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Content From Issue: Volume 4 Number 2 (August 2017)

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From: Vol.04 N.02 – What are the animals saying?

Coffin Bay

by J V Birch

Crayfish, pilchards,

ocean jackets and sharks

 

Octopus, sea urchins,

sea snails and scallops

 

Sand crabs, abalone,

garfish and whiting

 

Shush,

the oysters are sleeping.

Published: July 2017
J V Birch

lives in Adelaide. Her poems have appeared in anthologies, journals and magazines across Australia, the UK, Canada and the US. She has two collections – Smashed glass at midnight and What the water & moon gave me – by Ginninderra Press, and is working on her third.

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From: Vol.04 N.02 – What are the animals saying?

Clown Loach

by Lucas Smith

after Michael Farrell

 

this is the fish that plays dead on the neon gravel

falter feeder land grab to the under gravel filter

then this: Whiskers, java fern, Anubia sp.

If rhizome, then eternity. And sex is left on land

But, if roots and flowers, pollen swims. No doubt

our positivist overlords have prepared

some scientific explanation for the persistence

of aquaria. A problem of pure finger (    )

Paradigm A is sitting in a tree watching fish

Pardigm D is one of the fish only. Don’t forget

Paradigm Before and Paradigm Christ.

There! The bottomfeeder wakes and mosies on

past plastic plants and plecostomus. Will

(      ) help when the filter either fails or never stops?

Published: July 2017
Lucas Smith

is a PhD candidate at the National Centre for Australian Studies. His writing has appeared in Australian Poetry Journal, The Lifted Brow, Australian Book Review, Cordite, Gargouille, Santa Clara Review and several others.

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From: Vol.04 N.02 – What are the animals saying?

Bird Song

by Damen O'Brien

Choral Adithinngithigh Adnyamathanha Aghu Tharrnggala Alawa Alngith Alyawarre

forest at Amarag Ami Andajin Andegerebinha Anguthimri Anindilyakwa Anmatyerre

dusk and Arrernte Atampaya Awabakal Ayabadhu Ayapathu Badimaya Bandjigali Banjima

gusts of rainbow Bardi Barngarla Barrow Point Bayungu Bidyara Bundjalung Bunuba

lorikeets, tides and Bunurong Djabwurung Djangun Djawi Djinang Djiringanj Djiwarli

settlements of lorikeets Doolboong Dungidjau Dyaabugay Djabirr-Djabirr Dyangadi

fill the aural branches with Dyirbal Eora Erre Flinders Island Gaagudju Gajerrong

wars, avalanches of orchestras Gambera Gamilaraay Guguyimidjir Gumbaynggirr

and song, clashing into sound. The Gundungurra Gungabula Gunin Gunya Gurindji

Jingulu Jurruru Kabi Kabi Kala Kayardild Kija Kokata Kok-Nar Kukatja Kuku Thaypan

corpus and philology of his loved, lived Kuku Yalanji Kuku-Mangk Kuku-Mu’inh

language was a flock once of words different Muminh Kuku-Ugbanh Kuku-Uwanh

to any other, but when he is gone, this dictionary Kuluwarrang Kunbarlang Kunggara

will close, so they send him children to teach. He is Kunggari Kunja Kunjen Malgana

Malyangaba Manda Mandandanyi Mangarla Mangarrayi Mangerr Mara Maranunggu

a keeper of a whole world’s swallowed syntax, heavy heavy Marti Ke Martuwangka

expectation for a Shakespeare to own a whole vocabulary, but Martuyhunira Maung

for this one man, almost too much and the strange birds peck at Mayaguduna

the roof of his mouth searching for all his forgotten irreplaceable words. Okunjan

Paakantyi Pakanha Paredarerme Peerapper Peramangk Pitta Pitta Pinigura Pintupi Pini

There are other birds coming down to the branches: Eastern Rosellas, King Thaua

Parrots roosting, not threatened but not so plentiful as this brash, eager army,

calling out. How could anyone know if one of these birds stopped singing?

