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Emilie Collyer, who had an awesome piece in the latest Torpedo, has a creative, thoughtful and immediate kind of blog, between the cracks

- Literary Minded

Between the cracks is an ongoing collection of moments and observations, captured in words. Designed to give pause for thought, maybe a laugh or other kind of cerebral refreshment. I hope you enjoy.

The work on here is a small sample of what I do.

Words from between the cracks.

Where sometimes you unexpectedly find fifty cents and sometimes you find whole new worlds.


Entries in poem (6)


Mirka's view (at Heide)

I wrote this poem years ago and it never found a home. Posting it here today in memory of the wonder-full Mirka Mora who made a new home in this city so many years ago and gave us new worlds.


Mirka’s view (at Heide)


On top of this hill we are close to the sky

a heart is carved into the garden


arms of the pomegranate tree

hold swollen pink fruit


dust settles on our hands and faces

nothing has an outline   no buildings


anchor me to cobblestone streets

on a windy day we could float away


grass shimmers yellow and whispers dry secrets

I do not understand   our interpreters here


the Reeds - tall bodies lean smiles

look they grew on the hill


their home contains us   warm eggs fresh bread

wine stains on the wooden table


by day I blink through the back window

golden pear and generous oak soften the sky with shadows


at night all I see is my reflection

round face bobbing   a ghostly balloon


beginning a new life here

we are like children


drawings spill from my hands  

two headed creatures, many with wings


their eyes fat with terror and magic

gazing back at me


serpents flicking black tongues slip out

populate my room seeking gaps under doors


to leak out   leave this haven where we’ve stayed a while

see if they can find a place down the hill


a new home in this city

to call their own




Melbourne downpour


Melbourne downpour

means it takes everyone

hours to get home


I am safe and dry in my car

end of irritating work day

Restless and bored


Flicking through radio stations

I select the most popular

commercial drive team


There must be

a reason why

millions tune in every day


Within twenty minutes

I hear the drive team duo

a recap from breakfast

and a promo for the next show


Their voices are

hoppy beer on a hot day

creamy chocolate

a bubble bath for my ears


their words are big

fat bright shiny

glowing lies


about themselves

about the world

about the intimate

and down to earth relationship

they have with me, the listener

about how similar they are to me

and how far removed they are

from that mendacious

world of celebrity


Their lies

are so crunchy and


that I want to eat them all up

told with such brazen joy

that I long for them

to be true


Each lie is worth

more than my day’s entire work

ballooning their already

brimming bank accounts

inflating their already

elephantine egos


I drive on

the rain

steaming up

my car

I want to believe them

as much as I wanted to believe

that boy murmuring

sweet lies

in the rain

steaming up

his car

so many years ago


We want to believe the lies

but once you arrive

and open the car door

and step outside

you are alone

with only your voice




Empty paddock

The horse has gone

the bathtub too

The grass is long in the paddock

There is no shade there so I do not sit and contemplate the loss

I keep walking, my skin throbbing in the heat

while I grapple with the title of a poem

I have not yet written

about whether this need for fulfillment

can ever be sated

Did the horse die or did they just move it to greener pastures?


They may not go gently

What if we take them

the celebrities

all to one place?


Because the problem is not

so much that they exist

-         all right, I get it, people like them, it makes them feel safe or that things are in their right place

the problem is

that they pop up everywhere


their whitened teeth and maniacal grins

and ironic humour and

over developed senses of self

frightening those of us who are looking for something else

-         some other anchor or balloon in life


They leak into waters where they are not supposed to be

infecting art and literature

seeping into home cooking

clawing their tentacles across

dog walking and tree planting and adventure hiking and asylum seeking


Leaving no place sacred any more for the ordinary

unremarkable unrecognisable quiet ticking

not much happening here thanks and we like it that way

of what used to pass for every day life


So here’s what I think


We take them

-         lure them, trick them, drug them, beat them, promise them, herd them, flatter them, feed them – however we get them there I don’t care, there are smart people around who know what to do, how to motivate and move them, satisfy and soothe them, just get them into ONE place and cyclone fence it and guard dog it and electromagnify it and then shut the gigantic gate and lock it


And we will still watch them

that channel will run 24/7

- more if that smart person can work out how to pummel extra hours into each day


So they will be on – they will always be on – so they won’t feel sad or strange or bad and the people who need to see them don’t have to pine or whine or panic or go mad


But for the rest of us

-         those who have had to stop turning on the TV and opening the paper and walking out the door and going to the market for fear of the constant bombardment of their insidious smiling presence (“Oh look at me! I once learned some words off by heart and they put me on the telly and now I have an opinion about everything from Al Jazirah to jelly!”)


For us


there may be

some peace


Cause we know that channel’s there

and we can turn it on

those dark lonely nights when we miss their shiny lights


But the rest of the time

we can get back

to the ordinary chaos

of our blissfully uninteresting, monotonous, uncelebrated




Whites so white

Who are the people who know how to

keep their whites white?


Angels come to teach us?


Or demons come to torment us?


I curse them as I toss out

yet another

yellow edged bra


If only they could teach me

my whole life would

be sweeter


And I could get caught

in accidentally




without evidence

of sweat stains


and poor washing techniques