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Hunter Writers Centre

A letter From The Land of Alone

By | Read, Write, Love

By Megan Buxton
Awarded the National Association of Loss and Grief Award 2014

​Dear You,
      I’m standing in your room. If I breathe deep enough I can smell the cinnamon scent of you. If I’m still enough I can feel a tiny tremor of your essence. If I’m quiet I can hear you, but you’re as faint as the echo of bird call in a canyon. And you’re fading.
      I put your things away today in cardboard boxes. Six of them. How can they, so flimsy in substance and so small in number, hold all the love and the dreams and the hope that I’ve packed away inside them. 
      There they squat, like toadstools on the bedroom floor. And I don’t know what to do with them now they’re full. How can I give away the things you touched, the clothes that once touched you? I’m scared that, if I let them go, there’ll be nothing left to remind me of you.
      Death took you and as he left, he poked holes in me so the heart of me leaked out. I zombie-shuffle through my days dressed in black. You hated black, but colours are for the living; they hurt my grieving eyes.
      It’s funny – in a sad, strange way. You died and I’m like a corpse. 
      And here I am in the land of alone. And it’s hard here.
      People talk about my ‘late’ daughter. How I wish that were true and any moment you would burst through the door, scattering your belongings like confetti. How I wish that death was just a lack of punctuality.
      ‘Try to think about the good times,’ they tell me.
       I wonder how that’s supposed to help.
       Thinking of the good times is vinegar on raw flesh and opens up the wound to bleed memories of arguments and petty jealousies, pointless anger, bitterness. All thrown so carelessly back then when I thought I had forever. Never retracted, never recanted. Lost chances and disappointments.
       I feel the awful loneliness of regret.
       ‘Give it time,’ they say.
       But grief is a ravenous beast. I’ve been feeding him time and all he wants is more. More time, more pain, more of me. He takes and takes and gives nothing in return.
       I’ve said those same words to others in the past. They sound the same here in the land of alone but their meanings shimmer like mirages and I don’t seem to have a dictionary.
       And the words don’t tell me what to call myself. I’m not an orphan; I still have parents. I’m not a widow; it’s not a husband I’ve lost. No-one has a word for the mother who’s lost a child. So what have I become? What am I without you?
       ‘This will pass,’ they tell me. I know they’re wrong.
       Anger ends. Happiness and laughter end. Why, then, does grief go on and on?

When the Sun Goes Down

By | Read, Write, Love

By Maree Gallop

A Sparrow at the Carwash by Kaspar Paseko

By | The Lake

By Kaspar Paseko

On the way to the laundromat I stop at the carwash. It had been one of those arguments that isn’t about what it’s about. I’d driven overnight out West and gone down some dirt tracks after the rain. There was nothing worth arguing about any more but now the car was covered in congealed eucalypt sap and mud. We get a discount at this carwash because my wife taught one of the sons English.
    I sit in an old green velour armchair with my complimentary coffee. The mother opens the fridge door to cool herself between making coffee-while-you-wait and counting cash. The father with his brother spray high pressure hoses and shout over to his son to vacuum the next car in line. The boy must be wishing he was somewhere else. I remember doing jobs like that, shunting one unit from here to there in the same routine – junk mail, flowers, phone calls, planks, pizzas. I never much liked work. A sparrow dips and flutters in a puddle.

