1968 Transit Number 1

Contact: writers and Estate Executors who wish to delete material, or who instead wish to give permission to reprint work in full, rather than truncated to 8 lines, as used occasionally herein to avoid the complex labyrinth of copyright, may contact me easily by phone, mail or email here.

Transit number 1 front cover

Front cover:

[Yep: that’s thirty cents! Australian poet John Forbes (who was eighteen at that time) once had a dream in which Frank O’Hara appeared to him and said ‘The only way to beat inflation is to live in the past!’ Mind you, the next issue (number two) cost fifty cents!]

Back cover:

Contents     Geoff Egglestone
Terrence Gillmore     Brian Gorman
Bronwen Gale     W. Randolph
Robert Adamson     I. Lightfoot
Nigel Roberts     John E. Tranter
Patrick Alexander     Garth Clarke
Bruce Beaver     Gary von Tersch
Peter J.F. Newton     Mark Pallas
David Rankin     Tim Thorne
Nicholas Ford
a magazine
for new poetry

[Transit01 page 1]

contents page:

editor: john e. tranter


  3. Tim Thorne
  5. Geoff Eggleston
  8. Bronwen Gale
  9. Brian Gorman
10. Terrence Gillmore
11. W. Randolph
12. Robert Adamson
14. I. Lightfoot
17. Nigel Roberts
20. Garth Clarke
21. Mark Pallas
23. Gary von Tersch
24. Patrick Alexander
28. Peter J.F. Newton
31. Bruce Beaver
32. John E. Tranter
34. Nicholas Ford
35. David Rankin

112 lawson st paddington, 2021 nsw

[Transit01 page 2]

Transit is a magazine for poetry with a modem attitude and a serious approach. It has no affiliation with any group whatever, whether literary, political or religous.

Transit needs contributors, but is unable to pay for contributions at this stage. Please send your poems, enclosing a stamped self-addressed envelope to:
          The Editor,
          112 Lawson Street,
          Paddington, 2021, N.S.W.
Make sure you keep copies of any poems sent, as no responsibility can be taken for manuscripts lost or damaged in the post.


[Transit01 page 3]

[Author:] Tim Thorne
[Title:] So

Tied to his forearm.
The feathers of a cock;
Its blood is his soul. The shock
Of drums his limbs. He jumps
Through our tired party, so.
Awry, negroid Pierrot.

Sliding your forearm
Against my shoulder, so.

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit01 page 4]

[Author:] Tim Thorne
[Title:] Lilli Pilli

With every step we wade the water clings.
The cold tide draws us to our ancient blood
And man becomes the fisherman again.
Our own net takes me, calm ropes round the brain.

A bull-nose mullet bounces at the mesh.
Its ripples ring us safely while my spurts
Of manic laughter shiver out to sea.
Shamed by the wholeness of fraternity.

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit01 page 5]

[Author:] Geoff Eggleston
[Title:] [none]

[This concrete poem is the form of a spiral, with an arrow’s tailfeathers on the outer and an arrowhead on the inner spiral, at each end of a string of words, thus: (from the inner out) VORTEX IS INNER FROM OUTER WHIRLING TO INNER FROM OUTER WHIRLING FROM OUTER TO INNER

[Transit01 page 6]

[Author:] Geoff Eggleston
[Title:] The Old Men Sit

The old men sit still
as dry as the butts they share
and drop between their toes.
Watching the tobacco specks blowing away.
As they are blowing away,
(Fred’s funeral was yesterday.)

As if cast in bronze.
And beaten with little hammers,

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit01 page 7]

[Author:] Geoff Eggleston
[Title:] A Part of Me.

My feet.
    So neat.
Legs frayed,
    at the end.
My legs
Can bend
    at the knees.
To pray,

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit01 page 8]

[Author:] Bronwen Gale
[Title:] On Modern Painting.

In a bird-cage Pix photo
Jeremy Self eyed the moon
while Colin leaned on
the handle. Mark Flannagan
felt at home when walking
in acid green on the hill.
B. Furnival liked the style of John Boyle’s flag; and
nothing but stripes, imagine.

