All copyright © 2003 remains with the authors.
All copyright © 2004 remains with the authors.


Arcing high over Melbourne
an air force jet projects
a trail of white sperm.

After dark the same sky shows
a new moon flat on her back,
a disembodied lazy smile.

And there's the Milky Way.

Evening after evening
the tinted glimmer enlarging
of Mars as if heading this way.

Each morning we point
to where we peered last night
for close-ups of Mars - between

our gum trees and our roof-tree. Max Richards, North Balwyn, Melbourne


I have eaten words
all night for years
splitting bone and lies enamel dreams

my bruised canine
is stitched behind my face
count them! three knots
above the root
of ink and troubled pitch

of mouth bitten desire
pulped fantastic
on night's ink
where fancy creeps

my wolf vision
now spit and listerine
blood burning
codeine prey in throat

12.15am, Surry Hills, Sydney
Jill Jones



he thought
one step
one step
at a time
but which?
which foot?
foot first?
left foot?
right foot?
he thought
perhaps a
double foot
footed leap
and tripped
and fell badly
very badly
badly. pmcmanus 8am
raynes park uk


birds are returning line by line
near the river their shadows gather

black and still where water sifts
silver on ash ash on silver

lovely the creatures of light springing down
from cloud to home

neither suspended nor in motion
brick and wood are things of flame

fire remembered and foretold
making and ending

Alison Croggon, Williamstown, Melbourne, 8.11am


Snapshot: autumnal

Snorers should be put on
special machines which,
when clamped tightly,
facilitate a quiet night -

quiet night when the
moon smokes lazily
one foot crossed over
the other yellow leg

quiet night undisturbed
by family klaxons or
the calculations of
lost sheep (one, two...)

quiet night with sky
Magrittes of slipper, pipe,
dull background, boredom,
nothing doing (good)

quiet night of blank
jazz autumn cool
and stepping back
to jump again -

for when the fog
horn starts up on the river
and the blocked breather
begins her performance art

all my noisy ghosts
put on their Reeboks
and throng yakking
past my door..

Norton Hodges, Oakham, Rutland UK, 27.08.03 8:15 a.m.


huge patches of light - light in its might
falling and gliding through the wind

seducing and magnified by the intense colors
like the infinite hues
ranging from white/yellow/green/blue
red emerges distinct
mars & sun
work made easier if surrounded by tangible beauty
still imperative the need to go, see, meet, move
be part of the bustling choir of beings
be they here now or in history
or maybe projected by dreams

it is the celebration of natural light
stimulating the biology
of our cellular life

anny ballardini - bozen - italy - 3.29 pm -


that bright red dot
in the southern sky here

memories encoded

those first bounding steps
my mother reminded me
I had spoken of when very young

she standing in kitchen
unbelieving / yet
we watched together
those leaps in black & white
on TV
(soon to thrust further
to the nearest planet

for sure

& this week
a report on executive failures
even the space station
slowly sinking
while the aging shuttles
& imagination
sit on the tarmac downed

Douglas Barbour, Edmonton, Canada, 08:50 27 VIII 03


Last Night

Mars--bloody Mars--rampant


Lower Manhattan--not as dark as
some times

--Halvard Johnson, NYC, 8.27.03, 11:22 am, EDT


Chasing Fireflies

The road, to the temples of Mount Hurago, was narrow, slowing climbing upward and flanked by magnificent trees. Trees, that seemed older, that seemed to hold tomes of history, within their branches and leaves.
These trees seemed more of everything than the trees of my urban neighborhood. My eyes were plunged, captivated and caught in the scattered light that found its way through the thickness. Small pleasing patches of yellow that illuminated the spirit with the same childish joy of chasing fireflies. I walked with a new born pace, in the place of centuries of soul seeking steps. All those, that had come, before me. Each step, was an anticipation, a discovery of things known and unknown. This is the way, I thought to myself. This is the way we should learn to live, as if the next step will open the gates of purpose and direction.

