given his past experiences, he waited for people to
join him on the way. mostly his posts attracted interest,
but let’s face it, in the beginning there was no mountain of
support for his words, yet over time he gained some friends,
a following perhaps, and then after changing his privacy
settings, everybody on facebook liked him.
p 29

Fuel for future fossils
Tim Heffernan
Manifested traditionally
war resulted
in new lines on maps
and crosses on fields.
Arms were extended
and fingers triggered
automatic answers.
Now missiles
explode over oil.
War is over underground:
fossils for fuel—fuel for fossils.
Compost for another age.
p 30

You Can Always Tell
Moira Kirkwood
You walk into the lunchroom.
Two people here, but the fridge and a dripping
tap are the only ones talking. Does the air feel
solid, even elephant-shaped?
That’s an argument.
But if you find a half-century gone and you smell
school lunches, your child-self sick with despair at
exclusion from some game, then it’s just that
(socially speaking) you don’t have the clearance.
And you wryly imagine you’ll be forever doomed
to life on the forest edge, where the berries don’t
grow so well, copping the wind in winter.
That’s what it looks like.
Or, let’s imagine:
a woman like a perfumed dream floats down
the street, stilettos sky-high with the darlingest
wisp of ankle strap. If the tan on that curved
calf is natural, it’s an outdoor life: shorts and
bikinis. If it’s a spray tan, we’re persuaded that
influencer is—truly—a real job.
p 31

Tribute concert
Sandra Renew
she postures on stage, all glitter, make-up facing a false front
spotlight finds her, centre stage, arms upraised, mouth pouting fake kisses
music crashes, rising, booming crescendos of anticipation
the crowd is one animal, stamping, shrieking, massed mouths, teeth bared
raised in dark homage, cell phones are laser beams in dust thick air
showing the way past the authentic to a reality less harsh
in our times where reality is too real, or distant, or dead
real or not, she is her own mime and she is singing to you
it’s the glory days again, nostalgic, we’re thrilling tonight to the fake
it’s a sign of our times, a mirror, for a style, a sound, a costume
because now we can only live in a time of Tina, Dolly, Elvis, ABBA
through a copy, fake-istry, absorbing a strange reality
p 32

Strawberry Moon
Sandra Renew
Strawberry Moon, full moon of a mid-year month
signs in for our Winter solstice
if we were in the north the strawberry harvest
would be summer and juice
just look up as the sun rises and watch a setting to die for
look again for a moon rising as sun sets
nothing stays the same as the stars change
Cancer and Leo and a nearly assassination as
July’s full moon urges shake it up
but, with bullets, democracy is shaken, a fist is raised
a meme is born, millions of views following
fits the narrative of a rival indestructible—
poets are writing in books banned
for upsetting sensibilities with truth
humour upsets, off-balances repression
debate and conversation should trump bullets—
protected by a god of sorts, who do these bullets serve?
a bandage exploits survival, sends an entitled defiant message
p 33

Space between
Janette Dadd
(based on Jessica Loughlin’s space between 14)
Jessica’s work reminded me of you!
How we had to find each other
look from all sides even through open gaps
of emotion
to finally appreciate the beauty within.
There was a sense of a snow field
when we met, a calmness, detachment
tonal variance yet always cool,
perhaps even cold.
Then the reminder to look again.
Layers exist just like tonal hues.
Those snowflakes could be bubbles of excitement
that cool exterior a meditative mind.
What is there to find?
Is there a desolation of soul?
Or, like the snow field is there so much life
within you waiting
for the thaw of friendship
to melt away the space between
till we find ourselves flowing into each other’s
inner place.
p 34

My Uncle
Kate Shelley-Gilbert
My uncle
is a weather man;
he tells us there is a system approaching
ETA 2.15 according to the BOM.
Get your washing in.
My uncle
is a wildlife rescuer;
he spends two hours
moving a baby blackbird from his bathroom to his balcony.
He knows that egrets
eat ticks and flies from the hides of cattle.
There are thirteen ducklings this year
in his next door paddock.
My uncle tells us
he has six tasks remaining on his list for the day.
Washing (done fortnightly),
take a nap,
remind the body corporate to fix the driveway speed sign,
check racing results,
give away his extra tub of butter…
then there’s the unmentionables, he says.
No one asks.
p 35

