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Content From Issue: Volume 1 Number 1 (February 2014)

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From: Vol.01 N.01 – Ecopoetic Ruminations


by Patrick Jones


Published: January 2014
Patrick Jones

recently completed his doctoral thesis “Walking for food: regaining permapoesis” at University of Western Sydney. He is currently travelling Australia by bicycle as Artist as Family, modelling sustainable travel for families.

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From: Vol.01 N.01 – Ecopoetic Ruminations

Tower Hide, Strumpshaw Fen

by Matt Howard

Last year’s floods surged salt

up the Yare and spilled through here.


I counted the starved, decaying pike

surfaced by so many losses.


Now I look for migrants

and while I scan you read to me –


abundance of mallard, greylag,

the pure-white belligerence of swans.


A tern holds before its drop;

that deadfall,


re-emergence and rough dividend

of too-small silver flailing.


You are reading now of the lapwing,

the curved crest, that joyful cry,


of all its resident names: green plover,

pewit, pie-wipe, lappinch, chewit;


such fresh-water in your migrant mouth.

Published: January 2014
Matt Howard

is 35 and lives in Norwich, England, where he works for RSPB. Matt is also a steering group member of New Networks for Nature. Previous poems have appeared in several magazines including The North, The Rialto and Resurgence, with poems also in the current issues of Stand and Magma.

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From: Vol.01 N.01 – Ecopoetic Ruminations


by Susan Hawthorne

a penumbral eclipse that’s what they call it

that mix of shadow and light shade hidden

as if we are viewers at some entertainment

for tourists this is not the Egyptian pyramids

at Giza whose azimuth was calculated along the

desert plains no something even more humble

an Australian beach a seashore where the tide

sweeps in under the glimmering full moon

we will be in full umbra night’s shadow

and unable to see the penumbra of moonlight

our azimuth will not angle us to this eclipse

Published: January 2014
Susan Hawthorne

is the author of eleven books of poetry, fiction and non-fiction. Her book, Cow was shortlisted for the Kenneth Slessor Poetry Prize in the 2012 NSW Premier’s Literary Awards. Earth’s Breath was shortlisted for the 2010 Judith Wright Poetry Prize. She was BR Whiting Resident in Rome in 2013.

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From: Vol.01 N.01 – Ecopoetic Ruminations


by Philip Harvey

Why be afraid.

Signs everywhere,

A fallen bird,

the dead bugs

in yellow grass,

nothing remains.

Schoolchildren watch things pass,

no questions.

Before these houses

filled the hills

we knew

no pain

grandparents tending the garden.

Or, before time,

chaos modulated into

civilising climate change,

what had we

to worry.

Our hills

shone with forests,

cycads were fountains.

Or, closer to home

ego arguments

divided continents

along state lines,

empire meant

oppressor and oppressed,

everyone slave

to an illusion.

What of it?

We observe the shifts

on colour screens.

But answers

to our fear

the gouging pain

and grudging antidotes,

after all

what can they be?

We will leave too

and feel no more

like all before,

unremembered remembered.

Published: January 2014
Philip Harvey

is a Melbourne poet. He is published widely here and overseas. He keeps two literary blogs. One collects his word studies in poetry, image, and essay:; the other is a site for his readings of poetry, critical, creative or philosophical: Philip is the Poetry Editor of the online journal Eureka Street.


‘The Queerest Shop in Sydney’

by Anne Elvey

Kristin Hannaford


In 1923, bookshop owner James Tyrrell purchased the premises of ‘Tost & Rohu: Taxidermists, Furriers, Tanners and Island Curio Dealers’ – it was known at the time as ‘The Queerest Shop in Sydney’.*


Welcome to Tost & Rohu’s carnival of the unusual!