Waking up with the sunrise, pulling the sleeping bag around my ears and the beanie over my eyes, shifting a bit to ease the stiff joints and sore flesh from the cold concrete. There’s no ignoring it though. Security will be by soon enough. Sitting up and wriggling over to where the sun falls through the glassless window. Cold nights make us sun worshippers. And here is my friend the sparrow. Sparrow in the blue dawn light. A memory perching and gone again. There I am, a kid sitting on a bench in the city with nothing to do so I throw a bit of crust from my lunch to bring the bird a bit closer and a young woman walks by and says, “Look at all the friends he has.” and laughs with her friend. I didn’t mind so much but what I couldn’t understand was why anyone would even want to be like that. Still don’t. Don’t know why people care or don’t care. Why they can’t just leave each other be. Leave everything alone.
    There are two kinds of roofs where nobody lives. Abandoned buildings and buildings under construction. The derelict buildings tend to have more people, more fucked up people. Construction sites are lonelier and cleaner but you have to get out early because of security. Not a bad view from this one. All the way across town, little roof after little roof, all the way into the middle where they pile themselves one up on top each other. Soon they’ll fill the roads to go to work to pay for their roofs. Fools would pay a lot for this view. Everyone calls their weakness virtue.
    Always were a lot of sparrows at school. Always pecking at crumbs. The teacher said their Latin name was Passer Domesticus. I always used to scab cake off Scott. I was always envious of people who had food. But, to be fair, it’s not like I went hungry. Like Dad said, I can’t have been too hungry if I wouldn’t eat a vegemite sandwich, so why should he waste time making them? I had it better than Elroy. His had to get his own Weetbix for dinner. John’s mother was good. Anytime anyone came round she gave them a t-bone steak and huge helpings of three veg, even though she had was always doing shifts. She always let us hang out downstairs, no questions asked, especially if anyone had something go wrong. The cops or at home, or some toy gangster hassling you, or you just psyche out, whatever, you knew you could go there. Elroy’s mum let you do what you wanted because she didn’t give a damn about anything except leaning over a bucket of steaming water with a towel over her head. No-one could figure out why. Elroy said she said it was her sinuses. And his Dad was never there because he was always doing double shifts in the taxi to pay for his wife.
    “Behave or the social workers’ll get ya.” he’d say. He was always worried the do-gooders would take his kid. “I’ll send you to boarding school!” he’d say, and I’d stand still in my crisp new clothes while he checked the part in my wet hair was straight. One day they asked me. Called me up to the office at school. Asked me if he did anything like that. It took a while but I figured out what they were insinuating and looked at the table, hating them for saying such things about my father. Never laid a finger on me. Never touched me. No one could ever say he ever. It was other people, people I never told anyone about, not even Dad because he couldn’t handle it. He would have murdered them. Or more likely he would have paced around all night trying not to murder anyone, because then he’d be in jail and who’d look after us? Nothing serious though. Nothing too bad ever happened to me. Just a little. Just like, at the train station, that guy miming a blow job at me, with a raise of the eyebrow. Or standing in the crowd at night watching the busker and there’s this guy standing too close behind grazing my arse with his cock. That sort of thing. Just little things. Plenty worse things happen.
    “The judge is a professional.” He said, “Don’t believe me. Don’t believe your mother. Why would the judge give me custody when the woman always gets custody?” She always said he was the best liar she ever knew. No one ever said what she was supposed to have done. It was before I can remember.
    I only ever saw him touch someone once. Waiting for the ferry at night. She’d come down to argue. He is a liar. She is a liar. The same shit they always say. I gave up on truth a long time ago but I’ve always known that the more they hated each other the more it meant they love me. Neither of them can bear to live without me. Neither can bear to leave me with someone they hate. Going through our bags he realised she’d stolen our passports. I waited by the bags for someone to come back listening to three tall young American tourists. “Did you see that?” “Asshole.” “When he comes back, let’s teach him a lesson.”
    In our room at the YMCA I finished another story and went to the window and looked down at the flat grey roof of the next building and the brown brick walls. Looking to the right, far down in the street, I noticed there was a pizza shop. There was a story in the newspaper where some mothers of some kids who’d died of a drug overdose banded together and caught the dealer. One of the mothers worked in a pizza shop so they put the dealer in the pizza oven and cooked him to death. It could be that same pizza shop down there. I left the room and wound my way around the corridors to the toilet. Making my way to the end of the urinal I glanced at the cubicles and there, with the door wide open, was an old man sitting on the toilet jerking off. I only caught a glimpse because I looked away straight away. I was confused for a moment. Did I really see that? Why didn’t he close the door? Is he going to get me? With people around? He didn’t look menacing at all, just very sad, miserable, more miserable than anyone, so miserable he didn’t care anymore how miserable it was. I needed to piss and didn’t know where there was another toilet, so I stepped back to a point at the urinal where he couldn’t see me and pissed, hoping he wouldn’t come out.