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Author:] Bronwen Gale
[Title:] To Humphrey Bogart

Decision makes for screws and bolts,
a mechanical thing with directed feet,
with creaking feet and tight belt.
To decide is to near a steel shape.
I am a dame, dame’s fate.
Pollen in a felt hat.

[Above: entire poem]

[Transit01 page 9]

[Author:] Brian Gorman, in fact Clem Gorman, later known as a playwright
[Title:] To the Walking Corpse in Oxford Street, Paddington

After the moment of clinical death
solemnly attested to
the fingernails, hair and certain tissues
keep growing without direction from the
late captains and departed Kings:
this is your state as with blinkers and hay bag tied
and with collar and tie for reins
you drag your concrete briefcase

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit01 page 10]

[Author:] Terrence Gillmore
[Title:] SEA      GULL / SCAVENGER

of shore / sand
primate of survival
grey creature on steel
white on blue,
lichened rock
and white lighthouse,

[Above: entire poem]

[Transit01 page 11]

[Author:] W. (Wally) Randolph
[Title:] Poem

& who was reminded in the room
of the remainder of those effects
, slender silver threads trailing
from the forgotten ceiling of
archetypal ice to those from
flat floors of leonard duke
emporiums uncalculcated to cut
cold cake carted in cream crates

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit01 page 12]

[Author:] Robert Adamson
[Title:] Sappho’s Water Song

Here I come once more, walking in wobbles
along the shore, sea stones suck mud
and my toes get cut on oyster shells:
          it doesn’t worry me much.

An oyster sting is as soft as my brain
as rosy dawn unfolding her silver wing;
returning home I smell the salt-fern;
          travelling by day.

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit01 page 13]

[Author:] Robert Adamson
[Title:] Devil’s Hole

I left the city this afternoon,
fled the night under the ground
lectric light and the day on fire.

And who’s heard the ragged moons wail
as she swings to plunge his desire?
Who’s heard that cold clipped sound.

Who has stood still in a red night
and rustled with the heavy hail

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit01 page 14]

[Author:] I (Ian) Lightfoot
[Title:] Statues

Having lost his cool
And all his money
And sundry friends
Of long standing
And not understanding
While out in the garden standing
In front of a statue
Whose only movement

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit01 page 15]

[Author:] I (Ian) Lightfoot
[Title:] The Blot

Ever felt you were a blot
A blot so big that people said
There is a horizon on the blot?

Well, I’m a blot
I’m my own bottle of spilled ink:
A little swan

I have to get my kicks
In blot fashion:

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit01 page 17]

[Author:] Nigel Roberts
[Title:] Title

the mona lisa tea towel
and / other paintings.

[Above: entire poem]

[Transit01 page 18]

[Author:] Nigel Roberts
[Title:] [none]

the model / strokes
the hairy squab / her mine
of salt diamonds / then
settles / back
to the blue cushions

the painting was finished
the acceptance
and celebration

[Author:] Nigel Roberts
[Title:] [none]

if / you would shoot
      the piano player / because
he thought of / lobotomising the librarian / and
dancing the washing lines of brooklyn
    my townspeople / regard   the occasion
    as if it were / a festival / primp the square
  and parade / with flags / then

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit01 page 19]

[Author:] Nigel Roberts
[Title:] [none]

          van gogh / the sunflower
                    of vision / vincent
          the mad sunflowerer / who lit
the gas sunflowers in the cafe of night / exposing
            the white waiter / as the attendant / of
                        an asylum
vincent / who illumed the canvas / landscape
                  painting at night with a hat of twelve candles

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit01 page 20]

[Author:] Garth Clarke
[Title:] Trespasser

Past the fallen log, where the fungus
Petals into an untouchable flower;
Beneath the towering whisks
Of the gums with their needling belfries;
The ceaseless carillon of the birds
Pricking the silence.

