Highly Commended: cosmology and life by Frances Richardson
she sits among missed moments
ponders on how time may curve
different definitions of light
why strings may take her through
relative mystery mechanics
today, her discussion on Fermi's Paradox
was ignored or patronised
while others applauded
their efforts on spectroscopy
with a wave at the laptop
- wishing for Hubble's brain that the
universe would slow –
she sees black holes
swallow her new years
Highly Commended: Parade of Snakes by Sue Colyer
Snakes came singly to the pink stone slab
On a hot summer's day, and I at the garden gate to rest there.
From the embankment slope to the terrace above,
I came to the gate, to wait, to stand and wait,
As Lawrence waited, for snakes to parade before me.
The snakes appeared, each one alone,
From the shelter of the gloom of shade
Trailing their coloured scales to the sun warmed stone.
Black, brown, pink, green, lustrous.
Lifting their heads to observe their observer, momentarily warmed,
Silently.
They lay before me at my gate
And I, like an intruder, a voyeur, must wait.
Each in turn lifted its head, with cautious stare,
And flicked its two-forked tongue to sense the air. A warning?
Then coiled, and turned back to the shelter of the shade.
A passing parade, a shimmery rainbow slipping by.
Though some are endangered, they survive,
Ubiquitous and harmless, in the forest's emerald greenness.
I smiled at this procession of ophidian colour and optical conversation.
How honoured I was that they came to my warm oasis de paix,
And depart calm, unharmed and safe
In the shelter of this rustic haven.
No voice said: Kill them. Only humility, to feel so connected. No violent act.
What wonder to have had a chat!
To talk with Lawrence, to vision his snake both admired and feared.
I was not afraid, nor were the snakes.
We were both at home, sharing our mutual hospitality,
A moment in time and space,
Resting in the warmth of the garden sanctuary.
Acknowledgment: D.H Lawrence's poem Snake [1923]
Highly Commended: Balance by Geraldine Day
Today, driving to get her to visit our shared family
for updates of footie mishaps, T-ball wins and count new baby teeth,
I hear your breath in the quiet of the car.
Ahead, a bruised rainbow bands the fizz of morning
the storm passed. Yours beginning.
Your foot brakes as I slow for traffic lights and we smile
know your driving days are over, know your pain will never shift gear.
Do I tell you of my trip? How the Tuscan hills captured me
and I toasted them with blue champagne
Rome tired me with its no-holds barred traffic
but how could I not love the piazzas, statues, the language of tortellini.
And Paris, Paris, layered in spring, flaunted love
along the nightgarden banks of the Seine.
Do I tell you all this? But no, it would be churlish so I keep it to myself.
Our love splintered, days widened, words shortened
and you leapt through a pause in conversation.
The overdrive of family unwrapped strewn
feelings of anger, exposed a gateway of balance.
I notice how hard you focus on the road, pointing out turns
and speed limits, hands doing their own version of new-age jive.
Do you miss the dancing? Still feel the rhythm of coloured notes?
Your throat rattles, breath motes dip and fade.
Memory scrabbles for names, what the doctor said yesterday
but you remember you have no photo of our grand-daughter
words spilling, breathless, guilty. Chasing yourself.
Finding a stranger.
Commended: to nowhere by Rosie Barter
i go out now into white shadow
beyond all glimmering busyness
rebus-stops, timetables, taxes,
tweets, dentists, carbon-levy,
refugees and breast scans
of breast scans and the uneven portent
of a small accessible tumour
to be taken tomorrow, clean and swift,
from my daughter's left breast
in the hospital
my 39-year-old witch-child
russet-haired, white-faced
same grey eyes, sucks her thumb
we've got it they say as she comes to
they got it we yell,
fizzing like shaken lemonade
her husband, the children and me
so helpless in our love
next day pathology disagrees
active cells in the ductal tissue
aggressive form fast-moving
chemo regime for forty weeks
left breast to the knife in March
right breast off come August
a genetic blood-clotting disorder
orders caution on unsteady ground
one step at a time to nowhere
alone at home i pick up a book
from its cover the dalai lama smiles
reminds me there is no god
a slow drum beats
Commended: Forgetting by Rosie Barter
Me? Still a girl?
In the gilt-framed oval mirror
someone slack-jawed and cracked
looks back.
Do you see me as I do
or is your heart as blind
as mine is enduring
in its ambivalence.
We do not speak of our past.
I have put up the gate.
Keep it locked.
Admit you like a short-term guest
into the neat parlour of my heart's mansion.
You've been tidied away.
Letters in a shoebox from hip strangers.
Black and white photos from Delphi,
Cairo, Barcelona, Jaipur, Tehran.
Dried roses.
Wishbone.
The ring.
Better you forget me I say,
deaf as I am to your knocking.
Though you insist on persisting,
grinning
through the key-hole.
Commended: optical illusion by Rosie Barter
three years old I she repeats bars I six per square I
perfect square I pluperfect I
& a treble clef curve on curve creating spirals
four base colours tremulous
but overdone no lax flaw of human frailty
just flippant infancy testing testing.
like a clock face I a clock face I clock face I face.
aged nine in the city gallery she finds
Luo Ping \ Self Portrait in Wicker Cape and Hat dressed
as a peasant \ eyes to see ghosts \ smell out
corruption \ sharp crisp strokes \ mechanical.
ten thousand ugly ink dots no soft edges.
fifteen>art school>a crush on Escher>
his intersecting planes sphere-spirals fishes
& scales moebius strips his encounter with
pre-destination whirlpools ascending & descending.
she wants to be the one to instruct the planets in
what orbs to run < but there is no winding mechanism.
at eighteen fugitive [from her error of love]
she paints true carmine with her blood
smears ultramarine over orange razors out green
blue as blue days nights blacker bleared sun
from perfect square to damned rainbows.
she folds A4 in four unfolds and folds again
again/ again/ again/ again/ again/ again/ again.
seven times* she folds.
*It is impossible to fold a sheet of paper more than seven times
Commended: Last Dance by Maria Bonar
I danced with you grudgingly
that first time.
You, with your slicked-down hair,
shirt smelling faintly
of horses and sheep.
Me, lip curled, nose in the air.
Changed days! I'm ashamed that
the first time we danced,
I treated you with such meanness.
When you rescued me
from the bushfire,
passion flared between us.
On the wings of the morning
you came for me
riding your chestnut mare.
I swung up behind you
we rode through the smoke,
sparks shooting high in the air.
Gum trees exploded in
mad bombs of fire.
Crackling flames chased us high up the ridge.
Wind gusted like thunder
as we cleared the crest
and Peg galloped down to the bridge.
On the wings of the morning
you came for me
riding your chestnut mare.
You called me sweetheart
and pledged me your love,
with a diamond solitaire.
At Blackboy Hill
we whirled our last dance.
"Be over by Christmas," they said.
Neither you nor Peg
returned from France.
Sadly, we never did wed.
On the wings of the morning
I think of you
riding your chestnut mare.
Mad bombs explode
as you ride through the smoke
at Villers-Bretonneux.
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