    Back in our room I went to the window and looked out again. A warm breeze on my face. I read in the library that people who try to commit suicide by jumping off skyscrapers are often saved by a strong updraft, strong enough to sweep the weight of a human body up and onto a ledge. It made it sound as if it was a good thing they were saved, but if their life was so bad they wanted to die, wasn’t it cruel to make them live it? Wouldn’t they feel ashamed that they had failed even at this last thing they ever wanted to do? That would be about the most embarrassing thing that could happen to somebody who already felt that bad about themselves. I could picture a suicide, saved in this way, thanking God for the miracle of lifting them onto that overhanging ledge and giving them a second chance. But then it seemed more like God was laughing at them. What about those who jumped again? To have to think over that final decision all over again. And to decide again without a doubt. Or is it worse that if most people didn’t jump the second time, that meant most people who killed themselves made a mistake. I looked down at the concrete. Imagine it. You make up your mind. You take that step. Falling, you swallow your breath, there’s a long few moments, enough time to realise what you had done before you hit the ground. And in that last moment – a mistake. What would that thought be in that one brief last moment, with no more thoughts to come, the thought that all your life amounted to, that you could not say to anyone?
    I tore a page out of my notebook, made a paper aeroplane and threw it. The updraft was good, lifting it higher and over onto the grey roof opposite. I tore out more pages and carefully ripped them around the edges to make spirals, like a Minties wrapper, and weighted the middle bit by scrunching it into a small ball and putting spit on it, dropping them out the window and watching them float up and back out of sight over the top of the building. One failed suicide after another flying up over the roof.
    Here I am, free. No one to care for. No one to care for me. Free from any friend who might have concern for me. Worth nothing. Free. Free to live or die without troubling anybody at all. You can sit and see a man fat, in a suit, bragging on his phone, hated by everyone and then another person, they might be happy or sad, but you can see that wherever they go, they are loved at a glance. Sometimes sitting here, I look at faces and fall in love with each and every one, like I can see past everything at who they are. Every single one is a weed growing through a crack in the concrete. They might only flower for a day and die, but they grow anyway. They walk here on earth, one footstep falls in front of me, and they are gone again. Other times, to be honest, I hate them all. The world would be better off if we all were dead and the sparrows had dominion over the earth. There would be no one to be miserable, and nothing and no one to make them miserable. All our cares amount to nothing and no-one will remember what I worried about today. It doesn’t matter if we worry or not. No-one notices for long that once someone sat here with a bowl, who no longer sees the sun and who the sun no longer sees. The sparrows go here and there. It doesn’t matter if concrete is cold and porridge is warm. Either way, another day may as well come. Other times, it’s just an endless stream of empty automatons. Mostly it is that. You can grab them, hold still their mechanisms long enough to rap your knuckle on their head and chest. Hollow. All these streets and buildings full of empty people.
    Then there was that time with the blood on the lip. That was probably when I was most scared, though I wasn’t really a kid anymore then. It was raining and everyone was looking for somewhere dry. This guy offered a chug from a bottle of port and you have to be polite or they might get angry, and he explained he’d been in for murder and ended up breaking a bottle and cut his hand as he did it. Out of nowhere he made as if to cut my throat. I flinched into his other arm and he had me in a headlock. “You’ve got beautiful lips.” he said and wiped blood on my mouth. Then he let me go. “I’ve got to go now.” I said and walked out. Before then I thought nothing would happen to me because I wouldn’t give anyone any reason. Some people don’t need a reason. Anyway, worse happens to other people. For someone else that might have just been the start of it. I can’t complain. The hardest thing is, if you don’t have money, walking past all the baklava in a bakery window. No, let’s be honest. What’s worst is knowing no one will ever touch you. Not a hand. Not a kiss. What woman wants a man with no prospects? No prospects at all. Can’t bring himself to give a flying fuck about prospects. They sent me to work in telemarketing once. Like they thought that would teach me the value of a dollar and the pride of a job well done. Fair enough someone has to wash dishes and chop tomatoes but I was never any good at it. Weak. Careful. Thinking of other things. Do it faster, doesn’t have to be perfect. No good at anything. Waste of everyone’s time. Anyway, the only reason all these suckers fill the roads on the way to work is because they’re terrified of not having a roof over their head, while the boss gets rich. My father taught me how to live with nothing. So I’m not afraid of losing anything. Free. Everyone calls their weakness virtue.
    The hills were low and undulating like an ocean with the wind rippling through the tall stalks of young green wheat. There hadn’t been any towns or even a house for hours, just the two lane road cutting through the endless fields. I couldn’t remember at what point it had started being just green fields and nothing else, and it showed no sign of having an end. The sun was getting low and there was something by the road up ahead, an old wooden shack. We pulled over. He went in first to check no-one was already there. I followed close, trying to tread quietly on the creaking boards, listening. Half the roof had fallen in, and half the floorboards were broken. We set up a small cooking fire inside and ate our baked beans looking at the stars through the roof. Lying there waiting to sleep the air was cool and there was nothing around but the wind and the grass and I wondered if the owner of the land might come, or someone would see our car and I’d wake in the middle of the night and see a silhouette against the sky and not know what kind of person it was.
    Their family must have lived there for thousands of years but they’d be killed if they went home. Now they build a home out of a car wash.
    It was the same argument we never have. The same reason there’s never a welcome when I’ve been away.
    “You hate us because you have to work because of us.”
    “No, it’s the opposite.”
    “You’re going to leave me.”
    “I’m still here.”
    “You will. All men do. You will, just like your father, and you’ll take the kids because you know you can.”

