A POEM: The New Woman

She is switch-blades cut


Vintage satin ball gowns with hacked-to-short-hems

She is Quant on Ecstasy.


She is a rose in an old time movie.

Black to the Heart.

Not evil, as such, but full

Of complicated emotions like lust

And envy.


She is a Turn of the Century Designer

Introducing mourning garb to Day Wear.

She is not giving a fuck

Smoking like a train

Sleeping with Russian aristocrats


But after, lying in the silk of the night

She wonders

About The Lost Princess

And whether she is still alive.


A POEM: The 60’s


We’re in mini dresses cut

Like boxes. Peace-throated

We worship Quant and want to go to London.

Be part of The Scene.

You know.

Lennon is the man of our dreams

In his eyeglasses and black trousers.

George has the looks.

But Lennon has the attitude.

We want to be his muse

In nothing but flowers.

A cigarette rose.

Burning to the heart.


A POEM: Suffrage

The Quay.

It is bound like an adolescent’s mouth by metal towers.

It sits on reclaimed land.

And don’t forget the crowds of black

As they stride the Friday lunch hours with eco-death

coffee cups and their round-moons of sushi.


The law school is on the left.

Wooden library building        beautiful

With its twirls and trod-to-velvet-carpets.

Then there’s Old Government House,

also wooden.


Behind The Hive with its buzzes

and its whirs.


I was a skinny flower stemmed girl in teal.

Yellow crested.

I ran the corners of a square field

And rebelled in my non-regulation red raincoat.

Head bent

To the books I learned of history and literature

Writing papers on Mansfield and her Doll’s House and

Grace with her tales of collecting pipi from the

Suck of sand.


And on my walks across The City to the Cuba Quarter;

(The place where I’ve always felt more at home

Amongst the tatts and

the vegan coffee shops)

I first crossed the streets with Kate the Revolutionary

Saying ‘Yes! Safe to Go’ her face noted

On green-lipped currency

While up the other end of town

there’s Carmen glowing         red

as we in our quickly-changed-into-fake-Doc-boots and

denim-rhinestone-studded-minis step forward


across the painted lines of the streets.


A POEM: Soldier

The Territorials

Are training between the library

And the Florists.


Khaki braided women and tall

Broad shouldered men running

And ducking, circuit training with

Lick-of-spit-black-shine-boots kicking


from the stones.


There is history on one side in the manuscripts and

leather bound tomes
Death and marriage to the other in ribbon and stamen,

In the fleshy fist of petal.


These soldiers in training lift


As if they were flowers.



A POEM: Love (from an Architect)

The houses are tall people knock-kneed with

Nervousness because

Of the dinner dates they long to go on.

They carry roses in their thick arms.

Wear red tiled hats. And

Stand very still

Hoping that the world will

Stop noticing them.


The only sort of notice they want is

The sort that comes handwritten,

And signed with an



The sort that come posted straight through the numbered grill

Of a hesitant and pounding heart.