Greetings TP readers.  Consider today's invitation to enter the Caselberg Trust's inaugural competition a comma in Tuesday Poem...

James Brown is great live. He has had a lot of success, having published several collections of his funny, satirical and clever poetry w...

Early spring, and a cold wet morning.      The wind mooches about outside,           planning a home invasion. It’s Mary’s birthday, our...

‘Taglioni’s lilies,’ he says handing her a long-stemmed bouquet in the bar near his chambers. He’s going through his repertoire – eyes locke...

When the fisherman found he could no longer row his dinghy the tide went out with his heart, and when I asked him what he felt about th...

As the cod that's cooked in a mountain of salt comes out delicate as butter, a fur of disappearances, unrecognisable, so have I burie...

it is a day for poetry   that is to say one like any other   full of sunshine   paddocks and cold at heart all day I speak to screen poets ...

The hand that signed the paper felled a city; Five sovereign fingers taxed the breath, Doubled the globe of dead and halved a co...

Let’s not talk about the whole truth. Better to let small parts speak for the whole – a look, a hand in the small of my back....

I hate milk chocolate, don't want clouds of cream diluting the dark night sky, don't want pralines or raisins, rubble in this smo...

3. Moss picked her way over the mosaic of strange things away from his bed and buttoned herself out the door while he was in the bathroom w...

1. Blake drew Newton naked, every muscle tense, seated on a rock, hunched over the paper world unscrolling at his feet, inscribing limi...