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Hemat Malak

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…

Dijanne Cevaal

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…

Gregory Piko

by GREGORY PIKO damp blossoms on the pavement in Kanazawa a sheet of gold leaf clings to my matcha ice-cream

Hannah Borrell

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,…

Andrew Davis

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…

Colleen Keating

by cOLLEEN KEATING walking the beach beneath a reddened moon breath of acrid air where black ash trails the tide line an empty sky where the blue gum stood – returning birds perch on a brick wall chirping incessantly Tuggerah…

Jo McInerney

by JO McINERNEY Dislocation a tanka string a pale snail clinging to the bricks beside our door as the waters rise we all seek shelter neighbours crowded on a football field thick smoke obscuring what the fire may have left…

Robyn Cairns

by ROBYN CAIRNS sudden dive of a black shouldered kite the birders view the day moon plane tree leaves pressed wet to Carlton paths we share a bowl of autumn risotto lighthouse romance on the limestone coast a sequence of…

Marilyn Humbert

by MARILYN HUMBERT Strangers in strangeland a tanka sequence we wander the cracked surface of narrow byways scooters push past horns beeping strings of tiny bells decorate hawker stalls in Little India we fall under the alchemy of exotic scents…

Keitha Keyes

by KEITHA KEYES home at last we enjoy the freedom of speaking in our first language… words just tumble out dry creek beds in the rust red soil… from space you would think the Earth is frowning shadows creep into…