The Kitchen Dance
Elias McKinley
when things are going well
the kitchen dance is a precisely-configured waltz
I slide into the cutlery drawer
whilst you reach down for the pots
I pirouette to select a plate
leaving you to twirl across to the sink
you gracefully bend over the stove
as my fingers play across the pantry shelves
there is no need for words
but our actions align seamlessly
two bodies in a state
of perfect synchronicity
when things are not so good
the kitchen dance is no dance at all
me stuck behind the open fridge door
while you peer into its wintry depths
I block the baking trays you desire
rummaging in the over-topping drawer
p 36

you lean on the benchtop watching the toaster
right in front of my stomach’s goal
the air is full of sorry I just need to
and if I could just get
there is no shared vision or warmth
just a cord tensioning tighter and tighter
p 37

3. THE WORLD

djiraali ganggarr blood blood
(The Coolamon)
Nicole Smede
In a dream I saw
you standing
bare-breasted in moonlight
crying to the wind
I was crying too
for my hands that took from you—
for your tears
we shed for your gift my sister
we are tied
bound to all our sisters
djiraali ganggarr
blood blood
in a dream I saw
how I painted the earth
upon you gently tending
our bond in love
for you I made a promise
djiraali ganggarr
blood blood
p 40

I will visit today
enter that trust of sisterhood
where our roots bind—
the mother beneath our beating hearts
above
bird song
djiraali ganggarr
blood blood.
p 41

we dwell in song-less signs
Myfanwy Williams
The corroboree is gone
And we are going...
Oodgeroo Noonuccal
we dwell, we are dwelling in the saltwater river
middens along the mudflats, mined for quick lime
mined to scaffold lives into clay cast with shell
down the clouds, crested terns flee, fledglings
jettisoned in the detritus of bustle and dredge
the seabed, a carpet burn scorched to the core
we move, we are moving with the southern shoals
with the sandstone biting itself into smooth stones
weathered to weapons, to cast at men with no shadows
down the wind, the rock platform, altar resplendent
no warning, no signs but kelp woven as tapestry
the limpets and clams percussive in their longing
we thread, we are threading lustreless shells
once luminescent in this viscous liquid decay
remaining: a coveted imprint of stolen shore
down the wave, worn from a moon receding,
worn from the crescent call and sea mammals
on sand, no song to escape belly made shroud
p 42

Not my king
Elizabeth Walton
[Scan this QR code
to a multimedia
video poem]
p 43

Signs of the Times
Kate O’Neil
CROCODILES
DO NOT SWIM HERE
what a relief
on this stinker of a day
a swim is what I need.
DOGS MUST BE CARRIED
not warned in advance
I’m unable to comply—
my dog is at home.
LANEWAY
FINE FOR PARKING
late and frazzled
no spaces anywhere—
so good to see this
TRAINING SCHOOL FOR DELINQUENTS
a social problem,
the youth of today—
this is where it starts
EVERYBODY ISN’T HERE
poems on the page
but no one to read them—
do they exist?
p 44

Modern aesthetics
Linda Albertson
Back from the road, foreshadowed
by front lawns infected with yellow-flowering weeds,
two houses shrink behind a No Stopping sign
but stagger upright
enough to defy Danger Do Not Enter.
I sit outside at the café across the road
ants hustle at my feet—
it rained in the night.
The house on the right
has pushed through time with persistent psoriasis,
bones original and fine. In the past, the other house
was upgraded with aluminium window frames
and a new roof line. I see how
modernising has weakened the aesthetics.
Soon, the two sections will house
new apartments like those that overlook them,
be festooned with glaring yellow
For Sale signs that scream,
Look at me!
p 45

