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Anne Walsh

Anne Walsh is a Poet and a Story Writer. She’s been shortlisted for the Newcastle Poetry Prize twice and for the ACU Prize for Literature. Her first book of poems, I Love Like a Drunk Does, was published by Ginninderra Press (2009, Australia). Her work has also been published in the U.S., including a short story, The Rickman Digression, by Glimmer Train. Her second book of poems, Intact, was published in January 2017 by Flying Island Books.
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Lamps

People have lamps for bodies. When you’re in hurricane love you can see it, the light house, the summer rental for the soul lit up like unexpected fireworks that make a holiday. The human body is an arsonist. At any
January 2, 2023
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Glass 2

I’ve only ever been at home in blizzard, the electric pink dollar store glitter eyeshadow slant of it. Make no mistake God is black and trans. I’ve seen her pink slippers slide in drifts, her matching boa off the
January 25, 2022
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Macaroni Lips

I’m pouting a Fibonacci sequence, a phyllotaxis of impatience, a fern unfurling, the fine pout of a pineapple sprout Don’t you know that the Golden Spiral is just my pout while waiting for you, my pine to uncurl you The
October 25, 2021
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The Interruption Of Wonder

I came in listening to oak and snow and walking in them. I was closest to having them tell me their names when I was three. Then school started and interrupted me. Made me articulate and write names for things like days
October 25, 2021

Mushin -The Mind Of No Mind Of An Artist

All Martial Arts are Gung Fu. They’re all hard work, if not separated from the self. If the practice of Martial Arts is separate from the self, from the way in which a person lives, they’re merely a physical exercise. But if
October 25, 2020
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Crayons

In trees, in crayon leaves, a box of autumn with a sharpener of birds. How my eyes flew to them. How flocks of big-horned clouds were un-shepherded like hope and went everywhere they shouldn’t be able to: my hands, my
January 25, 2020
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Second Language

When you have to leave home the word belonging loses the be and just the longing is left. When your language isn’t spoken by anyone, when you have no one to talk to in it but you your memories stop trying
July 25, 2018
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You Can’t Write A Poem Without Me In It

No one is speaking, but everything is. The wordless hanging hurricane lanterns on breath, firefly words electric over forever’s backyard shiver me sideways inside the blizzard of myself. I’ve kissed you with that breath, the shawl of snow. Now, wherever you go
April 30, 2018
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Borderlands

I live in borderlands where cobwebs spin my fingers together and sun burns the mark of earth on my tongue. My home is two places and none. Born here and there, speaking the languages of both, my greatest fluency is silence.
January 15, 2018