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


the day span as it passes

wrist flick and ancient pencils aside

fuzzy horizons at angles

inside and somewhere beyond delayed

aching bones swivel hours on

out of the box into the night where

a dream of unlimited perspective hazing

pixels dance amongst the dust

golden breath fleshes the street's leaves

tea lines the soul

Jill Jones, 24 March, 6.25pm, Surry Hills, Sydney



the mural
that I painted
some years ago
on the railway wall
all bright all new
clear and sharp
has now mellowed
a fine weathering
burnishing of graffiti
looks sort of
settled accepted
unlike a poem
which never
softens or fades.

pmcmanus 9am
raynes park uk


Tagging an Insect

[Sic transit gloria mundi:
so passes the worldĻs glory. Old tag]

In the first light of morning
a dark shining jewel ≠
what's it doing in my house
sparkling on the glass-topped dining table?

It moves, on tiny legs,
with fine antennae, and is ≠
a splendid cockroach
between table-top and glass.

Yesterday in the museum
I saw many handsome birds
and insects all under glass,
tagged with hand-written Latin words.

I scan my short-term memory:
is that the Latin name
for the Melbourne cockroach
scuttling away from my dim beam?

The jewel is on the move,
rowing to a precipice.
Moth ≠ butterfly ≠ spider, even ≠
I might usher outside alive. Not this.

I aim, I spray,
I conquer: its glory
dies with it. Sic transit
gloria — cockroach? ≠
the tag may fit
though the name be gauche.

Max Richards
North Balwyn, Melbourne
8.30pm Wednesday 24 March 2004


goose egg

Breakfast, Beaumaris, 24th March 2004

Its weight amazes,
bulk filling my palm
as I cradle it
the treacherous six inches
to the countertop.
Unwrapped with reverence
from the kitchen towel
the carboot lady swathed it in.
A pencilled date -
15/3/04 -
unleashes anxieties
but we've sealed our fates.

So I crack and crack
until a breach appears, fissure-thin,
spurring me on
until it finally splits.
A few gelatinous drops
clear the way
for a huge smug globe
on the base of the pan.
The whisk stutters,
unused to resistence
as I turn up the heat.
Desultory bubbles -
this bird takes it time.

Is it done?
I turn the saffron porridge
on my plate,
take the first mouthful,
chew and taste.

is everything.

Nessa O'Mahony


Desk: Not in Attendance

The door opens quietly
as we slip into a realm of ghosts, a hotel
honouring its Moores of the past and their Irish best.
In the solitude of an upstairs lounge
we find photos of Joyce, a picturegraph of
Moore, Shaw, Beckett, Yeats,
cold eyes staring at King William Street.
And in the heart of their collection, verse.

Life, it seems, at the Brecknock is short on cash.
Itís like a poet on a migrant ship
still looking to the shores of Innisfree,
on a downhill trail, desiring nothing more
than bee-loud paddies drinking with their mates
droning on about St. Patís day.
To me itís not a graveyard, just centuries old,
in the wrong part of town, now designed
for hitchhikers sensitive to fumes.

Still, thereís cornflakes, ironing-board toast,
a cavernous trickle, Adelaide calls water.
In the hallway we laugh and joke, crouch under
blinkered eyes, waiting for uplift. (This is a just a note
to others, we didnít leave a tip).

The festival of writers is why we came,
Coetzee in the East tent, Attwood, grey and proud,
Keretís magic piggybank,
or Grenvilleís perfect gaffe.
Not the heat though. Thatís not why we came,
nor the marquis queue, waiting for god knows.
Oh thatís right!
all those authorsí books.