Storm Rider
Kate Shelley-Gilbert
I see you,
pinned to the pewter sky,
hanging on frayed tendrils
of an approaching squall.
Buffeted by the southern gale
your slow wings beat
against sharp cold rain.
Below, a rumpled ocean
pounds the hostile shore.
I see you endure—
hollow-boned and fine-feathered,
tremble-hearted,
sharp-eyed.
Talons tucked,
you morph and angle
leading and trailing wing edges
to the utmost,
riding an updraft
to the wide-angled calm
at the roof of the world
to the sunshine above the tempest.
I see you
and gather hope
that frailty can be strong
against bleak skies and leaden days
and wind-blown change.
The lift and drag of near disaster,
used to great avail
gives far sight and a new haven.
p 46

Signs in the Dust
Krishna Sadhana
The signpost quickly approaches
Peppered by hints of direction
And remote buckshot.
Reddest desert, dustiest of promises
Crossroads rush close
Kissing us on the forehead
We screech to a halt
Squinting into the sun-stained horizon
Go left, more space
More air, more hope
Maybe an uncomfortable choice
Like creases in a new pair of branded jeans
Taking off, left of course
Into the distance
Where the road married the sky
In a rushed but subtle ceremony
The GPS is ominously silent
Keeping its counsel
In case it is accused
Of digital rigidity
The signs in the dust
Creep into our mouths
Not that pleasant
But still tasting of ripe optimism
p 47

Into the Tanami
Joan Cornish
heartsore, climate-wrecked, I abandon the city
drive four bitumen-dirt-sand days
to Tanami’s fierce final frontier
spinifex, mulga, unrelenting red
dissolve me under big sky,
a mirthless horizon of ominous heat
out here I’ll find it, some lasting indivisible thing
without artifice without human tarnish
on Walpiri lands pillaged by mining
evading the grim drone of the generator
I walk out from camp one morning
nankeen kestrel as my shadow
and am swallowed up not by vastness,
or escape into emptiness
but by tiny wildflowers, fine,
delicately curled springing from nowhere
tender crimson cups painted satellites
tracking the hypnotic sun
drawing me down belly to sapped earth
blinded transfixed their sun-settable orange-pinks
p 48

as miraculous shocking as though I’d just
sleep-walked for five hundred years
and woken to a sea of spangled perch
raining from the sky
On the night of 19 February 2023, spangled perch fell from
the sky in Lajamanu, Northern Territory. This strange weather
event is caused by strong updrafts, such as tornadoes, which
suck water and fish from rivers and dump them hundreds of
kilometres away.
p 49

Coffee at Conny’s
Stephen Meyrick
Gunther could be Gandalf, but is not—
and we are clearly far from Middle Earth.1
But, still, this is a kind of wizardry:
the prophet’s air as he assembles pot
and filter cones; the wooden frame that he
has built by hand; his weighing of the worth
and character of beans (fair trade of course)
from Rwanda, Kenya, Ethiopia;
the white-chalk sign enjoining all who pass,
“Slow food; slow coffee; and slow life”. We pause:
each drop that falls into the waiting glass
a sacrament, each word a blessing, here
at Rehoboth, the place of the third well2—
this place of refuge for a people who
now claim with pride a name designed to shame.3
We learn their history; hear Gunther tell
his story, and philosophise; acclaim
his coffee and his way of living too.
The boy soon loses interest. He goes
outside; explores the farm. But having no
experience with geese, he casually
approaches as he would the ducks he knows.
We look away, pretending not to see,
but sense his shame, and know he knows we know.
p 50

He’s quiet, almost sullen, lips drawn tight—
until he spots the roadside oryx. The sight
of its mass and majesty, the piebald mask,
the horns that are at once its pride and blight
enraptures him; we watch the storm clouds pass
and pride succumb to wonder and delight.
1. Conny’s is a celebrated coffee shop near Rehoboth in
Namibia, run by the legendary Gunther Martens.
2. The place of the third well. “Isaac’s servants also dug in
the Gerar Valley and discovered a well of fresh water. But
the herders of Gerar quarreled with those of Isaac and said,
‘The water is ours!’ So he named the well Esek, because they
disputed with him. Isaac’s men then dug another well, but
again there was a dispute over it. So Isaac named it Sitnah
(which means ‘hostility’). Abandoning that one, Isaac moved
on and dug another well. This time there was no dispute over
it, so Isaac named the place Rehoboth (which means ‘open
space’), for he said, ‘At last the Lord has created enough space
for us to prosper in this land.’” Genesis, 26:18-22.
3. A name designed to shame. ‘The Baster people, originally
from South Africa, settled in the Rehoboth area in the
nineteenth century. The Basters are descended from European
settlers and indigenous African women from the Dutch Cape
Colony… The name Baster is derived from bastaard, the Dutch
word for “bastard” (or “crossbreed”).’ The Atlas of Humanity,
https://www.atlasofhumanity.com/baster
p 51