Mount Hurago ~
autumn sun captures
a willing prisoner

Deborah Russell
Baltimore, Maryland Wednesday, August 27, 2003
(Haibun, Reflections on Japan)



I cannot even sit on a toilet seat
without bad news of mortality.

Read Poets & Writers, the intellectual's drekschrift
in lieu of People magazine

read about the task of editing Stan Rice's
last book. Last book. Le Testament de La Morte,

Psalms, prefigurations of 9/11, then
its afterglow: not of love but of smoking bodies.

Thrownback. Memories of "Some Lamb,"
the first poetry I read that left me quivering

wanting, praying to God, to be sick to my stomach
to purge the horror from inside me,

wanting to kill Death because Rice told me
that six years old or ninety-six

I stood in line.

Kenneth Wolman



Paper brushes leg.
Hand finds dollar
drawn to whirlpool's source.

Barry Alpert / "freely written" / Silver Spring MD USA / 8-27 (11:47 PM)



you dog

you train

my head tilt & stray whistle

damp eye
you who miss touch

firm touch, say,
a rail

you, today's memory: unkempt
sloppy love,
care & dry whys
what's left is the only

coat of dust
yelp & roll
along this suburban sprawl

I'll never who--

someone could
an entire lawn

while I stride
past a faint

train's O whistle of who-
cares & oil rigging
in-out lore

your barking O

Chris Murray: Dallas, TX 10:50 p.m. 27 Aug 03


(For the memory of Veronica Forrest-Thomson)

the best cannot manage any proportion:

"sufficient unto thy death is the day thereof ... "

In slumberland, the ghosts glide driftily ....
so long the agony, so long the grief:
*such* an enormous sorrow.

... yet another Wednesday,
yet another grief

(lente lente curite noctes equae ...)

wounds dripping from a page torn from a diary --

how long the irony? the grief?

Off the edge of the page, Madonna Bones?

Sometime, nevertime, everywhen old grief --

too sad, too bad, too
long the algebra:
it's that
cold locus where we once played games.

Nevertime as such a time, as that time when -- once again, old chug


... there was a griefy time I'd have liked to end this in prose, but the harsh lust for rhythm cuts in, inexorable.

too sweet. too pure. too clear.

I must drift into prose sometime again still, but it's difficult - that long morning on the mountainside ...

That long Wednesday which we once called home.

don't worry --
I'm alive,
I'm living


Like you,
my love,
to nowhere,
no one,

{let's write in the margin
-- not ever seriously, or ever to die for,


don't ever trust this,
or ever trust me again:

Every which_one, every where/when.

4U my dear
est one }



Neverwhen. (now)

... for Veronica, who was born the same year as me.

Robin Hamilton, Loughborough, UK



sod it! o sod
it's overcast now
mars is a-close
a-rising so red
so round so happily
drunk there
in the east after
60.000 years
of neglect
that fart
those clouds
those perfectly
useless clouds could
see him none the less
from elsewhere
last saturday
caught a plane though
back home
which he must've
missed the fool
i did hand him
his ticket paid for
dearly and missed it
that stone-age troglodyte
can't even see me now
wherever he is and yet
i'm shining
a biggish red
and o
so perfectly round
on his perfectly

Árni Ibsen
10:30 pm, august 27,
hafnarfjördur, iceland.


Poetryetc is a listserv relating to poetry and poetics which provides a forum for poets to debate their critical and creative work. The list has over the years run a number of projects for its members, of which Snapshots has been the most enduring.

Every Wednesday, Poetryetc members were invited to post short poems on any subject or in any form they chose. The idea was to make a poetic collage of instamatic “snaps” of that day that reflected the international membership of the list. The project has generated an astounding number of poems.

The first two runs, of six weeks each, and the first ten weeks of the third run, are archived at Wild Honey Press under Poetryetc Project. The rest - amounting in all to a run of a year - are archived here.

Poetryetc, like its affiliate Salt Publishing (, was founded by Australian poet John Kinsella. Salt is managed by Christopher Hamilton-Emery (, while Poetryetc is owned by Alison Croggon ( Poetryetc is now archived at and anyone interested can join from that url.

To contact the listowner: Alison Croggon

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