naturalists, articulators Purvey the shelves, cabinets

and shop-front façade. sea-shells in large variety Wonder open- mouthed entomological specimens and

requisites at what you do not know, what you do not have:  bric-a-brac,


fancy work and flower making  gewgaws, marvellous birds,

beasts and reptiles oddities prepared and mounted to order that are the queer

and strange discharge of a continent. Minutiae of curiosities furs, tanned revealed –

an assortment of mixed lollies: snakes, frogs, sharks’ teeth, black cats and Pyrmont rock,


jellied substances instruments for Oologists

and jars of white spirit floating preserves. Go closer, Lyre bird tails

gawk at creatures reassembled, enjoy the pantomime ladies’ muffs, circlets,

bags of nature re-enacted, exotic ornamentations, implements, woomera the dark stained


patinas boomerangs of clubs and shields –

invent your narratives of possession, snake skin tobacco

pouches romance and loss, stop and choose Emu cameos enchantment or terror,

mounted in life-like style by Mrs. Tost.


* use of italics denote fragments from Tost & Rohu letterheads and advertisements


Kristin Hannaford is a Queensland based poet. Her writing has recently appeared in Cordite, Australian Poetry Journal, Overland, Filling Station (CAN) and Trace (Creative Capricorn, 2013) a chapbook of commissioned poems exploring histories of Rockhampton. Kristin is writing a new collection of poems thanks to an Australia Council new work grant.

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From: Vol.01 N.01 – Ecopoetic Ruminations

Learning on the Line

by Phillip Hall

(Walking Katoomba to Mittagong)

for Alan Wearne


Their parents gone, we start

gathering around, the line

of a fortnight’s challenge-by-choice measured

in meals and scroggin, socks, blister-packs, fuel.

We allocate the group gear – bivvy sheets, billy can

and tarp – adjust our packs, compare

their weight. Studying maps one

more time and, measuring the route

(touch wood) set out.

Cliff Drive to Glen Raphael’s and Narrow Neck Plateau

where morning mist is spilling over

swampy heaths and packed pygmy-

eucalypts bottlenecking our postcard scenes.

Like marauding gang gang cockatoos

the kids start frivolous: Let’s napalm

these trees and snatch a view. We walk

into sclerophyll, the odd face

of sandstone and shale too sheer

for growth; the richer green

of watercourses and east-facing walls.

I look at maps, orientating my high spirits, teaching

navigation basics and joking: Into this measured beauty

as we soar … and it’s Chrissy cutting in:

C’mon ‘Corridor’, while rescue choppers circle

we’ll just bush-bash lost all day.


At last the end of Narrow Neck

and we climb the cliff line, down

to Medlow Gap and two hours more

to the Mob’s Swamp cave, our camp.

What bastard promised this would be our ‘easy’ day?

With sugar levels low, the careless

push for camp fractures certain tempers

so amidst some cranky laughter I readdress the rules,

motivating our final effort when freed of packs,

a coffee and a freeze-dried meal will make

the relief of conversation around

the fire at night, before the luxury

of an overhang’s dirt floor,

the Milky Way and the full moon lighting

its veneer outside.


We wake at dawn, or thereabouts,

a cold fog in the casuarinas

outside. Breaking camp a little later

than I might have liked we look

at maps, measuring the angles

of our route and set to climb

Warrigal Gap; contouring round

the western edge of Merrimerrigal

we traverse Mt Dingo to the Bushwalkers’

War Memorial – Splendour Rock.

Lunching with views of the days

ahead – the Cox’s Gorge, the Gangerang Ranges

to Kanangra Walls – a grasstree – Xanthorrhoea australis

high on conglomerate rock collects

our attention like regimental colours

and provokes Smithy: Come off it Phil, it’s a blackboy,

a spear throwing blackfella, quick, let’s souvenir the shaft.

I sweet-talk the group with the adventure

of bush tucker and craft, a one plant supermarket:

spears, fire sticks, sugar, grubs and glue –

You think this is wilderness. It’s ‘Country’.


Readying for a long afternoon’s

steep descent past fruiting geebungs,

gums and sarsaparilla, turpentine, stringybark

and angophora, I keep the strugglers

near the front, sharing the navigating;

the distraction and group momentum carrying them.