Exploration
Kai Jensen
for Linda Albertson
Adelaide before dawn.
Empty roads lead to the airport.
Explorate (sign on a building)
and (on a screen at security)
Resolution 3 disabled. Not true:
I resolve to have, and get,
a triple-shot macchiato, to sip
at the gate for my flight to Melbourne.
Peach light rises behind two trees,
the caffeine hits, and just like that
I’m explorating.
p 52

On the road
Kai Jensen
Bowed figures, one large
one small, hurry along holding hands:
sometimes the tall one leads;
sometimes the small one goes ahead
but the tall one slows them.
Five black chevrons, each on an orange ground
all point the same way.
Three curving arrows play ring-a-rosies.
A man shovels a mound of soil.
A man holds up a dark circle on a pole.
A man stands in mid-air above a bicycle.
Here you can go a different way
head off at right angles
but most go straight on.
A kangaroo hops flat out
while a wombat just trundles.
An arrow bends to the left
the next one to the right
both above the number 55.
A man stands in one tiny shed, a woman in the other.
A woman stands watching an empty car pass near her.
100 is a special number, a red ring around it;
50 is special too; so is 80.
A jet plane, a made bed, a crossed knife and fork
a petrol bowser, a caravan, a speedboat aground on a steep ramp.
One arrow points straight up; two beside it straight down.
A deserted picnic table.
A truck is loaded with a capital P.
Rocks explode to fragments.
A car skids so drunkenly, its tracks cross.
A bicycle rides itself.
This little offshoot ends at a house.
p 53

The Indicators
Elias McKinley
changes to fire danger ratings
a new standard of reference
for what the locals will call
a ‘big’ bushfire
writers writing about it
on every blank page available—
science writers
fiction writers
poets
opinion editors
letter writers
school children
normalised
despair
and unchallengeable
hopelessness
an ennui
new and formidable
p 54

Lifting up the Sun
Ed Southorn
So many Post-it notes
black on winter scaffold
tag the dawn sky.
A sudden crescendo,
the top lifts off, lures
on lines fly untangled.
Patterns form and swirl,
light and shade, wave
after wave, orbit and settle,
rest and go again. Heave
and heave, try and try
until the ball budges.
Keep going, it’s all to lose,
lifting up the sun.
The weight they carry
is the message they leave.
p 55

charcoal lizard tongue
Neil Bramsen
charcoal lizard tongue rolls down the coast
salivating and constant
savouring the suburban dream of want
in place of Rees’ Road to Berry and sensual vitality
spring cancerous estates of colorbond fences
where cattle stood in the pasture licking sea salt from the wind
the backyard dog pants for shade
glare of the sun and star of the night
where once the wombat roamed
the creeping coast of the lizard tongue is wide and languid
tin ants speed on
frantic for the past, desperate for the future
you are mine laughs the lizard tongue
the tongue rolls on consuming;
old dairy, everywhere creek, the meeting tree
where we shared five cents for playlunch
and jumped on the school bus
all buried under the lizard tongue and its abrasive sticky blanket
convenience and efficiency do not harbour aesthetic beliefs
the matted feather duster of a kookaburra
and pressed marsupial flesh
make an impressive palette
on the lizard’s tongue
p 56

while rosellas nibble grass
indifferent to the false monument
that rolls forever on
this land will always be ours, they chatter
p 57