Wadjigu Wagaya Wagiman Wajarri Wakawaka Walangama Walbanga Walmajarri Wambaya

Wamin What difference would it make to the song? Warlpiri Warluwara Warnman

Warrgamay Warrungu Warrwa Warumungu Wandandian Wangaaybuwan Wangai

Wunambal Wurla Yandruwandha Yankunytjatjara Yan-nhangu Yanyuwa Yawarawarga

Yawijibaya Yinggarda Yir Yoront Yir-Thangedl Yorta Yorta Yukulta Yulparija Yuwaaliyaa

Published: July 2017
Damen O'Brien

is a Queensland poet.  Damen was joint winner of the Peter Porter Poetry Prize and has won the Yeats Poetry Prize, the KSP Poetry Award and been shortlisted in the ACU Poetry Prize, Val Vallis Award, and Newcastle Poetry Prize.  Damen has been published in Cordite, Island, Verity La and StylusLit.

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From: Vol.04 N.02 – What are the animals saying?

Metamorphosis

by Cameo Marlatt

Before we were trees, we were humans, and before that dogs, slobbering, swallowing,
readying our mouths for poetry. Tell me. Paws calloused thick as wood; fur grass-coarse;
pleasure here, and here, and here, in the rootless running ground-parallel spine. This same
almost-wordlessness, a forward leaning hunger. And then. We stood up and put on shoes,
took them off, put on clothes, took them off. We talked and talked and made open-handed
gestures, like this. Put down pens, picked them up. The dog-joy, sometimes, but only
when ground-parallel, only when can’t speak, put your words in my mouth. Yes. Tongues
sap-thickened, webbed woolen by spider’s work. Lichen, fern, blackberry bramble. Pith,
teeth, ankle bone. Tail-wag, woof woof woof, won’t you dance with me tonight. Urging
forward into silence. And now we are trees, upright in resonance with lightning strikes,
tall buildings, each other, the things we built when we were human. Now other bodies
gesture on us. Wagtail, robin, the jackdaw haw haw haw! laughing, straying from your
hair; the wind hshhh shk shk shk our leaves like wings. Again bramble, breastbone, beak.
My words in your mouth. Two trees readying ourselves for flight.

Published: July 2017
Cameo Marlatt

is a Canadian writer living in Scotland, where she is studying towards a Doctorate of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at the University of Glasgow. Currently, she is working on a collection of poetry and essays on the topic of zoopoetics. She is the co-author of A Drink of One’s Own: Cocktails for Literary Ladies, and her poetry has been published in From Glasgow to Saturn and Lighthouse.

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From: Vol.04 N.02 – What are the animals saying?

Bass Rock

by Cameo Marlatt

og is feathers, guga* down,

white clamour dampened,

distance folded shut.

 

rock-dark children

lose thought of land,

wash themselves white

to black wingtip:

sharp bodies

cutting trails of air

 

rise

to paddle dawn-slick sea,

heads yellow-blushed

and dripping.

 

around them we

slip shelf and

plummet, through

sky and salt,

to break

beak, skull,

on grey water.

*guga: a young gannet

Published: July 2017
Cameo Marlatt

is a Canadian writer living in Scotland, where she is studying towards a Doctorate of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at the University of Glasgow. Currently, she is working on a collection of poetry and essays on the topic of zoopoetics. She is the co-author of A Drink of One’s Own: Cocktails for Literary Ladies, and her poetry has been published in From Glasgow to Saturn and Lighthouse.

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From: Vol.04 N.02 – What are the animals saying?

Thylacine Song

by Toby Fitch

(after Edwin Morgan)

 

 

Rrrrooww ggrrr? Schna schna

Hhhhoooooooooooouuuuuwwwww!