On chocolate breaks the sugar gliders crash

in wonder; I look to trees, withdrawing, while drinking water.

Our way soon brings us to stands of blue gum,

with that aromatic eucalyptus trait and towering

marble columns peeling rough dark bark

at their bases: Ah, the stockinged pillars of Rivendell.

But, Shut-up ‘Corridor’, it’s Boaty chipping in, forget

the view, we’re scratched and tired. Yet as packs hit

the ground their grins shut tight –

one perfect snapshot view.


On dark we make the river flat and two ks

more to camp, in knee-high stinging

nettle and wet boots, to trudge

an hour more – a canvas castle

and our pit-fire star-vaulted hall.


That night we lay below the mountain,

creek side, like trout facing upstream, still,

against the flow and waiting.

At dawn we crossed Kanangra Creek

for two days climbing, then another with burning

aching knees, gingerly down. Our transit over

these Gangerang Ranges – Mt Strongleg,

Mt Cloudmaker, Stormbreaker, High and Mighty,

the Rip, Roar and Rumble Knolls – we debriefed

each night, grim if elated. Our camps were eyries

along the Gandangarra’s ochred line,

and as I spotlighted their middens

the kids mimicked me, hooting open-eyed;

at the campfire Denash (in parody) stoked the embers:

This is journey as metaphor,

the summits lighting with tolerance and testing

with fire. At last we climbed the Bullhead Ridge

and Cambage Spire down to the bushwalkers’ grail –

water running cool and clear over

river sandstones, cream and pink, the breeze singing

down kurrajongs and myrtles, casuarinas and figs –

our prize, the Kowmung Gorge. Setting a base camp, we swam

and explored: the Chiddy Obelisk and Red

Hands Caves. Climbing Mt Armour’s columnar basalt cap:

This perfection was valued

as limestone slurry I preached. The kids broke into

‘Love Is All Around’ whilst Boaty chimed:

C’mon ‘Corridor’, aren’t you finished

with yourself up there?


We stand about the fire tonight

and talk, in drizzle, joyful for

three days rest, the balm

of being wild. It ends

tomorrow, breaking camp, weighing down

our packs as muscles tighten.


Next day climbing, in rain, the Bolga Cone

and Axehead Mountain to Yerranderie, a silver city

ghost town built on lucky claims and bitter

strikes; a sanctuary with arsenic pools.

Late that afternoon, we find the lodge and resupply,

closing the door against the cold outside

as the kids collect each other with food and games,

drying around the hearth and cheering:

Tonight we sleep in beds!


Early next morning we leave Yerranderie

for King Billy’s Tree and a rock grinding site

where basalt was scraped to axeheads

and chert flaked by percussion into edges and points;

a scarring in Country sloughing (yet again) the terra nullius lie

as the kids sit foot-sore in quiet, learning from the land.

After, to savour their redolence,

we crush sassafras leaves by the handful

and walk on.


Fording the Wollondilly we seek sustenance

in scroggin, tuna and flat bread before climbing

the Wanganderries and down to the Nattai on dusk;

a casuarina-and-wattle-bloom gorge, so sandy poor,

yet teeming with scribbly gum, coachwood and silver-top ash.

We camp in a grove of ancient

paperbarks, stinging nettle cramping

us in. For five more days we make-and-break camps,

hiking on. Often we wade in the Nattai’s nourishing

brown flow, secure in water-proofed packs and maps;

as well (we joke) a resiliency born in blister-packs.


Our final campsite: tonight

the kids string their bivvies together

and celebrate tall stories: a thunder-and-blood

Black Panther and Cannibal Kev, the near misses,

their rolls and rolls of strapping tape. They prepare

each other meals, a billy of tea

and amidst rounds of song forecast

the luxury of their next fast-food.

Published: January 2014
Phillip Hall

works in remote Indigenous education in the Northern Territory; he has also worked extensively as a wilderness expedition leader. He has recently completed a Doctor of Creative Arts externally through Wollongong University, under the supervision of Alan Wearne and Peter Minter. In his outdoor education programs, and in his poetry, Phillip hopes to explore a sense of place informed by the orientations of postcolonialism and ecocriticism.