three reasons to swim
elanna herbert
i remember heatwave swimming to a sunset, slicing water
cool enough for relief. floating as stillness in waves, light
streaming each crest golden over a dark underside as
the face picked up in shadow creating that tickle of
shark-fear before the submerge the dumping.
beach sunsets on days when heat opened pockets of
hollow air above a flat ocean and horizon shifted distance
to pastel. the choices before me seemed endless, a smorgasbord
of perfection never dreamed in my frost-dry eastern childhood
Cottesloe /City Beach/Floreat/Scarborough/Trigg/Sorrento/Whitfords
all run together like those cheap signs in beachy tourist shops that
list European names as holiday destinations, pieces stolen from
an Indigenous paradigm, unspoken in summer’s rush, or Rottnest
with its distorted name. Dutch veils a silence of Noongar for
things that look like rats, paradise as graveyard to those
punished for existing, for being a past that wouldn’t retreat as
fast as expected. but even knowing its bloody history i kept
returning, drawn to the mesmeric beauty, shame extracted like ore
p 58

or gold, or power, from the baked yellow terraced holiday flats
we stayed in at Bathurst Point just up from the Settlement on
a day when my daughter was happy with our move across
a continent; of Rottnest’s aqua clarity, its faux Mediterranean life
where even seaweed behaves, thin strips of sea grass, dark on
bleached-white sand, limestone sharp rocks eroding nooks
as retreat from the wind on days when the glare just stung
as if heat can overlay lives, nothing changed, it felt of escape
and distance. but it’s just the getting away, out of Perth, the
leaving despite the knowing. the moment of pretend.
p 59

ABOUT THE POETS

Linda Albertson lives on the lands of the Djiringanj people in Bega,
NSW and spends increasingly more of her time reading, writing and
talking about poetry. In 2023, she won the Booranga Writers
Poetry Prize.
Kathleen Bleakley lives in Wollongong & is often in Milton. Her
7th collection: Toupie - new, selected & revised poetry & micro stories
comes out spring 2025.
Neil Bramsen has a background in education. He is interested in
connections between people and place. He lives in Austinmer.
Jonathan Cant won the 2023 Banjo Paterson Writing Awards for
Contemporary Poetry. His poems have appeared in Cordite, Otoliths,
and Live Encounters.
Joan Cornish has been playing with words for as long as she can
remember. After a career writing about environmental issues, she
escaped to 5 acres in beautiful Bermagui, Yuin country, on the NSW
far south coast to grow things, including her creative voice. She is
currently penning her first book—a prose-poetry self-help memoir
for the perpetually distracted.
Janette Dadd is a SCWC poet residing on Brinja Yuin country. She
is an artist and a writer. Janette had her first Melbourne exhibition
in Melbourne in May 2024. She is pleased to be offered a place in
the 5 Islands Press Anthology. Her third poetry book is still a work
in progress.
Susie Fagan is a writer, spoken word performer and comedian from
Ireland. A strong supporter of the arts and creativity, she now calls
the Illawarra home. FB: Susie Fagan; facebook.com/irishsusiesoul/;
IG: irishsusiesoul @irishsusiesoul
Amelia Fielden, a professional Japanese translator, mostly writes
Japanese form poetry in English. Her latest collection, Adagio Days,
was launched in October 2023.
p 62

Tim Heffernan was born on the Murrumbidgee and moved
upstream to Wagga and Cooma. He now lives in Wollongong. He
mostly writes within these latitudes.
Elanna Herbert writes from Yuin Country, South Coast. Her poetry
book, sifting fire writing coast (Walleah Press) has been shortlisted
in the ACT Literary Awards. Elanna holds a PhD, Communication.
https://elannaherbert.blogspot.com/
Kai Jensen lives and writes on Yuin Country at Wallaga Lake on the
Far South Coast of New South Wales.
Moira Kirkwood is aiming for one step at a time through the fog.
She has to remind herself to stay humble, grateful and bendy.
Elias McKinley exists on Djiringanj Country, trying to figure
out how to live in a time of climate crisis. He tries to write poetry.
Sometimes he likes what he writes, sometimes he’s indifferent. But
he always likes how he feels when he writes.
Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman lives and writes poetry in Lake
Tabourie, NSW, in traditional Yuin Country, and enjoys seeing her
poetic work published in various literary spaces.
Stephen Meyrick is a Wollongong-based poet and a partner in
poetry publisher, 5 Islands Press. His work has been shortlisted for
the ACU and Calanthe poetry prizes. His aspiration is to write and
publish well-crafted poems that are accessible to, and can be enjoyed
by, a broad audience.
Bríd Morahan is a writer and freelance editor living on the south
coast of NSW.
Kate O’Neil’s writing for children and adults appears in various
magazines and anthologies in UK and Australia and in her Cool
Poems (for drama students), Triple D Press, Wagga Wagga, 2018.
p 63