I stopped for a bacon and egg roll and coffee. I went west and turned on to quieter roads and, once the sun had been down for a while, pulled over on a stretch where the car could be away from the road. There was a small town beyond the paddocks and over the creek and no houses nearby. The air was cool and clean. Down the embankment the long dewy grass wet the cuffs of my jeans. I pissed on a fence post, looking at the stars. It was cold but in the boot was one of her long musty old winter coats from Vinnies. It had always been a bit tight and was getting mildewy so she’d tried to throw it out one spring clean. It was a unique jacket with a Russian design. It would look good on our daughter when she was older. It only needed a dry clean so I’d snuck it into the car boot. The rumble of a truck woke me up from time to time and seeing the headlights glowing white then red in the dew on the car window I remembered where I was and when. I’d turn to get more comfortable on the car seat and pull the musty jacket back over my face. It was good to be home.

Story Time Lane

By | Member News, News

HWC member Graham Davidson and Emily S. Smith have created “Storytime Lane”, a YouTube channel with regular storytelling webisodes in response to the declining literacy rates in Australia. They hope their project will support the development of young children’s literacy skills by providing adults and children with access to visual storytelling and free resources and activities that extend on those stories. The webisodes will have an Auslan interpreter signing the stories so more people have a greater access to the content. Storytime Lane

Grieve Anthology Winners 2017

By | Grieve, News

Such beautiful poems and stories were entered into the 2017 Grieve Writing Competition. Over 100 captivating, brave and compelling works by Australians were chosen to be published in the anthology Volume 5. Buy the anthology either in ebook or printed book form here

Submit your poem or story into this year’s competition open to all Australians

Congratulations to the 2017 prizewinners:
Rachael Mead Powerless
Joel McKerrow On Saying Goodbye
Ky Garvey Deep Breaths and Heartbeats
Janet Holmes Carpet Beetles
Fiona Murphy Our Small Kingdom
Kathryn R Bennett Numbers
Josh Wildie When One Door Closes
Kaylia Payne I Miss You, Kid
Laura Jan Shore First Anniversary
Kathy Childs The Man in the Mirror
Ellen Shelley Failed to Provide
Vicki Laveau-Harvie Seasons of Grief
Undine Kanowski Okay
Cheryl Parker My Truth
Melanie Zolenas-Kennedy Scraps
Donni Hakanson The Ghost of A Mother
Edwina Shaw Thirty Years Gone
Sarah Bourne The Sounds of You
Gail Hennessey Message to My Mother
Kathryn Fry There She Is, My Mother

Newcastle Poetry Prize Winners 2017

By | 2017, Newcastle Poetry Prize, News

First prize: $15 000
Lucy Williams
the crows in town

Second prize: $5,000
Shari Kocher
Forty Desert Days and Nights and White

Third prize: $1,000
Judith Beveridge

Commended Awards:
Debi Hamilton
Sleeping Beauty Lessons

Local Award:
Kit Kelen
a field guide to Australian clouds (prolegomenon)

Harri Jones Memorial Prize (for a poet <35 years):
Joan Fleming
A History of the Tanamite People

Hunter Writers Centre members’ award:
Magdalena Ball
the clock is a circle

Newcastle Poetry Prize proudly supported by

Fuzz Noise

By | Read, Write, Love

(for Annabelle)
By Anne Walsh

she eats a banana
big hush of peel
in her cow onesie
her cud: my attention
I cannot write
anything except
her mooing
her banana peel
her eating my attention
peeling it
never was there a noisier silent consumption
of anything
than of my attention
her chewing
my writing 
her chewing