Past the black tube of the headless snake.
Dead, heedless of the ants

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit01 page 21]

[Author:] Mark Pallas, in fact John E. Tranter
[Title:] Sweet Lady

The wavelets support a shy dolphin
With a face like a cat, he is
Curling out of the blue water
With a look of gratified surprise

The lady balances on a shell
That has lately been her home, testing the air
With a gentle, hesitant gesture
The fingers follow the shape of the wrist
Green leaves ripple on the shore

[Above: entire poem]

[Transit01 page 22]

[Author:] Mark Pallas, in fact John E. Tranter
[Title:] On Reading an Electrical Meter At the House of the Rising Son

In the twenty-fifth year of my age
I find myself a ford at Bomaderry
The tank dry, starved between
One collision and the next garage.
Adelaide flames and howls under the horizon
Lighting up a petty testament of waste.
Apart from the moment of accidental vision
The dull grey trees stand about
Inclined to olive, drab, cold, gathering in trembling clumps
Under the lowering field of cloud.
You are not alone in this Southern desert;
Love, like a wounded elephant, terrible and pathetic
Storms the deadly streets to hunt us down.

[Above: entire poem]

[Transit01 page 23]

[Author:] Gary von Tersch
[Title:] # 53

Each sketch
I make now,
each line I trace,
they all move upon
your secret songs
and your waterfall
full of rainbows dance.
That Colorado winter,

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit01 page 24]

[Author:] Patrick Alexander
[Title:] Looking Back

Beneath imponderable syntax of the night
fumbling with the grammar of my loneliness
I lose the word that is the object that is the Self
identity is striving

the stairway is tall, upwards too far,
o muse I am tired
the walls of the tower have gaping holes
letting in void, impersonality

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit01 page 25]

[Author:] Patrick Alexander
[Title:] Letter to a Fellow Communicator

I would say, if asked — which it has to be faced
          I possibly never shall be, that your means

are words but wordlessness,
                        form but formless, rhythm
        but rhythmless ribbons meandering sound

I would opine even — dynamics but also
          perhaps tensionless
                        boredom — discount

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit01 page 28]

[Author:] Peter J.F. Newton
[Title:] Death By Fire & Crucifixion Of No One In Particular

                    Lying silent
                    in bushes w
                    here love o
                    nce followe
                    d its prede
                    stined way;
                    autumnal le
                    aves float
                    from trees
                    still tempo
                    rarily foli
                    ated to cov
                    er my peasa
                    nt body. Sc
reaming and they run laughing, their crashing weapo
ns cleave into falling branches. They run with eyes
that only comprehend results. My heart and voice ar
                    e faint.I am
                    Merely growe
                    er of basic
                    crops. Who am
                    I to underst
                    and other me
                    n’s foibles,
                    follies? And
                    Yet… I have
                    Witnessed en
                    d of tribal
                    priests, seen
                    the destruct
                    ion of kingl
                    y divinities
                    . Now he ris
                    es, in red h
                    e rises as n
                    ever before.
                    (Once a head
                    and heart, co
                    mplete of bo
                    dy ………)
In tears of red , blood in the palms coerced by bur

[Above: First third of poem]

[Transit01 page 31]

[Author:] Bruce Beaver
[Title:] The Drummer

I have been a privileged spectator at innumerable acts of vandalism;
Have stood swaying in the shaded second class compartments
As knives sliced the hymeneal leather, ball-points defaced
the clever hairless advertisements, initialled crapulous
Graffiti in the sweet and sour of countless city urinals.
I have watched from nonentity, invisible as a cement
Column under a fly-over, a lamp-post on a sepia lit
Highway; have seen, fusing at intervals the grey and blind-white coil of traffic.