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From: Vol.01 N.01 – Ecopoetic Ruminations

from Sparrow

by Matthew Hall


The wind currs at the end of autumn. How the rain on the house is not an instinct. The road an aviary.

tarnished clasp of handle
the figure of water
each season
with moments which disappear

She fingers and refolds his clothes. His shirt is a still arboreal light. It is the terminal colour of all leaves.

The fields widen to become the ragged edge of the future through each acre, the way a disused nest is most visible in leafless bough, a husband’s voice in its frailty and its distance.

her mourning hieratic
spun like an arrangement of leaves
her wizened hands
the way silence once
the rituals of water

The bounding footsteps on the stairs above her, an absence as indiscernible to desire. Memorial, cloudcover.

The tireless mending, the hem of her skirt through wet grass, awaiting the blades of hallow feathers.

she lingers
a clutch of stones
a child’s toy
winter stars appear
in another’s mouth

She lives by a disconsolate gift, the shrived night, untethered seam.

Fenced yard of years burning, the weight of the axe in agile hands, the trill of a darning fire.

a wife clothed
in the weight of acres
cattail hearts
a rosehip tisane
the bitter warmth of nourishment

He sows the household of memories; a sorrow which grows by stalk, sudden leaf, and branches.

And the fields, swathed now, at the withered table; cinched dark bulbs in the earth, looming.

the descent of light
his lone steed
a quiet shame
which masks his throat
with autumn

The limbering fires they rely on for warmth, the rifting winds, and the ashes which flock over inherited fields.

She remembers her son on the shoulders of his father, legs churning through the air, a regal flight through the instincts of a body.

weight bearing on colors
augured grain
and seeddust
in the last leaves of autumn

The mask of joy in bright distant townships, circling wild grasses, with clipped wings.

Snow geese wend and lilt off gilded fields, flying over the riven house, lifted in the wake of another.

leaving a doorway
sky swelling
the shuttered leap
a whittled toy rolling
on the stone floor

Rain, with its rending swarm, a widow and her alter. The field, and the silence of consonant feathers.

In the light reflecting off windowpanes, the dwelling of memory, that ragged animal joy.

his each breath
hobbled with loss
wreathes of distance
the winter
and the dormancy of beauty

His hand on hers, clothed in childhood, the twinning of limbs which till the land.

Daybreak fossicking in warren clouds, the scent of fire, the weight of bread.

the rituals
which govern
her wild nourishment
the calm
before his morning

Thick-lipped glass jars, perfect silence broken before the meal, the rattle of dishes, a fledgling song, heard, when the weather holds.

Published: January 2014
Matthew Hall

is a doctoral candidate at the University of Western Australia, and a Visiting Academic Fellow at the ICCC, at the University of Saskatchewan. His latest collections include Royal Jelly and Hyaline from Black Rider Press. The work featured here was selected from an eighty page pastoral elegy called Sparrow (forthcoming). He is the Features Editor at Cordite Poetry Review, and one of the Founding Editors of ‘/ ‘ or ‘Forwardslash‘, a transnational journal of innovative poetics from Canada and Australia.

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From: Vol.01 N.01 – Ecopoetic Ruminations

Wings Lifting That Fall

by James Grabill


The wings lifting that fall in thermals and arcing heaves,

single hours of sky that avalanche in streaming light

from mesas and peaks to the heart of matter and chance,



the seen and unseen heights that garden facts on the ground

for the mind falls with sunlight lifting in wings that thicken

with precision between openness and shuddering propulsion



through the genome of forgiveness for whatever failed to work

or became epidemic, fogged out, or what opened and spread

along impulse before drawing back, retracting into a landing,



for the current seven billion will sleep and then wake, sleep

then wake, each birth into longing that begins in the cells

where it ends, as light and dark will swallow what happens



with what never came to be, living sunlight that has let us

witness through lapses and stands what balances inside

its bearings, where palaces have been built out of capability



and stay maybe a handful of years before what was forgotten,

unknown, or far from sync bears down, the wings morning

and evening taking the current light into long-term alignment



of instruments of adaptation, the adjustment of intensity

to cellular discovery that goes on beneath this lifetime

in the practice of intrinsic worth of the interlinked species.

