Published in Overland Issue 221 Summer 2015 · Uncategorized Magnetic Poetry Kit – mostly found Deb Westbury for Luke, 1981–1997 Never cook a tiny goddess or have less love. That summer we’d already lived with the smell for a long time before we knew where it came from or what it was. we pound petal boy leaving language and rocking you and raw puppy urges it has crushed you Inside the stove’s sheetmetal box, we found a small mummified mouse still hanging to the wiring by it’s fingernails. white light music gorgeous bed me diamond By then you’d gone. I took a photo of the room and everything in it, opened all the windows and drove away fast. through the dream shot a car mother likes the wind Deb Westbury Deb Westbury has developed a dual career as a writer and teacher. Deb resides in Katoomba and is actively involved with Varuna, The Writers’ House. Her poetry collections are: Mouth to Mouth (1990), Our Houses are Full of Smoke (1994), Surface Tension (1998), Flying Blind (2002), and The View From Here (2008). More by Deb Westbury 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 1 June 20231 June 2023 · Politics Turning peaceful protesters into criminals—again Evan Smith So the Summary Offences (Obstruction of Public Places) Bill 2023 has been passed by South Australia’s Legislative Assembly and will become law. Fifteen hours of debate in the upper house, led by the Greens and SA Best, could not overturn the bill that was reportedly rushed through the lower house in just twenty-two minutes a fortnight ago. First published in Overland Issue 228 31 May 202331 May 2023 · Film In Memoriam: Kenneth Anger’s cinematic incantations Eloise Ross ‘Making a movie is casting a spell,’ said Kenneth Anger about his lifelong profession, his unique and spectacular talent, his very own dark magic. That certainly describes how I was lured into his realm. There was a time in my life where I would watch Anger’s seven-minute film Rabbit’s Moon basically on repeat, infatuated by its blue-tinted images of a sprightly harlequin dancing around a clearing and calling silently to the moon. It was poetry.