What my mother did when I went to school

By | Read, Write, Love

By Rosemary Bunker

My mother barely noticed when, not yet three, I took off for the one-teacher school next door. She had cooked breakfast and, depending on the day of the week, would then light the copper for washing, dampen the clothes for ironing, mop and polish the floors.  All this done, my mother too took off for school. She was her husband’s teacher’s aide.
             The family lynch pin, my mother was, before her marriage, a renaissance woman: a science graduate, a pianist, a trained soprano, student of drawing. She knew the social niceties – the correct table setting, the approved introduction rituals, the value of religion. She knew her place and that was by her husband’s side.
             So it was, my mother left the house for part of the day to teach eighteen children from farms, fettler and road work gangs.
             ‘Like this’ she’d say, holding up a blue crayon, then a yellow. ‘Blue and green don’t go.’ And we’d draw on plain paper. She made each child’s drawing a recognisable flower, a daisy or a bird. We’d stand by her side as she demonstrated a run and fell seam, then help our awkward fingers to manage scissors or thread a needle. Knitting and crochet were slow processes of handing over the work and picking up the stitch. She guided the boys’ hands folding blue and orange paper to create an origami bird. Sheets of newspaper became pirates’ hats. When it was time for music out came the tuning fork and we sang ‘doh’ after her. Then, reading the words written large on the blackboard, we sang ‘Hush little baby’ until we knew the tune and the words. She listened to us reciting ballads we learnt by heart. Making up our own plays, putting on a red shawl or a sword was to give unruly boys too much licence! Control was man’s work. In that, my father, cane sitting across the table, was supreme. Mother and I were sent home for father’s control sessions.
             I returned home often through the day to help skim the milk and beat the cream by hand to make yellow butter. Bought butter was a treat I longed for. We staked the tomatoes, cut newspaper with pinking shears for the lavatory, a deep hole with two wooden seats, or plucked a fowl. The smell of hot, wet feathers was unbearable. Because we were poor and idleness was a sin, mum made everything we wore and used. She turned her talents to making pot holders and peg bags of hessian, hemmed flour bags for tea towels and aprons on the treadle Singer sewing machine. Best dresses for Sunday, aprons, tough cesarine pinafores, knitted dresses with hats, gloves and bags for best or town sprang from her hands with pyjamas, nighties and bedsox. Once mother made a georgette dress for herself, dark wine in colour, in case we were invited out. She wore it once when, by invitation, women were invited to provide supper for the Lodge men. As mother worked at home, so did I, I learnt to make scones, plan and cook a baked rabbit dinner, make a mandatory sponge cake for the minister’s pastoral visit,  preserve eggs with keypeg for the winter, stack the pantry shelves with bottles of dark red tomato sauce, fill jars with melon and lemon jam and sterilise Fowler jars for fruit – plums and peaches. How I longed for ice cream instead of boring fruit every night. Now and then mum played the piano and made me practise Czerny exercises or a Chopin Prelude. Home or school did not matter – mother could not stop working or teaching.
           The war changed her life. We moved to the city. A teaching appointment meant paid work outside the home. Her domestic duties became mine after school. Looking back, I see a rational woman who embraced what she knew was best for her. I wonder if she regretted her choice. Did she marry at twenty-nine to escape spinsterhood with, she told me once, ‘a good man’ two years younger? Did my father, with a weak heart, one eye and minimal training, marry her to survive? That they melded is all I know now.

Brothers in arms

By | Read, Write, Love

– those mist covered mountains –
By Ellen Shelley

I followed our friendship over mountains.
Navigating girlhood
exploring our dreams.

I followed our friendship into the unknown.
Our first taste of liquor
the first taste of love.

I followed our friendship through the fog.
Stumbling into adulthood
the death of your father.

I followed our friendship to the summit.
The warm glow of loyalty
the birth of our children.

I followed our friendship into a crossroad.
A division in our choices
an unspoken disharmony.

I limped after our friendship.
Scavenging for a connection
to bind our lives together.

I poked carefully around our friendship.
Avoiding awkward exchanges
nothing left to say.

I relinquished our friendship,
and am left asking the question:
am I where I am now because of you
or me?

3-sentence short story

By | Read, Write, Love

At the recent Scone Writing Workshop attendees were invited to write a 3-sentence short story to see how sentence length can make your writing more engaging. Here is a members’s piece using a long, medium and short sentence:

By Eryl Carter

It was bound to happen sooner or later, of course, as things had become sufficiently unstuck over the previous five years that they each secretly knew that the end was inevitable. So, when he shouted at her and threw a glass of wine over her, they both knew. This was it.