Published: January 2014
James Grabill

Since the ‘70s, James Grabill’s poems have appeared in periodicals such as Harvard Review, Terrain, Shenandoah, The Oxonian Review, Stand, East West Journal, and The Common Review. Books include An Indigo Scent after the Rain and Poem Rising Out of the Earth. He teaches “systems thinking” relative to sustainability.

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From: Vol.01 N.01 – Ecopoetic Ruminations

Ant Language

by Linda France

Lord knows it’s easy to fall in love

with cicadas and katydids, day and night

tuning me in to the Southern Cross,

soundtrack for Englishwoman Abroad.

Pollen-collecting clouds of native bees,

stingless, also sweeten my squeamish heart.


Harder to summon kindness for the ants,

a segmented phalanx queuing up on

the kitchen windowsill to come forage

for whatever looks tasty to an ant –

a whisker of catfood smiling on a spoon,

the tiniest lick of apricot jam;


a crust of raisin bread, the agreed HQ.

Or outdoors, crawling between my toes,

up my arms – an unacceptable degree

of wriggle – to bite down, unprovoked,

on tender flesh with practised mandibles.

The way they file so industriously


one behind the other offends my view

of things, anthropocentric, programmed

to Individual Freedom. I could

maybe learn some ant manners, division

of labour, cooperative spirit.

But my stung right wrist has swelled to the size


of a large library (if you were an ant) and

their creeping looks too much like words

appearing on a screen of their own accord,

words I can’t read, inverted, experimental.

I could be more curious, attend more

closely, study ant grammar, the conditional.


It’s a long path, aspiring to love the ant,

sugar ant, bull ant, even the yellow crazy ant.

Gentler to tread if I remember how they help

half the plants here in Australia

spread: the way a shift will drag a seed

to their underground nest, feed their young


and devour what flesh is left; leave the germ

to settle, in its own time, take root, long

after the ant employed in such labour

has ascended to wherever ants gather

to lie down and rest. And that’s, let’s face it,

before I even consider the cockroach,


its unforgivable nocturnal slang.

Published: January 2014
Linda France

lives close to Hadrian’s Wall, in the UK. Since Red (Bloodaxe, 1992), she has published seven poetry collections; her latest is You are Her (Arc, 2010). Recurring themes are place, gardens and plants and Linda is currently working on a new book based on Botanic Gardens, including Sydney.

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From: Vol.01 N.01 – Ecopoetic Ruminations

Music, or a kangaroo chats about chastity

by Michael Farrell

    In the harsh noon the bellbird sounds its chastest note. Note

 how ants sleep,

and locusts sleep: when they wake they forget what

    they wanted to give themselves

 to. Behave as in an imaginary library,

one that you carry through the bush, collecting overdue loans

    with a beneficent

 smile, and nodding at the phrase ‘search terms’. You

know what’s searched most. There

    may be no god, nor money either.

 Yet we work for both sunup till down. Some trace it back

to St Augustine,

    but that’s hardly necessary (for us). You are one, and

 will be two soon enough. There

are young red bucks, there are golden

    does, there are sex-doves under the mistletoe. I call them hornets,

 poets, singers

of naught. It’s a popular vein. ‘Get your thighs dirty.’

    You understand your own body’s

 music, not the rudeness of that company.

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From: Vol.01 N.01 – Ecopoetic Ruminations

The Cat

by Lucy Dougan

Anything that reminds him of fur,

anything that reminds him of clotted beginnings

in a dense litter of black and white.

The fleece recycled bottles make is mother now.

Answering his calls

I pick him up and his coat against my skin

becomes a part of what the night means.

I am not the philosopher

disturbed in the bathroom

at our unequal coverings.

