2018 Creatrix Haiku Prizes.
Selectors: Amanda Joy, Rose van Son, Coral Carter and Gary De Piazzi
Debbi Antebi–London, UK
the phone cord
mother’s day (published in Creatrix #41)
driving over the moon
in a pothole (published in Creatrix #41)
Minh-Triêt Pham–Paris, France
on the barbed wire
a love lock (published in Creatrix #39)
Matt Hetherington–Brisbane, Queensland
over my knees–
the mountains (published in Creatrix #40)
Bee Jay–Melbourne, Victoria
she dead heads
the rose bush (published in Creatrix #38)
Myron Lysenko–Melbourne, Victoria
all the little holes
in fallen leaves (published in Creatrix #40
2018 Creatrix Poetry Prize Winners
Selectors: Peter Jeffery, Shane McCauley and Dorothy McGowan
Kevin Gillam Figue
Virginia O’Keefe Sisters
Ann Gilchrist C.Y. O’Connor’s Horse
Gary Colombo De Piazzi In The Service Of
Mardi May Angry Sea
Veronica Lake Nested Here
________ my father’s favourite fruit was a fig
________ and, like a fig,
________ my father flowered on the inside
Wagin, 1947, salt lakes and Salmon Gums,
post-war frugality, dance hall, my father the
vamping pianist, railway town, Baptist tracks rattling
________ fig, from the French “figue”,
________ a soft pear-shaped, many-seeded fruit
clattering atop keys, my father’s hands, all the blacks,
not knowing how, the band,
paid in riders, post-gig drinks
________ dun brown the fig or a bruised purple,
________ call it petulant, or shy
sly kinship, the held look, man lingers
over man, my father, call it ekphrastic,
phrases hungering for another’s art
________ fruiting twice each season, ‘breva’,
________ the first crop, on woody stems
my father, Baptist tracks clattering
________ flowering on the inside
Kevin Gillam Published in Creatrix 40
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The women in the house on the hill
snipe with careful manners, like orange hornets
darting round hydrangeas on the porch.
The sting is swift, heart stopping, but pain
is relative and hidden, more delayed
they are adept at lip reading
insults quietly mouthed.
On their dresser teacups
rise in teetering fragility,
the leaves from pots
are read with wonder and sometimes
sweet malice like honey touched Earl Grey.
Should a stranger broach the verandah
they are swept away like desiccated insects
with a stiffened millet broom.
There is no room for other considerations.
Virginia O’Keeffe Published in Creatrix 40
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C.Y. O’Conner’s Horse
The easterlies have breakfasted upon the desert land,
travelled the Darling ranges and swept the coastal plain,
bush flies caught the thermals to Fremantle’s trodden roads,
their maggots supping middens in the new town by the shore.
O’Connor’s horse stood saddled, his stable mate confined,
her rider lies in bed today, the summer heat maligned,
it baked a fever in the street and laid it at her door,
no morning ride with Papa, along the South Beach shore
An engineer of vision, shaping anchorage and groins,
he rode out past his harbour, rubbled stone and berthing bones,
prospectors’ thirsts unwetted by a slander of discourse,
sceptics mocked his pipeline to the goldfields in. the north.
noongar sang him madness and white man called him their,
an engineering masterpiece, defamed and disbelieved,
society rang jeering and it tolled a heavy knell,
dark rhythms in the hoof beats on the fringe of ocean swell.
I wonder if he cantered or galloped to that place,
I wonder if the rider paused to glance across the wave,
the early morning bridle track abandoned on the shore,
a single shot all bloodied as the horse threw off his load
in fright he galloped southward, along the shoreline track,
water shining on his flank, blood splatter on his back
eyes blinded in his startle, death ringing his ears,
pounding in his gleaming chest, his ears pricked up in fear.
He halted in the stillness, grazed scrub along the shore,
discordant shrieks from seagulls, dire weightlessness he wore,
until his reins were taken up, into some passing hands,
retracing frenzied hoof prints, his flight thrashed out in the sand
the sodden corpse discovered, disfigured by its wound
but still the clothes called out his rank in saturated tones,
O’Connor and his rearing horse, a madness caught in bronze,
Rising steed, the unnamed count, in tides that touch the Swan.
Anne Gilchrist Published in Creatrix 38
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In the Service of
The sun fires with the staccato
of short shots from a birdless sky.
The intensity of stone
beats back to shrivel air
until each breath
bawls for moisture.
For the cool night with its black
driving deep into this need to rest.
Some days the dust that creeps
into every movement
feels friendly, as if this place
can become home.
Beyond the silence
Days spent sighting
beyond the barrel of the F88.
Nights to cradle images of home
that expand and contract
in the shift of shadows.
Flow into the scent that corrupts
the wind as eyes become stone.
Haunting, chasing every flutter.
The smell of gun oil
and the taste of yesterday’s rations
amplify this dying.
Gary Colombo De Piazzi Published in Creatrix 38
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The Angry Sea
I could never trust the surf
________ that moody shift of sea
my childhood fear
________ of a drowning wave
gurgle of invading water
________ my bubbling breath
the nightmare years
________ fleeing a wall of water
that curved above me like
________ my mother’s raging hand.
Mardi May Published in Creatrix 39
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mid rumpled sheets,
in a pleat of time
your limbs lax
soft with sleep
dapples our skin;
a nimbus of light
keeping the world distant.
Your metronome breath
marks time passing.
the storm of society
whines like a dog
snarls at the windows
For the moment
we are snug,
out of life’s continuum,
safe in the eye of the storm,
Veronica Lake Published in Creatrix 41
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