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


Passport To Sunrise

the desire
for sleep is lost

long nights
fill with intent

in the vision
above my bed
i write
infinite poems

i write a visa
to mysterious
a passport
to sunrise

in the cock's crow
my ink flows
in a strange sea
of unknown

Deborah Russell, June 2, 04 (morning)
Baltimore, Maryland


Discovering Winter

I have winter stuffed in my pockets
a tissue, paperclip, a silver seal,
nothing of the artic kind. It’s partly
from a clever flip of juice I had at lunch. I am
hilarious when it comes to junk,
the little scraps of detail one collects
when writing poems in stuffy gas-fired
rooms. Sneezes stunningly simple to my
coughing boom. Two hairs have fallen
from my headache. I flick them off like
dust. My eyes and nose are melting into
ugg-boots on my toes.
I know I’m not unique.

Helen Hagemann, Marangaroo. 2 June



Pontormo, Parmigianino, Modigliani
with their elongated figures
Mannerists --
long sharp noses,
mouths, oh mouths,
where is that bare slot,
that tilt of the head
Renaissance? No.
Early twentieth
He, tubercular,
dead at thirty-five,
in 1920.
His nudes that shut down
his Paris show
now luring the crowds.

Harriet Zinnes, NYC


a week of grief
and broken things

but then the moon
filled out round

& this bright
birdsong morning

Sharon Brogan


a forlorn denial now one
week gone   the storm
of news & conversation
grief brings

and reminds us that all
broken promises promised
things would get better

but who said that   &
then who can believe
the same old stories   even the
moon goes through the motions now

filled with the usual cunning
out go stars
round that full light

& a line of flight makes
this night complicit   that
bright day rises to

birdsong as if the
morning were really new

Douglas Barbour
Edmonton   16:25    Wednesday   June 2 2004
(with thanks to Sharon Brogan)


she was waiting in the cellar
for sunlight for the mouth to open

as soon as we called to her
the first answer became clear

she knew very well where the remnants were
she had hidden them for safekeeping

it was only a short journey
riding on the bear's back

Liz Kirby
Waterfoot England
Wed June 2nd 2004



Once I was fearful of the growing season --
in a dark place, we don't want to see
the way green things reach and grope.
Such hopefulness coiled in every cell,
such energetic, muscular striving.

We don't want to hear the fey twitters
of feathered bombs that drop from the sky
to bounce on lawns with legs like springs,
or hear the ticking of sprinklers, a signal
of heat waves to come, and we certainly

don't want the scent of jasmine, stronger by night,
and a hell of a tease besides, nor the caress
of a wind that at once flatters and beguiles.
And the taste of salted skin pressed to skin
firmly as lips meet lips? Bunkum. Balderdash!

Now, now I'm not so sure. Such provocations
can't always go unnoticed, be ignored. Why not
reach for June's strawberries that shiver redly
in the skins they're in, or thrust feet into sand,
or step outside ourselves the way light breaks
through stained glass and falls in colored shadow
on the walkway that promises gardens beyond?

Jenniffer L. Lesh
2 June 2004
Bakersfield, Calif. USA


The city strode flashy with newly pawned zircon in the sun,
cars glittered with chrome and rain through the narrow streets.
Frailty of bike gripped the wet tarmac
with a whisper of urgency and misdirection.
(/Walking up the stairs, my hips too wide for the gate,
knees tired.)/

A shadow's heart, the warmth of a glowing chestnut blossom.
/ (I rang my father.
"There's nothing you can do, lay on the pillows, be comfortable"
he said aside to someone, my mother, I think, it was hard to tell.
Screams, shouts, explosions.)/

The sun continued shining. Leaves jutted down to reach me.
I deposited the money and escaped.

Roger Day



Old girlfriends sit aslant from you in the subway,
behind the Times, visible only the angle of their jaw.

Their hair draws light from the sun,
empties the sky to perfect darkness, cat vision.

Old girlfriends pass afar on midtown streets at noon,
pursued by the phantoms they have bequeathed you.

Old girlfriends sing the Miserere, brass and strings
pound in the stomach like moonbursts of lust.

-- Kenneth Wolman


What was I gonna say?
Oh yeah, that how can I pray
to Art? how can I feel that way
all around me things are crud.
Mobile phones full of African blood
and maybe guns in my diamond stud
hurt children becoming adults who hurt,
surviving in cultures driven by hurt,
"no pain no gain",
ruled by gain
and going insane
everyone says it's getting worse.
Everyone wants to engage reverse,
but there is no reverse.
some things are better.
Maybe we'll get there
I have to try, have to work.
Behind the numbing list of hurts
hide joy, and love, and original thoughts
telling, and blessings worth giving
and dreams worth receiving
and songs worth saving.
I'll draw a chart
and aim a dart
with every start
of every part
of my staring, gulping, blubbering heart
I'll pray to Art.

