supporting local Artists
supporting local Artists
Andrew Davis is a multimedia artist, inspired by the beautiful high country of Northern NSW. His experiments with poetry have evolved from writing song lyrics for various projects. Andrew’s art focuses on sharing his passion for observing natural or human-made…
by HANNAH BORRELL sirens in the wind smoke stitched into every breath he won’t leave just yet keeps hosing the old tin roof like a prayer not said loud bone between his teeth he trots through open scrub ears fixed,…
by GAVIN AUSTIN Alberton Cemetery A tanka sequence clouds part as ladders of light span liminal spaces a walk through time into this thin place magpie flutes filter from gumleaves overhead branches carve deep shadows whispering of the past marking…
by BRADLEE JENNINGS East to East an autumn road trip through Victoria: a tanka string three cooling towers pierce the Gippsland morning sky through the fog blanket unannounced and surprising they call back to bygone wars rail bridges unused rotting…
by GWEN BITTI drenched peace a tanka string Seminyak… running in the rain a street vendor offers me a flattened cardboard box motorcyclists and pillion passengers raincoats thrashing slide across the bridge my quivering heart nearby unperturbed monkeys chatter their…
by aGI DOBSON gnarled poplars and oaks leaves orange, yellow, scarlet a last bravado hairdresser tomorrow turning grey to blazing red Mossvale Park, South Gippsland, VIC grey sterile room single bed, a chair on the nightstand mints, glasses and a…
by DAVID BRIESE only my footprints soft traces on golden sand salt-tanged wind and crashing surf am I alone if the sea speaks to me barramundi lurk beneath mangrove shadows water dark and still fishing in the Kimberley crocodile eyes…
Dijanne Cevaal comes from Morwell, which is a city on land of the Brayakaulung people of the Gunaikurnai. She has had poetry published in previous editions of Catchment and has written several self-published booklets celebrating place and her art. She…
by HEMAT MALAK autumn leaves hang beside flying foxes in the breeze… I unpeg the line of socks and carry them inside twigs with berries pile up on the footpath under the galah… so many wasted words in our conversations…
by aNDREW HEDE each morning more reports of more terror another sunrise I ponder on suffering retreating into stillness I sit by the bed of my dying friend rigidly frozen the powerlessness of Parkinson’s Disease