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit01 page 32]

[Author:] John E. Tranter
[Title:] Hop along way out to St. Louis St.

hop it / hop

her — lover — sure

sheer delight out / snick! her

in / the back weighs

out / wow he

ugh, he throbs, nasty

isn’t he? isn’t it? isn’t she? he

asks of her love-her / in

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit01 page 33]

[Author:] John E. Tranter
[Title:] Frana

the tomb expands / tomorrow
cracks over the city:
light like this is all the pain you need, he said
the pavement like a text of misery

after the attempted murder of the brain
in the empty sunlit room, no-one home
the wiring cut, four o’clock
breaking into the hall…the soft girl

[Above: Firs

Contact: writers and Estate Executors who wish to delete material, or who instead wish to give permission to reprint work in full, rather than truncated to 8 lines, as used occasionally herein to avoid the complex labyrinth of copyright, may contact me easily by phone, mail or email here.

Transit number 2 front cover

[Transit02 page 1]

  3. Brian Ridley
  4. Mal Morgan
        W. McCall
  5. Suzanne Hunt
        Anthony Fry
  6. Les. A. Murray
  7. Mark Pallas
  8. Patrick Alexander
  9. Michael Dransfield
10. David Rankin
        Bob Ellis
12. Rudi Krausmann
14. Peter J.F. Newton
15. Peter Stephens
16. Bronwen Gale
17. Robert Gray
18. George Woodger
        Brian Gorman
19. Robert Adamson
20. Wilhelm Heiner
21. Craig Powell
23. Garth Clarke
24. Peter Spearrit
        Josef Lesser
25. John E. Tranter
26. Jon Clarke
27. Randolph
28. Barry Elliott
29. Richard Tipping
32. Paul Smith

[Transit02 page 2]
Most Poetry Magazines are heavily subsidised
by Government or private bodies to offset the
financial loss inevitable in this area of
          Transit is not.
To keep our head above water we are compelled
to raise the price of the magazine to fifty
cents (50¢). We are unable to pay contributors
but those whose poems are accepted for
publication receive a free copy of the magazine.

Our present address is:
          112 Lawson Street, Paddington, 2021

From late January our new address will be:
          19 Derby Street, Camperdown, 2050

Please enclose a stamped addressed envelope with
all your contributions. Make sure you keep copies
of any poems as no responsibility can be taken for
MSS. lost or damaged in the post

Assist. Editor
Cover Painting:
Layout, etc:
Published by:
John E. Tranter
Lyn Tranter
randolph [in fact, Wally Randolph]
John E. Tranter
Carrier Press, Sydney.

Since the life-expectancy of small poetry magazines is usually
so brief, we feel it would be unfair to ask for subscriptions
to Transit. If you happen to have lots of spare money and a
desire to give it away, a small donation would help us to
produce a better quality magazine.

[Transit02 page 3]
[Author:] Brian Ridley
[Title:] While She Sketches

When we met last weekend you created in us
A new season of the year. Walking now this late
Winter afternoon, your words have been meant
For the small stones, the electric cold railings.
The river. It has become a long rope of revolving
Shabby steel, its dull grey light infecting

Your eyes. And when you came out, your room
Was arranged as bare as this day. I look for photos.

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit02 page 4]
[Author:] Mal Morgan
[Title:] LETS GO BACK [stet]

to our perambulator life when if we were
lucky we sped down the whole world on 4 wobbly
wheels and our primitive yearnings were satisfied by
honey on a bacteria ridden convenient
muffler of primitive yearnings and
we sucked our sustenance from a willing pink-tipped
warm receptacle that we later called mama and
sometimes our screaming caused our inconsiderate

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Author:] W. McCall
[Title:] none

Tough & slender is my love
  Swaying like these bamboo strands
      For they are softly beaten by the wind
        And in their arms they hold the air,
          Their strength lies hidden by their gentleness.

[Above: complete poem]

[Transit02 page 5]
[Author:] Suzanne Hunt
[Title:] Coup D’Oeil

Woman, angular and awkward,
enfolded by your bed,
stretching and contracting
as you will in labour pains,
renew a primeval effort
to groove yourself
a bed in the bracken.