Janet Jackson


the holiday schedule enlarges time
run after your thought to the kitchen
under the fridge - yes here it is
without onions, only milk - coffee is ready
back to the screen it screeches away

mail or sail why scatter my brain away?

I wanted to write for the gipsy
whose love was transformed into someone's show

or for the dream collected while waiting for the sun to appear
while watering the plants he showed up again

exotic clouds of big emerald green leaves
are the growth of a rainy late spring early summer
they appease my friends' dead sisters in me
the totemic statue is slowly restructured
Cocteau's sketches seem lost in the past
with Lorca singing deep down to the ground

Anny Ballardini, 5.33 pm Italy


blockquote> (i. m. Miklós Radnóti, poet
shot by the Nazis, November 1944) In the wrong country
he remembers home.
Under the wrong soil
home is with him,
safe in his pocket
on that forced march.

The death-stained voice
of the notebook, its pages tight closed,
guards his words with the juice of his dying.
Its mouth is choked
with damp earth and blood. It will speak
again, its lips tenderly opened,
telling us who he was and is, interpreting.

Not voiceless, not silenced,
he springs up, singing.

Joanna Boulter


There is death in the house
Cruel cruel cat
At midnight I sat and watched
My tubby little mouse
Scampering round too fast to catch
He had been too cute to enter the boxtrap to preserve his life
An hour or two later
Lying in bed
I heard him run up the stairs
And wander around my bedroom
Then I heard Cat on the stair
And knew Mouse was doomed
Quick move of Cat then silence
In the morning light a head a body
In tissue to the rubbish sack
And a present for me by Cat's dinnerplate
A pair of skinny legs
Cruel cruel cat
My tubby little mouse gone
Now Cat is off to sleep in the sun
And I am alone with a memory

Douglas Clark, Bath, UK, 10.05am


and half the day

editing amateur
'hardboiled crime' fiction
I break

to chat with
the Woolworths girls
striking a redline

through their
make-up ('But
we get staff discount!')

back to
Track Changes

over my shoulder

Andrew Burke
Mt Hawthorn, WA, Australia



the cat sneezes
three times
for good luck

deliver their greens
fresh to the eye

the orbweaver spider
no longer builds
her nightly web

she's gone
wherever the sun goes
when we're not looking

Alison Croggon, Williamstown, Australia 4.07pm



when at last
the editors
of the local anthology
after endless discussion
midnight sessions
raised passions
decided to
put the poems
by title
just by title
all hell broke out
as to which alphabet
actually to use.

pmcmanus 7.04
raynesparkuk *** TESTAMENT: COCTEAU
[photos en marge de film par Lucien Clergue]


The filmmaker can make many people dream
Send it
to the time from which I managed to escape
again. Excusez-moi
meeting with a person whose destiny I was complicating.
neither hear nor speak.
The professor’s life hung,

Try to understand
all scientists
(us). Might I ask how you’ve managed?


Times not in chronological order
experiment: I must first kill you
to ensure
a change of
me, and I’d better not follow,
etait mort
no longer.
That is how she passes by moonlight.

Pallas / Minerva.
Her goddesses are women after all.
Excuse me. I must be the victim of an hallucination.
Under our jurisdiction:

Not until viewing a show of still photographs at the Mexican Cultural Institute snapped by the eminent Mexican cinematographer Gabriel Figueroa while shooting footage for Luis Bunuel (among others) had I paid any attention to the art of movie stills. Recently, I was startled to register that Lucien Clergue, whom I had heard lecture about his photography, was credited by Jean Cocteau for the stills he had taken behind the scenes of the 1960 film, The Testament of Orpheus.

Barry Alpert / Silver Spring, MD US / 6-2-04 (12:49 AM)



the cat sneezes
three times
for good luck

deliver their greens
fresh to the eye

the orbweaver spider
no longer builds
her nightly web

she's gone
wherever the sun goes
when we're not looking

wherever the moon goes
she's gone
tacking a sail to all the dark corners

shimmering its
never no, its
ever yes

stirs up
wind in a northern continent
rain falls

reminds us that we are at the border
of seasons, of not quite

not quite
the spider spins an orb

of green branches, green wind,
stirs up a southern continent
a green plum

and bites lips into sweetness

Snapshot extension: Alison Croggon, Rebecca Seiferle, Deborah Russell


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

These pages are designed, maintained, and hosted by Rebecca Seiferle, the Editor of The Drunken Boat. To email.