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I believe all actions of the imagination are ‘true’ actions—that all the places I’ve travelled in books or paintings or films I have, in some sense, truly traveled to.  >

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Waiting for the Train

Craig Billingham

Poetry by Craig Billingham

I have thought myself
inside a painting by Jeffrey Smart
where I am richer


and infinitely more
composed. Calm
in the stillness of bad weather—


a storm
captured at the point of passing,
a foreboding sky


cracked open by the sun.
I do not know
what will happen—


I feel uncommonly small
yet hopeful.
My cohabitants


are tightly packed
within themselves—
they hum


a prayer of their containment,
a dampened music.
I close my eyes


and silence comes,
released
as though from deep


within a bed of sandstone—
it seeks to claim me.
Paused,


forever imminent,
and the world
on my lips
     feels massive.

© Craig Billingham

poetry

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beyond the sun-scorched men filling its plans with bricks—poetry by Ron Pretty

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Days seem brief and endless—poetry by Mike Ladd

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Paint for me/the word water, I said—poetry by Subhash Jaireth

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I went out
in the slow bloom of rain
—poetry by Pam Schindler

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I’m back there now,
alone, intoxicated, memory
my willowy date
—poetry by Peter Rose