Tomorrow with your peacock eyelids

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Author:] Anthony Fry
[Title:] Approximately Midnight Poem

Let me be
mysterious:      the world
is going round and passing
the same bacteria on its way
as it passed in
the time of Confucius.
But that is not
mysterious and I want

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit02 page 6]
[Author:] Les A. Murray
[Title:] The House of Four-X

Something over ten thousand
Beer bottles went to build
A house, once, in Queensland.

Something over ten thousand
Mullions of glitter and gloom
Fixed and cemented

And every one of them drained
As a point of honour

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit02 page 7]
[Author:] Les A. Murray
[Title:] The Ballad Trap

In the hanging gorges
The daring compact wears thin.
Picking meat from small skeletons,
Counting damp notes in a tin,

The rifle bird ringing at noon
In the steep woods.
Hard-riding boys dazed at the brink
Of their attitudes.

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Author:] Mark Pallas, in fact John E. Tranter
[Title:] none

If every monster
grew into a portion of forest
he could make a home.

[Above: complete poem]

[Transit02 page 8]
[Author:] Patrick Alexander
[Title:] A Prophecy: (For John & Lyn)

It seems a dark land I have travelled
Since the war back there those years ago
I have escaped (too young, too coward to stay)
My travelling seems now a sombre time….

Just now, just here, the day is fresh, has a youth of light
and the dark restores her dreams that have no fear
and I look around, vigorous, for my future

Yet though this new land does not frighten, in itself,

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit02 page 9]
[Author:] Michael Dransfield
[Title:] Islands In Your Eyes? (for Kathy)

This is the silence of the Egyptian
atonal face. The chorist
sphinx, garden that grows
pavements with ballads chalked on them.
Give away your ponies, also the
excellent skies you have painted.
None of it is real, none of it
unreal. Eat

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Author:] Michael Dransfield
[Title:] Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna: Elegy

daystill, no
starfound gullsblown
over winedark swanroad;
seacliff windworn
timesmooth, but
treestark, sunscoured
makerburial forgotten


[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit02 page 10]
[Author:] David Rankin
[Title:] To A Traveller

You know every name
of every station on every
line throughout the state

You can recite the post
code numbers for all the
postal areas in Australia

Your knowledge of
world geography is

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Author:] Bob Ellis
[Title:] The Hunter

Like a working journalist
      That writes to length
I measure out my nights
      To my loins’ strength

And force my good intent
      Girl’s trust and praise,
Sweet to- and- fro-ing talk —
      Into a chase.

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit02 page 11]
[Author:] Bob Ellis
[Title:] Club Room

The smoke exhaled from padded chairs
Invades like talk the upper airs
Of twirling fans that loop it back
And spread it over men’s affairs

Discussed in lowly types on racks
Of dim sensations let relax
On ageing wrinkled paper thin
Preservatives of fading facts.

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Author:] Bob Ellis
[Title:] Visitors

A visited friend deprived of healing talk
By the friend or wife his friend brings home to tea
Feels after years of absence more betrayed.
As one in love betrayed, by this one lack.
And friends may not henceforth see eye to eye
But not because they cannot bind the void
Of absent years with talk, long silence, and more talk,
But because they jealously envy sharers of what

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit02 page 12]
[Author:] Rudi Kraussman
[Title:] Open riddle (translated from the German by Rudi Kraussman and Don Maynard)

The sum total
has dissolved into the air
in the shadow of the riddle
holds on to the pattern

disturbed heroes
where do you bury your solitudes?
where do you put death

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit02 page 14]
[Author:] Peter J.F. Newton
[Title:] Women Sucking at a Wishbone

Wing and larded wishbone:
fingers plucking at a hen’s breast…

And seeing a sea through paling fence,
an oblong sea that plays
over the black wood yet leaves no sense,
no feel of play…

Gulls bleat into hoeing wind
urging my body – useless rind –

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit02 page 15]
[Author:] Peter Stephens
[Title:] Episode

I stand watching, and
the sparrows jagged fall
out of those blue, clouded
is like a white hand dipping
down into a river.

