Published in Overland Issue 229 Summer 2017 · Uncategorized To the only begetter Aidan Coleman For WH Like rope and pulley work to hold up pink and stodgy cherubs. Like the apple of my iPhone, faint of charge. Like the superfluity of biker’s arms or the big and little words of lovers’ cells. Like the stylised tantrum of youth rejecting the tutelage you feigned. Like shy graffiti or the bling of cases. Like the cashing trees. Like toddlers hovering at the margins, where dragons used to be, or a high-speed ransack of outdoors. Like sudden mushrooms blooming pages between or the screwdriver of your pocket knife taken to canvases. Like your skywriting jet gunned down mid-cliché. These trifles. Read the rest of Overland 229 If you enjoyed this poem, buy the issue Or subscribe and receive four outstanding issues for a year Aidan Coleman Aidan Coleman has published two poetry collections, the most recent, Mount Sumptuous (Wakefield Press, 2020). He is an Early Career Researcher at the JM Coetzee Centre for Creative Practice at the University of Adelaide. More by Aidan Coleman › Overland is a not-for-profit magazine with a proud history of supporting writers, and publishing ideas and voices often excluded from other places. If you like this piece, or support Overland’s work in general, please subscribe or donate. Related articles & Essays 19 December 202419 December 2024 · Reviews Reading JH Prynne aloud: Poems 2016-2024 John Kinsella Poems 2016-2024 is a massive, vibrant and immersive collation of JH Prynne’s small press publication across this period. Some would call it a late life creative flourish, a glorious coda, but I don’t see it this way. Rather, this is an accumulation of concerns across a lifetime that have both relied on earlier form work and newly "discovered" expressions of genre that require recasting, resaying, and varying. 18 December 202418 December 2024 · Nakata Brophy Prize Dawning in the rivulet of my father’s mourning Yasmin Smith My father floats words down Toonooba each morning. They arrive to me by noon. / Nothing diminishes in his unfolding, not even the currents in midwinter June. / He narrates the sky prehistorically like a cadence cutting him into deluge.
