Published in Overland Issue Poetry in Lockdown · Poetry Waiting for a train with Thelma Plum Tony Birch 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 we have little time for each other and envy those slumbering at home flannelette pyjamas sleeping in enjoying raisin toast and warm Milo fucking the day to Netflix and Zoom on Penrith Station we’re in mourning except for the Girl In Black providing life in black boots black jeans and hoodie black/red/yellow flag on her back golden head-phones about to pounce she moves raises an arm fist clenched – ‘Hey! … Hey!’ – Fuck That Read the rest of Poetry in Lockdown, edited by Toby Fitch and Melody Paloma If you enjoyed this special edition, subscribe and receive a year’s worth of print issues, the online magazine, special editions and discounted entry to our literary competitions Tony Birch Tony Birch is the author of Shadowboxing, Father’s Day, Blood, The Promise and Ghost River. He is currently research fellow in the Moondani Balluk Academic Centre at Victoria University. More by Tony Birch › 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 8 September 202312 September 2023 · Poetry Poetry | Games Heather Taylor-Johnson Days pinch and lately I’ve noticed every time I look in the mirror I’m squinting—maybe it’s a grimace. Without trying I’ve mastered the façade of a Besser block threatened by a mallet, by which I mean maybe the world won’t kill me but it’ll definitely hurt and I’ve got to be ready. First published in Overland Issue 228 31 August 20236 September 2023 · Poetry Verbing the apocalypse: Alison Croggon’s Rilke Josie/Jocelyn Suzanne ‘This again?’ and ‘why now? Why not years ago?’ are the two questions raised in each new translation of a non-English piece of Western Canon. There’s an understanding—of course a poetic cycle like the Duino Elegies is incomplete in English, there are endless new readings—and a simultaneous sense of wounded pride/suspicion: what was missing the last time around? What were you concealing from me? What are you concealing now?