[Above: complete poem]

[Author:] Peter Stephens
[Title:] Lions & Tigers

Lions and tigers eat your footsteps
up, makes one wonder if you
really burnt the bridges. They’ll
follow you for years
and years, because you’re turning
into one of them.

They’ll follow you to bed
and listen while you scratch

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit02 page 16]
[Author:] Bronwen Gale
[Title:] Poem

More houses, more are cradling
under a cat black moon,
with yes a golder man
goldman in the moon.
Dolphin minds are making room for
blackcurrent trout to splash about;
taut as catgut, fraught
with a sea-foam fiction.

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit02 page 17]
[Title:]Journey: the North Coast
[Author:] Robert Gray

Next thing, I wake-up in a swaying bunk,
as though aboard a clipper on the sea,
and it’s the train, that booms and cracks,
it tears the wind apart.
Now the man’s gone
who had the bunk below me. I swing out,
cover his bed and rattle up the sash –
there’s sunlight to come teeming

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit02 page 18]
[Author:] George Woodger
[Title:] Australia Square Tower

Perforated upright exhaust cylinder
looking down on
people looking up to it

[Above: complete poem]

[Author:] Brian Gorman, in fact Clem Gorman, later known as a playwright
[Title:] Epitaphs Seen From A Bus In Queensland

In a cave in that impossible old
mountain that hunches like a
gorilla there I waited for
you darling but
you must have been
on another bus.

When the tide was
ejaculating into that

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit02 page 19]
[Author:] Robert Adamson
[Title:] Francis Webb / Poet

don’t pity this naked mind that walks like a monk
over the windy sea that beats insane against the glass

past the wreckage of gardens washed on the wall
don’t pity my walking mad mind / because I saw a boy washed up

and I noticed the sea birds peck out his eyes
and I saw a glowing cross against his chest / and I laughed

from the window of my cell / and told the doctor
that I had seen a boy washed up / and that I’d laughed.

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit02 page 20]
[Author:] Robert Adamson
[Title:] Blue Marlin

A fibreglass rod leaps into the wind:
      automatic hands respond.
      A gamefish straps the yellow sea.
Nylon monofilament, a luminous green thread
      of fire
dislocates the symmetry of fish and sea.
      The marlin dives
and your mind swims with it.

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Author:] Wilhelm Hiener
[Title:] Poem for a Fat Woman: Cream

I could not force my eyes away
From the fascination
Of her big white face
Compressed in concentration

One day I shall fall into
A huge tub of cream

[Above: complete poem]

[Transit02 page 21]
[Author:] Craig Powell
[Title:] I       NINE O’CLOCK

At night time on the neighbouring prison wall
the guard house blazes
round gun-toting silhouettes.
Morning, and the angry soot
heaves and grumbles out of the smoke stack.

I walk across the sports oval
past the schizophrenic gardener who is not
looking at the leaves under his rake.

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Author:] Craig Powell
[Title:] II       EDDIE’S LETTER

To Frank Sinatra —
<         forget all this crud
I’m writing. Man, put it with trumpets and
electrical guitars. I
hope your marriage is all right
Oh rock it! Rock it! Man —
you’re the Power. Come and do something for me!

Three times a week somebody jabs a switch

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit02 page 22]
[Author:] Craig Powell

Walking among them makes you think of Dante
lost in some Purgatorio of shattered brides —
the agitation of knuckles, white robes
and — what else? — dropped wombs, varicose veins,
all the accoutrements of suffering.
to attempt pity. At weekends I get out of the place.
I can go where I wish, being one

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit02 page 23]
[Author:] Garth Clarke
[Title:] Three Days After Good Friday

three days after good friday
as some neurosis nailed
my stomach to my spine
you expressed disappointment
that your easter egg wasn’t hollow.

three days after good friday
to escape our gethsemaniacal
wallpaper I went for a walk

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit02 page 24]
[Author:] Peter Spearrit
[Title:] first, please

come and
here’s a
for your
and rest.
we will all

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Author:] Josef Lesser
[Title:] ‘Observing Mother’

