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


At Heide 1, 2003-4

(for Rosalie Dance, and Nolan¹s 'Rosa Mutabilis', 1945)

[Heide Museum of Modern Art in Melbourne began as Heide Farm where John and Sunday Reed fostered young artists like Sidney Nolan]

I stole an hour from my employer, parked
near the side gate to the old farmhouse,
intent on taking in all its gardens,
at their peak this green November.

For years I passed by unaware
the old place was still there.
Fresh pink now the weatherboard boxy
house, spotless white each old chimney;
signs everywhere to guide the curious ­
Wild Garden, that¹s the one for me:

the Reeds employed as gardener Neil Douglas,
giving him this as his sanctuary.
Last month I read his obituary,
a long good life: art, plants, wilderness.

I found its shadowed small still pool;
trod the curved walks to the main gate,
took in the whole square modest front,
an outhouse marked for restoration,
the kitchen garden burgeoning with beans;
the Heart Garden, tiny and enclosed,
where Sunday Reed knelt among her herbs;
looking up to where, in legend now disproved,
young Sidney Nolan trod the galvo,
painting an early Kelly on the roof.

Restored, the garden thrives again;
art? ­ lingers here in relics,
but has moved on.
Heide, homestead of creative passion,
spreads wide as an endowed museum.

In high summer I came again
for Rosalie's education talk.
She gave us each a Nolan postcard
and took us on a Heide walk.

At the foot of the old cow-pasture hill
still stands the wooden post-and-rail;
we stood by the blooming Rosa mutabilis
(the buds are pale but darken their pinkness),
looked back up past the well-treed
slope once planted by good John Reed,

seeing the chimneyed house through Nolan's eyes,
where Sunday waited for him with love.
Sunday amid the painted roses still
glows with bright blue eyes, immutable.

- Max Richards
North Balwyn, Melbourne
Wednesday morning


I'm baffled by heat and cloud
white sheets in anticipation.
My mood is not the street
where I must condense slowly
or toss off any low feeling
into mutable tar and tile.

What gathers me and runs
past my heartbeat - that too
mutable, jiggery -
is less than ideal, more than phenomena

a bit like work ahead
a bit like sheets of sky.

Jill Jones
Devonshire Street, Surry Hills 11.15am



just heard the news
radio three my
classic music station
clonings and cricket
mad Israeli ambassadors
nuclears and presidents
headscarves and strikes
and more cloudy rain
so much this
so much that
so much of everything
all now comfortingly
deeply securely buried
under a torrent of
rich warm Scarlatti.

pmcmanus raynes park uk
21st jan 9am n 349


NPR's "Fresh Air" last night had an interview with Paul Auster. He said one of the things he would like to imagine is the first meeting of his parents. Delmore Schwartz did this in "In Dreams Begin Responsibilities." My turn. This is a fast sketch, nothing nearly finished.

First Meeting of My Parents, 1927

"Everyone knows what is in Room 101"

Inelegant in felt hat and vested suit
he looks her over in the furrier's office
hey nice ass
she knows he is looking
cocks her head over her shoulder smiles
maiden pre-Raphaelite pose
furs pelts in place of water lilies
and fallen leaves on a forest floor
eventually there will be
much later
too later
too late
Imagination fails I cannot do this
the ultimate challenge
picture your parents Doing It
Almost 60 years old and I still can't
He will take her to lunch perhaps dinner
it will go as it went
does he tell her he is married
does she care
it will explode
legalistic acid spattering
him them both
what they do what he does is still a crime
in New York State
they marry in 1934
what is left by then but too much
knowledge of the other
they are pre-owned
misery burned into them even
at the vows
by 1944 undercooked
but finished

Kenneth Wolman, USA


Snapshot: Nagoya Playboys

Dissatisfied with their search results, they drop their language
tools and move on to search tips. Exclusive archives
of hot nude centerfolds, women the world has never seen.

