In the first half of 2020, Overland received a small grant to help the magazine provide writing and publishing opportunities during the pandemic lockdown, part of a broader scheme by Creative Victoria to save the arts sector when so many jobs and gigs completely disappeared for so many artists. ‘Poetry in Lockdown’ is one outcome of this—
my friend’s face is in a pile by the counter i compulsively reach out to touch it turn it over give her some privacy to observe that this is not what is usually meant by ‘covergirl’ is on the nose
i write notes in my phone and hope to be profound. i have examples. you see, i am the kind of girl that makes love to the subjunctive. i am not proud of this per se but i like to wear my wounds. i have better wounds than this but i want to be mundane.
We huddle under the eaves while it rains hard and you whisper something in my ear and it feels so good and I want to stay here a little longer but we have to make a run for it. The pavement is cracked and slippery so we take half steps in a bid not to lose control of our own bodies.
chain of events against family cold snap foreign investment scratched up car heavy bass toothache serious motive any other secrets? willing or unwilling thumb print the public body breath common flex
first water of morning the translation into English dries my grandmother’s mouth spoiled water she spits on the pads of her fingers dabs them on the crook of my neck
now children, it’s time to begin the rotations I. yellow light step upon the timber floor you remember this place practice recite along the line you know this homely institution
The largest square is for the sky. We have a great little room for seeing it, for watching storms come. Bending trees and oversized clouds emphatically going . . .
The weather was tomorrow’s collective sickness not poverty and its predictable longings poverty was tomorrow’s collective sickness not the predictable violence of weather what’s not on the map is the dust of the streets
Standing in the shade of a lion statue or ode to the temporary Schoolchildren desultorily leaf through emails and posts Lunchtime on their collective mind presumably as it is mine When a person is a faun they’re expected to be highly sexed
just try and stop a mind rolling back from cooked fish and a clear horizon—fervor’s up along the pier, just quick food and all these bodies blow on hot bones in bitter wind
like several edible birds inserted forcibly into a holiday turducken the city intrudes if you turn a cemetery upside down it looks like the middle of a city like a skyscraper
Penrith Station sits broken as a grieving heart in pieces the platform the waystation for essentially low-paid vital workers in the dead-days of iso-lation