HEAT Archive | Australia’s International Literary Magazine

After a period of loss, and much change, I began walking. Of course begin is hardly the word. Most of us start walking from early infancy, and never stop.

Keats wrote that ‘Twang dillo dee’ – which means ‘amen to nonsense’ – should be written across the backs of politicians and ‘at the end of most modern Poems’ and on all American books...

Four poems by Tomaž Šalamun, translated from the Slovene by the author and Christopher Merrill.

'For Aira,' writes Chris Andrews, 'professionalisation is not a historical achievement to be defended, but a kind of confinement from which it is imperative to escape...'

Who am I? Where do I come from? The answers to these questions are dependant less upon a place and more upon an idea, an image, a dish, according to Allen S. Weiss.

A sequence of five love poems by the poet, novelist and Oscar-nominated screenwriter, Luke Davies.

'Anyone reading through my archives after my death will find detailed notes on the matters alluded to somewhat coyly just now, but no one should expect to receive after my death any message from the Other Side' writes Gerald Murnane. 'One life as a writer will have been enough.'

A sequence of poems by Emma Lew: 'Snow Gold', 'My Illusion of the Tycoon' and 'Jasmine'.

There are many ways to break a tongue, and there are many ways to recall its power, not only as an instrument of speech that shapes sound within its home of the mouth and palate, but as an organ involved in knowledge acquisition, sense making, flights and figment.

My life has been in the suburbs, so it is pretty hard for me to avoid houses as subjects, writes artist Noel McKenna.

Nicholas Jose visits Lake Mungo at the turn of the millennium: 'The setting at the lunette was conducive to time travel, to feeling dwarfed and transitory, which is one version of the sublime.'

I suppose I knew, even then, that my feelings for David were unreciprocated. But such feelings were complex; one could not easily unmake them. So I stayed longer than was sensible, an artist’s dark-haired mistress, the drunk, the second fiddle, the woman at parties and exhibitions, jagged in her speech, pathetic, rude, waiting to be conferred some order of substantiality.

'It would be absurd to pretend that I have “read the bible”,' Helen Garner writes. 'Ten years ago I sat down with three translations and toiled my way through it, taking months. It was an experience of weird, laborious intensity. But you can’t just read the bible once.'

Tanerai (pr. ta-né-raï), or Taneraic as I call my language in English, was first written down in August 1968, when I had just turned thirteen. In my case, writing did indeed precede speech.

Phil and I have a make-believe housemate – we call him Allen. Allen is a real jerk. Allen never cleans the bathroom, leaves the fan on when no one’s home, and only half-empties the dishwasher. Allen lets the laundry stay out on the line for so long that all our jeans are sun-faded, and he alone is responsible for the murder of our beloved houseplant, Fernie Sanders.

Street photographer Andrew Stark has been documenting Sydney in gritty and grainy 35mm black and white for over twenty years.

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The New Violence

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WalkingWest MacDonnell Ranges 2002

Amen to Nonsense

Four Poems

César Aira’s Discontinuities

Fragments of an Autobiography in a Stuffed Cabbage

Love Poems

The Breathing Author

Three Poems

Tongue Broken

Home Delivery

The Mungo Excursion

Speaks Shadow

Sighs Too Deep for WordsOn Being Bad At Reading the Bible

A + B = Essence

Allen

Down South

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