See your message here, among similar self-published pages,
music for purchase, Jim Morrison discographies, and much, much more,
Nagoya Marimbas also heard in the offing. Japan

and Australia, together again as never before. Alsatian
Cousins opening tonight at Megacity Surplus Bar. More results,
only a click away. You're always welcome, but, please,

no married men. Rediscover convention, characters that cannot be
decently displayed in any language whatsoever. Even I
do not know my own secrets. Some young ladies want to settle

down with dull, older men who collect Damien Hirsts, David
Hockneys. Look, jovencitas, all ya gotta do is read them their Kipling
until they drift off to sleep. Piece of cake, lemme tell ya.

Halvard Johnson, NYC, 12/21/04 10:39 a.m. EST


via Steve Reich

punctuate by energy discharge
the piece of silence
and the programmatic.

Barry Alpert / Silver Spring, MD USA / 9-?-77, 1-21-04 (11:58AM)


he mused
with alacritous &
pretty crummy
all the same
I like it

Martin Walker, Lagorce, 21.1.2004 18.26 Romance Time


this shelf not that one:

Wilson's Bowl Water
and Light Hanging Fire

Color of Her Speech
Double Standards

Artemis Hates Romance
Confabulations Holding
the Pose The Beginning
of the Long Dash


Flowers for
Hitler Parasites
of Heaven The Energy
of Slaves Death
of a Lady's Man

A Short Sad Book
Errata Delayed
Mercy Moving in
Alone Lies The Night
the Dog Smiled

Light Questions
I Asked My Mother
A Breakfast for

Barbarians Tranceform

Douglas Barbour
Edmonton Canada 12:30


Flowers in the hedgerow
rotting in brittle celophane.
Slow, the sign says. Slow.

Liz Kirby
Macclesfield to Leek Road
at Fool's Nook corner 5.15pm


listening to John Boutte smoke his tenor
singing "I Cover The Waterfront"
piercing my guts every so slightly
with its Swiss Army Knife evoking
in me pleas for the fatal thrust

6:34 PM, West Irondequoit, New York
--jerry schwartz


0.26 - Thursday
no one will ever love me as she has

have always known

after sleep I will go
to remember/forget her sacrifice

in-between the air
how will I ever

let her know

Anny Ballardini///Bozen, South Tyrol, Italy


A gentleman of the measured 3 p.m.
watery sun

my thought on papers I'm
inside the dove

gray concrete
shadows I concentrate

squinting at construction

work ahead just as
we brush

on the one hand a thick painted tan
brick computer hall
of grated windows

On the other
the tic-tac-toe linoleum military
folded neatly inside

the square stucco

sparkling door of loud flags
He bends
past clipped
hedges a decisive

moon haired

to say
in soft plaid
Can you tell

if we go this way
will they

let us

or is everything
fenced off ahead, too?

Chris Murray, 22 Jan 04 Dallas, TX 1:00 a.m.



feeling crap
this morning
not up to much
not up to anything
anything demanding
anything too stretching
perhaps to just
write this poem
from the heart.

pmcmanus n350



this time of year
we hear soft-spoken
of people gathering
under looming mountains
in remote fjords
for their annual
perhaps even
sweet sun-pancakes
the virtue
nigh obsolete of
quiet celebration
at seeing the sun
light again gold
rimming the rimy tops
and deep within
a heavy wooden
pendulum hits a dim
knell quieting
the present tinkle

árni ibsen
very late


the nuns said we could
--when we listened?
live lives like those girls
from the early times
we could barely sit still
because ours was already running
ahead of us. adventures awaiting
our names to be said out loud
from the canon each and every day
by a priest, a bishop, a pontiff
somewhere in the world
agatha, lucy, agnes, cecilia, anastasia
sounded like girls we could hang with
play hard to get with
agnes was a girl who could not be burned
so they cut her. i wanted to be
brave like agnes, take up her name
for my confirmation tag
but I came up before the judge
unable to stand up
against my mother who ruled
agnes too much for a pretty little
girl and i folded agnes into anne
the mother of the mother of god
for the sake of the kingdom until
i found that deborah had been a judge
and i could answer to that

Newark, NJ
Feast of Agnes of Rome
10:15 am the day following


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.

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