Published in Overland Issue 205 Summer 2011 Uncategorized sad Stuart Barnes The venetians creak – fog’s tonnage. Condensation gasps on glassy corners, gloomy Xmas dec. The butter’s thickened in its crock like dripping. A constellation of barbed starfish rises from the mug of tea toward the ceiling shooting watery cannonballs intermittently as Hippolytus de Marsiliis’ fingers. The iMac, too, is punctuated, each poorly catalogued knuckle eroded like an Apostle by my salt. Only I, oddly overlooked, am hardhearted to this seasonal affective disorder. Stuart Barnes’ poetry has been exhibited, anthologised and published in journals, newspapers and online. He’s currently editing two chapbooks, and writing his first novel. He lives in Melbourne. © Stuart Barnes Overland 205-summer 2011, p. 75 Like this piece? Subscribe! Stuart Barnes Stuart Barnes is the author of Glasshouses (UQP 2016), which won the Thomas Shapcott Poetry Prize, was commended for the Anne Elder Award and shortlisted for the Mary Gilmore Award. Twitter/Instagram: @StuartABarnes More by Stuart Barnes 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 First published in Overland Issue 228 25 November 202225 November 2022 Poetry Poetry | Summer animal Jini Maxwell This summer I can feel myself turning back into an animal. I wake up early and seek out trees, walking through the expansive quiet of the park until the heat starts feeling sharp on my skin. I leave the blinds closed, so when I return home the building is dark and familiar, and as I shut the door behind me I feel a satisfaction I can only describe as territorial. First published in Overland Issue 228 24 November 202225 November 2022 Politics ‘Sir, please get me the Manager’: Brazil before and after Bolsonaro Guido Melo By then, although young in age, I already knew about those rituals of humiliation and how they were part of my Black family's lives. I also knew that surviving those daily interactions required putting my head down and following the instructions received with no hesitation. I must have had ‘the talk ‘with my parents when I was eight or nine. Life was just like that. Being Black in Brazil means living in a war. No one should ever go to war underprepared.