Naabuluwrre … naaaawrrrrruuu rup,

Karrr krraaff Cugh cugh ccrrrrruUGH

Yup yap YAWP! Yiiip yup riiiilclclclck:

hclhclhchclhcl—YIPE!

 

Orh-ooohr robrobro r r r r r r r hobhub brhub

Iiiiiinng eng ung ung ung gnaaah—

erMMMmmm, errrmmmm

Mrryeahr-mrryehr-mrerer.

Croh! nro, uvruv ruv—ljo ljo?

Crugh, brup … hhhhhhhhhhhha, norrr—

 

Nnnnrroooooooooooooooooooooo

Uuggh schnuff ugh.

Published: July 2017
Toby Fitch

is poetry editor for Overland. His books include Rawshock, which won the Grace Leven Prize for Poetry 2012, Jerilderies and, most recently, The Bloomin’ Notions of Other & Beau. He lives in Sydney where he also works as a bookseller and a teacher.

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From: Vol.04 N.02 – What are the animals saying?

Awks

by Toby Fitch

deep-red from rose-dirt my orchid

left the back porch with an awkward gait

headed down the swamp which it entered

 

head first open-mouthed before i could speak

it was kicking its roots like legs luring comets

to criss-cross above when two finally collided

 

the sky switched channels to static cutting

the night with a knife i gaped back down

orchid was gone in the deep-red swamp

 

were rhythmic gelatinous ripples as tho

invisible pebbles were being dropped at

perfectly repeated intervals been staring

 

into space ever since ecstatically deep

the branches stoop & the leaf-eyes dilate

searching my garden for the remote

Published: July 2017
Toby Fitch

is poetry editor for Overland. His books include Rawshock, which won the Grace Leven Prize for Poetry 2012, Jerilderies and, most recently, The Bloomin’ Notions of Other & Beau. He lives in Sydney where he also works as a bookseller and a teacher.

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From: Vol.04 N.02 – What are the animals saying?

animals; difficulty of explaining these*

by Anne Stuart

I

Derrida’s cat

What we men call animal, animaux no,

l’animot, should bring us back to the name, the thing – as such

to speak across …  the abyss

as always on my lips, on the tip of my tongue

as if, in the instant I had said (or was going to say), the

forbidden something

the something that shouldn’t be said – this something (un)said between us —

our naked{ness} the shame          this naked man (sous rature) gazed at by this

{irreplaceable} living           being

derrida’s     {  cat

 

Contains text from Jacques Derrida, The Animal That Therefore I Am (More to Follow).

 

II

Lévinas’s dog

Fallingsbotel Concentration Camp:

a wandering dog

endured in a desolate region of the Camp

greeted a rabble of prisoners, daily:

 

Bobby’s bark, wagging tail!

irrepressible,

and this, his saying, across

the [infinitely] unspeakable space,

said

— there was no doubt

we were men . . .

 

Contains some text from Emmanuel Lévinas, The Name of the Dog or Natural Rights.

 

III

Heidegger’s bee

I tricked her from murmuring her munificent

Being

as in the suck of honey,

she had to prove she could not cope with all the honey

present

in the little bowl.

 

As I carefully cut away her abdomen while she sucked, yet, even still, she silently sucked —

as the honey poured out         from         behind:

 

which I say,

speaks of

 

Contains some text from Martin Heidegger, The Fundamental Concepts of Metaphysics: World, Finitude, Solitude.

* — F.W. J. Schelling, On the History of Modern Philosophy

Published: July 2017
Anne Stuart

is a doctoral candidate at Queensland’s Griffith University. Her doctoral project seeks to read the poetry of Kathleen Jamie through the philosophy of Emmanuel Lévinas and read the poetry of Francis Ponge through Paul Ricoeur’s hermeneutical imagination. Anne won the Griffith University School of Humanities Poetry Prize in 2015.

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From: Vol.04 N.02 – What are the animals saying?

