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 16 December 202225 January 2023 Poetry Poetry | Wombats shit candy Michael Farrell To avoid treading on a snake, I stepped on a land mine. Did this really happen, in my dream? No. Is it a fiction, then? Yes and no. The time I spend looking for socks is insignificant: lie, irony, or philosophy? Wombats shit candy. Joke – hallucination? This is in fact a truth claim. My poems: litanies of truth claims. 1 First published in Overland Issue 228 14 December 202225 January 2023 Reviews The moral risk of taking things too seriously: on Gareth Morgan’s When A Punk Becomes A Spunk Elese Dowden In his review of Lucy Van’s The Open, Gareth Morgan writes that Van writes 'against the impulse to ponder dutifully about the sins of the past and present.' This fucked me up for some time. What is it to ponder dutifully? But perhaps more importantly, how do we ponder in a way that's more … metal?