Edita Pahor has recently moved to the Illawarra region and has
written poetry, mainly in response to the environment here. She is
an admirer of the poetry by Samuel Menashe and is also interested
in the relationship between poetry and photographic composition.
She has been published in Sandstone, a Sydney University
poetry anthology.
Sandra Renew’s recent collection is She goes to town,
LifeBeforeMan / Gazebo Books, 2024. Her poetry collections have
been awarded two Canberra Critics Circle Awards. sandrarenew.com
Paris Rosemont is a multi-disciplinary performance poet and
author of Banana Girl (WestWords). Her second collection,
Barefoot Poetess, is due for release in early 2025.
www.parisrosemont.com
Krishna Sadhana After writing her first (and only) poetry book at
age eight, she retired from the literary scene. Now, decades later, the
poetry is starting to write itself again, bringing Krish along for
the ride.
Kate Shelley-Gilbert lives in Kiama Downs, NSW, and writes
stories and poetry about mercreatures, murder, memoir, the
mundane and more. instagram.com/skelleykate
Nicole Smede is a multi-disciplinary artist of Worimi, Irish and
European descent. A reconnection to ancestry and language ripples
through her work which can be found in journals, anthologies,
galleries, venues and collecting institutions across Australia.
Ed Southorn’s poetry collection, Pareidolia, was published this
year by Walleah Press. He was a newspaper reporter for 32 years and
taught journalism at Queensland universities. He lives at Bermagui.
Christine Sykes has three published books: her award-winning
memoir, Gough and Me: My Journey from Cabramatta to
China and Beyond and two novels: The Tap Cats of the Sunshine
Coast and The Changing Room.
p 64

Elizabeth Walton is a writer and musician. She completed her
Masters of Creative Writing with an award for academic excellence
in 2023 and recently sumitted her Masters of Research. Recent
works: Poetry D’Amour, Brushstrokes IV, Ros Spencer WA Poetry
Anthology, Meniscus, Overland, Poetry on the Big Screen WA, Furphy
Anthology. Her poem, When To Book A Chin Wax (p. 23) was
longlisted in the 2024 Tom Collins Poetry Prize and her short story
Casino was shortlisted in the 2024 Furphy Short Story Prize. In 2022
Elizabeth received the Anne Edgeworth fellowship and was second
place in both the AAWP and Woollahra Digital Literary awards.
Myfanwy Williams is a Sydney-based writer who grew up in
Wollongong. You can follow her work on Instagram @writermyf
The Editors
Linda Albertson (see above)
Peter Frankis lives and works on unceded Wadi Wadi land in the
industrial town of Port Kembla south of Sydney.
Shayanne Keats is a 25-year-old writer from Wollongong. She
recently graduated with a BA from UOW and is studying Honours
in English Literature.
Judi Morison explores her Gamilaroi & Celtic heritage on
Gumbaynggirr Country, after twenty years of inspiration from the
South Coast writing community.
p 65

This anthology from the South Coast Writers
Centre presents fresh poetry from emerging and
award-winning local writers including: Myfanwy
Williams, Elizabeth Walton, Christine Sykes,
Ed Southorn, Nicole Smede, Kate Shelley-Gilbert,
Krishna Sadhana, Paris Rosemont,
Sandra Renew, Edita Pahor, Kate O’Neil,
Bríd Morahan, Stephen Meyrick,
Linda McQuarrie-Bowerman, Elias McKinley,
Moira Kirkwood, Kai Jensen,
Elanna Herbert, Tim Heffernan,
Amelia Fielden, Susie Fagan, Janette Dadd,
Joan Cornish, Jonathan Cant, Neil Bramsen,
Kathleen Bleakley and Linda Albertson.