And when I write on paper

in my dressing gown

he climbs my length abstractedly,

every placement of his paws

building an argument of its own.

Published: January 2014
Lucy Dougan

Lucy Dougan’s books include White Clay (Giramondo) and Meanderthals (Web del Sol); and her prizes The Mary Gilmore Award and The Alec Bolton Award. She works for the Westerly Centre at UWA and as poetry editor for the journal Axon: Creative Explorations.

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From: Vol.01 N.01 – Ecopoetic Ruminations

Freckled Ducks

by Brett Dionysius

The forty odd freckled ducks lived & died on water.

Like plain country folk dressed in blue-checked shirts

& dark moleskins, they were raised in the same town

& buried too, within its familiar, territorial limits. Or

Like a housewife knifed by a stranger in her kitchen,

Their deaths: some brutal transgression of the home;

A sticky, bloodshot lagoon silted up after three good

Seasons. Their weir consolidated its life-giving asset,

As if it was a colonial outpost counting out its last

Rounds; their reed camouflaged pond transformed

Into an unstable ammo dump. Their billabong; some

Balkan village about to be liquidated. Lead pellets fell

Through their skins’ crust; like how a coin-sized piece

Of neutron star would slip straight through the earth.

Published: January 2014
Brett Dionysius

was founding Director of the Queensland Poetry Festival. His poetry has been widely published in literary journals, anthologies, newspapers and online. His eighth poetry collection, Weranga was released in August 2013. He lives in Ipswich, Queensland where he runs, watches birds, teaches English and writes sonnets.

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From: Vol.01 N.01 – Ecopoetic Ruminations

Il Fiume Accanto alla Citta

by Massimo D’Arcangelo

Al di là del casolare diroccato

dove da poco hanno eretto palazzi

e capannoni industriali

c’è un fiume che gorgoglia mite

la storia millenaria del suo moto.

In esso l’acqua è limpida

i pesci l’attraversano cullati dalla corrente.

Attorno tutto sembra procedere lentamente.

Gli uccelli hanno i loro becchi bagnati

gli insetti foglie rigogliose dove ripararsi.

Molti ignorano la sua esistenza.

D’estate con l’acqua del fiume

gli uomini rinvigorivano i campi.

Era magnifico quando

i bambini gli correvano accanto

e si poteva ascoltare in lontananza

susseguirsi delle lavandaie il canto.

Ora a nessuno più interessa quel fiume.


The River Next to the City


Beyond the dilapidated cottage

where there are newly-erected buildings

and industrial warehouses

a river gurgles meekly

the story of its thousand-year motion.

Its water is clear

fish swim through, lulled by the current.

All around everything seems to go on slowly.

Birds wet their beaks

lush leaves under which insects take shelter.

Many ignore its existence.

In summer with water from the river

men revive the fields.

It was magnificent when

children ran next to it

and you could hear in the distance

the succession of washerwomen singing.

No one cares about that river anymore.

With thanks to Stephannie K. Paulsen  for editing the English translation.

Published: January 2014
Massimo D’Arcangelo

was born in Martina Franca, Italy in 1982. He lives in Siena. His debut ecopoetry collection, Il battito dello scorpione. Ecopoesie (The beat of scorpion. Ecopoems) was published by Aletti Editore, Roma in 2012.

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From: Vol.01 N.01 – Ecopoetic Ruminations

from Wild Succession

by Louise Crisp

16th Aug


Two tall bright yellow murnong at the sandy track –


The young bow to the

Imminent spring


The cycle (of the year)

Across the plains –


The profusion

In Moormurng’s

Restricted estate

Where soon I find:

creamy candles

early nancies


twining fringe lilies

tiger orchids

bulbine lilies

button everlasting

billy buttons

scaly buttons


blue squill

blue grass-lilies

chocolate lilies

spider orchids

salmon & plain



& unfolding

throughout the open woodland

& elsewhere

in the isolated fragments of remnant grassland:

rare sites like exquisite stars

flaring intensely

before they are extinguished

one by one

and the darkening sky of the red gum plains




Microseris lanceolata













Stackhousia monogyna

Wurmbea dioica

Burchadia umbellate

Thysanotus patersonii

Diuris sulphurea

Bulbine bulbosa

Helichrysum scorpioides

Craspedia variabilis

Leptorhynchos squamatus

Microseris lanceolata

Chamaescilla corymbosa

Caesia calliantha

Arthropodium strictum

Caladenia phaeoclavia

Thelymitra rubra

Thelymitra nuda






Recent work has been published in Southerly  and Overland.