A Composing with Birds

by Jill Jones

… the Ground / Of Speech fails underfoot …

– The Parliament of the Birds, Farid ud-Din Attar (trans E. Fitzgerald)

 

There is a lake, you see your reflection, if you can endure

the journey or the things that are, maybe, your own fault,

always failing the tests: longing, love, gnosis, dispassion, a whole god,

bewilderment, selflessness and oblivion.

Or no more than leaves always falling, mortal, … illiterate of nature.

 

In a yard a feather’s dropped, birds fill with flight, mating, nests.

They fly into pools, they rise, they cry. What might I know of birds,

wings of a bird, language of birds, material of song and flight, sounds

of the world? The birds are the birds. All of us are reality.

No-one need apply to a higher order, if we’re all whatever’s the world.

 

And despite what may be said within ‘here’ or ‘somewhere’,

bird calls are real, whoever divines or translates, forms

into semblances, into myths, as even at night they sing,

though it keeps you awake, at twelve o’clock, at one o’clock,

the wake-up of the koel, after four o’clock.

 

Something always sings in the world: maybe deliriums, maybe

homecoming beyond nostalgia, a pantheistic dither, pretend clouds.

 

So stand and listen, flight is swift, noisy, carnal demand,

to keep things going, eggs, yolk, branches where nests fall through

small odysseys, other legends.

 

Weather’s no help, it does what it does, growth you live with

in normal, changeable skies. The severed traveller can still recognise

how green hills may be, or if they’ve lost that plenty,

or some other thing.

 

You don’t want to be of the dark, yet in that, birds still converse.

Melancholy may simply be yours, though things fall apart all the same,

though night isn’t just ghostly, but real as it sounds,

real as landing or falling.

 

No-one’s perfect, how you’re crazy is not perfect either.

It may land you far from hope, or close to

real sea and salt, or the time it takes to travel a city block.

 

Everything is an atmosphere, a bus shelter, where the trams pull in.

Doors open and close, we arrive, we go. Crowds sort themselves

furiously or softly. Everyone seems to take care of the children.

The children: as if, definitively, there must be a way to save them,

though they know they are human, and you can’t.

 

We hear more or less echoes, or chirps. Maybe it’s a conference,

in a distance, underfoot, as things flutter on rails, through stations,

out onto routes, highways, out into a sky. And there’s a bend

before you come onto the island. There seems to be another light,

it must be all this water.

 

All the while, rising over a hill or horizon, the birds find a lake.

The lake is the lake: perhaps Eyre, Frome, perhaps Torneträsk, or Baikal.

Lakes don’t talk, but sounds sound. The story finds a doppelgänger.

There it is! Full of reflections, or salt. So, what do you see?

 

Who cares about timing, distance, bridges, choruses? Futurisms

are always about the past. Your sounds are what you sing,

of instruments … in accord … a ravishing sweetness.

Khlebnikov hears a swallow: “Tsivit! Tsizit!” and hears his ‘trans sense’.

Where does that go but here?

 

Songwise, it’s recurrence, night swings, into memorials, into desperation.

It moves as a day moves, even at these ends of ideas, when little’s left.

What you want to see disappears. Clouds wash over

this view of the universe. You know it’s real in the present of that sound.

It goes beyond now, but now it is.

 

Blackbirds do sing into the late of night … a ravishing sweetness.

Yes, into this extraordinary shadow. Nothing sounds like isolation.

And, traveller, it’s not looking at you.

The unattributed quotes, or misquotes in italics, are from Aristophanes ‘The Birds’, Chaucer ‘Parlement of Foules’, Khlebnikov ‘Zangezi’.

Published: July 2017
Jill Jones

has published ten books of poetry, and a number of chapbooks. Most recently these include Brink, The Beautiful Anxiety, which won the 2015 Victorian Premier’s Literary Award for Poetry, Breaking the Days, which won the 2014 Whitmore Press Award and was shortlisted for the 2017 Kenneth Slessor Poetry Prize, and a chapbook, The Leaves Are My Sisters.

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.

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