Helen Hagemann, Perth - Wednesday 24/3/04


Today I could write of the stars, their peaceful influence
of how lovers meet in spring and offspring see their first winter day
of how branches bend under the weight of buds struggling upwards to new skies

or I could write of how spring breaks the world with hot/cold days
of milky sleepy hours and irritable moods, postponements of dates
on the complexity of human souls with their double faced incomprehensible fates
on the delirium money and fame can give and of what people can do to get them

of perversity
of the perversity adversity dictates
of black poison meant to annihilate
of nightmares interrupted in sweat
of how the Book of Dead
                              was made real again

of how it was re-interpreted

once discovered the inextricable complexity of images
behind images - hands motivated by others' hands
& human psychology proved to be a limited toy
when compared with the skyscraping height
of nonsensical noise stammering to set
common I's on a towering glittering
madly-sickening position for
an ephemeral sniff of lust
slick trick gone abrupt
to tired eyes who
won't ever

Anny Ballardini, Boden, Italy



on top of Winter Hill
illumined by the light
of the early morning sun
seen from my bedroom window
thirty miles away
for the first time
in twelve months
since the council
felled the trees
that blocked the view

one hour on --
the moor's outline
fades into the clouds

Gerald England
Hyde UK, Wed 24th March 2004 6-7 am.


Each eye snaps shut. I pull each open
in separate acts of will. Awake. The first
cool day in a week. This afternoon I am
slumped in a theatrette
watching a video with students.
The first cool day in a week
waits outside like a young love
outside the Star Cafe where that
old man always put malt in your shake
as a matter of course. It was the fifties
of course. I smile in the semi-dark.
Halfshut. Each eye. Credits roll.
I pull myself up and hunt
for the video switches
on the black panel board.
Students yawn and stretch.
I suggest a break for coffee -
they break for home. Okay.
I can see the exhaustion in
the exhange students' eyes.
I remind them of their essay as
they squeeze past to get out into
the first cool day in a week.

This tail end of summer
has busted records, so
the American student asks,
Don't you have Fall here?
We smile as we say,
this is autumn here, mate.
But winter's cold, yeah,
winter can be cold. He tells us
of his winter. Nah, we say,
not that cold. That's unbearable,
one girl says. I'm looking forward
to the Eagles, she says brightly
& the boos and hoots
start and I know I'm in Australia
and it's the first cool day
in a week.

Andre Burke, Australia



in pails

on the rails

or trails

all those wails

but on walls


Douglas Barbour
Edmonton 08:50


Singing Bird

Love is
a singing bird
whose nest is
soft as silk
a phantom
of pignon and down
in the deep of night
I spoke with God
whose ear is
a circular silver sea
of upturned leaves
how clear the vision
came to me
and kissed my eyes

Deborah Russell, 03/24/04
Baltimore, MD USA - 11:20 am


Somewhere in Raynes Park
      a boot stamps down.

Save me save me save
     from that rainy zimmer frame.
           Tomorrow Patrick will solve global warming.

Robin Hamilton Loughborough. 5.12 pm.


one hour ago watched

with my daughter

the movie "Pixel Perfect"

on the Disney Channel

and am thinking now over coffee

without a they            no way

could we be            most certainly

some of more whatever

images made       Whitman's

multitudes assigned

and so we are      pixel


West Irondequoit, Wed 24th March 2004 1:00 pm.
-- Jerry Schwartz


edge over paper
some crossing out
in blue biro
a thick felt pen
that blocks out the blank

a pulse
mind, arm, hand, page, eye
white inner space
pours into tight tracery

Liz Kirby
City of Stoke-on-Trent Sixth Form College (UK)
Wed 24th March 2004 12.35pm



                  via Michael Fried

Antithetic emphasis on what I shall call "address"
but nothing in previous painting matches.
Surface content
of a boy crying out in pain.
Right corner is often a highly-charged zone.
Petrarchan poetry . . .
To be enjoying the experience of posing
is the best way to cut
off a head.
Neither the heads nor any

advent of a new, more urgent, more interpolated
determining, anyway a
dominant role,
remain on the board
ever so slightly. From behind
sits facing directly out of the painting
stigmatized as "theatrical".

Barry Alpert / Silver Spring, MD US / 3-24-04 (7:26 PM)


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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