You can read the full poem Wild Succession here.

Published: January 2014
Louise Crisp

Louise Crisp’s poetry collections include pearl & sea fed (Hazard Press NZ, 1994); Ruby Camp: a Snowy River series (Spinifex Press, 1998); Uplands (Five Islands Press 2007). A multimedia version of her long poem Grasses is available on-line at

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From: Vol.01 N.01 – Ecopoetic Ruminations

Field Trip with Acid Rain

by Mary Cresswell

That afternoon we tramped to the springs

brushing branches and dead leaves aside,

trading terminologies, looking

for tiny mosses sung up by the frogs

who hide and call from lucid pools,

remembering, hoping for new growth

to show them spring might come. We were clear

of the city, nearly free to breathe.


The lake was cold, the woods were bare.

We looked into useless, bottomless pools

where ‘crystal clear’ means ‘don’t drink here’.

Only our voices echoed; no birds sang.

The sun flickered low in the pines

like a dying wasp snagged in resin.

Published: January 2014
Mary Cresswell

is from Los Angeles and lives on New Zealand’s Kapiti coast. She is a former natural history editor and as a poet has published in Australia, NZ, the US, the UK and Canada. Her newest book, Fish Stories, will come out in 2015.

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From: Vol.01 N.01 – Ecopoetic Ruminations

The native word was rind

by Glenn Bach

from Atlas Peripatetic


The native word was rind,

woody plants such as trees

overlay the wood and consists

in other words most of the stem.


Any small ship. Echoic,

specifics of the brain recorded—


—loudspeaker for bass notes.


Please note this inner bark,

this dry outer husk (from which

it is extracted). What scribal error

this unlikely etymology, by early

sources. Stronger and sweeter

words coined for the covering,

to low like a cow, to rend, to boast,

to cry out the bark of certain trees.


Whose skin by exposure to sun,

whose shells in a red heat, slips

or disappears. Skin, plates on fish

or snakes.


Where is the outer shell of the earth,

exactly, especially the gold edge

of Calafia. The uncertain pages

of a book—

what falls from our eyes


Published: January 2014
Glenn Bach

is a poet and sound artist whose major project, Atlas, encompasses a wide range of artistic practice. Excerpts of Atlas Peripatetic have appeared in such journals as hutt, Free Verse, and Jubilat. Another project in the series, Atlas Sets, documents a series of ongoing collaborations with fellow composers and improvisers. Glenn lives and works in Los Angeles.

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From: Vol.01 N.01 – Ecopoetic Ruminations


by Alice Allan

Killing time, we find a stretch of sand

and wait for the sun to fade

in the bay’s rough curve.


So I tell you how I’ve learned

death is Daliesque—an elephant on stilts,

a camellia grown in the ocean.  


How every set of eyes that met mine

knew someone,

something now gone.


Oshima sits quietly, just south of Yokohama.

Their disaster is two decades old now,

a story between mouthfuls.


So carefully you reply,

watching the water

turn solid in the dark.

Published: January 2014
Alice Allan

is a writer and editor living in Melbourne. Her poems have appeared in journals including Rabbit, Cordite and Going Down Swinging.

An Australian and international
journal of ecopoetry and ecopoetics.

Plumwood Mountain Journal is created on the unceded lands of the Gadigal and Wangal people of the Eora Nation. We pay our respects to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people, and to elders past, present and future. We also acknowledge all traditional custodians of the lands this journal reaches.