It is empty, always empty
Your theatre.
You alone,
Move between rows.
Sit where you desire
For you alone the curtains rise.
I to the stage am no eyes,
They are your tears who

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit02 page 25]
[Author:] John E. Tranter
[Title:] Spring

Morning lifts its wet
green shoulder through the fiery orchard.
Under a blaze of golden scented apricots
the limbs lie correctly on the grass
sprayed with droplets — ‘it is cold
the tree thinks of green, noise in the thicket…”
Julie&@8217;s head is all soft, what to do?…

Now Mother cries      dwarfs!      in the hall!

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit02 page 26]
[Author:] jon clarke
[Title:] Poesy Ist

duologue between peeple
silently carried out,
forms the air flow’ring
from their tongues
into pristine clumps
that merge before the eye
can hear,
the lips, touch

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit02 page 27]
[Author:] randolph, in fact Wally Randolph
[Title:] along the watchtower.

Having long studied the glass
of painters such as Jeremy Self,
& being drawn to wipe out pedestals
where stateroom acres bear down mightily,
where nightly the lion comes down
in agonies of plaster;

Veered away to the left & found
acre by acre

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit02 page 28]
[Author:] Barry Elliott
[Title:] A Wry Comprehension (Unpublished Reply To A Morning Herald Poem)

What in hell were you doing, McAuley,
Unmasking a plot? Getting back
To whatever was under attack.
Let me say in a forward reply –
Though I’ve little idea of the use –
Things (obscurely) do keep moving
Without cause or pause, without proving.
Save life, anything, as this verse

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit02 page 29]
[Author:] Barry Elliott
[Title:] Generation!

the bus pulls out of
the unyielding traffic
an infant blossoms

the bus blossoms
pulls out of an infant
the unyielding traffic

the bus an infant
pulls out of blossoms

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Author:] Richard Tipping
[Title:] Pachydermatous Quadruped

clang clang clang


[Above: complete poem]

[Transit02 page 30]

[Author:] Richard Tipping
[Title:] [none]





[Transit02 page 31]
Vote 1 Rimbaud! Drawing by John Tranter
Vote 1 Rimbaud! Drawing by John Tranter

[This image was printed twice the current size on blue paper and many copies were posted around King’s Cross during a local municipal council election in 1968. JT 2016.]

[Transit02 page 32]
[Author:] Richard Tipping
[Title:] Perchance to Dream

how very i you are
said the lady
observing her reflection
in the mirror of her pride;
beside her a husband
thrusted with a section
of his tournament erection
and she died

[Above: complete poem]

[Author:] Paul Smith
[Title:] The Reward

In the silence of that Day of Silence
          she glanced
and in that look
          unimpaired by explanations
the funnels secret light leapt through
          sent me spiralling
towards the surface of escape.

On being asked

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Inside Back cover, printed in blue ink:]

Other magazines which publish modern poetry are

The Great Auk
Charles Buckmaster
161 Royal Parade
Parkville VIC 3052

P.O. Box 100
Heidelberg West VIC 3081

Box 1454L G.P.O.
S.A. 5001

Our Glass
21 Queensbury Street
Vic. 3053

Poetry Australia
350 Lyons Road
N.S.W. 2046

Poetry Magazine
Box 110 George St. North P.O.
N.S.W. 2000


ines only]

[Transit01 page 34]

[Author:] Nicholas Ford, in fact Michael Thornhill, known later as a film writer
[Title:] A Winter Writer

A child awash in a bathtub
The car slides into the drive
Food simmers
The winter evening arrived

Only a few lines written, no time now
Tele cartoon time finished and
Bedding time at hand, ah help
The time of a husband’s hands

[Above: First 8 lines only]

[Transit01 page 35]

[Author:] David Rankin
[Title:] Ginger Beer

1.  I looked down
        at the damp brown soil,
        fibrous with rotting leaves
        chilling my shoes.

        A few feet away
        the water slipped
        over shiny rocks
        and trickled into dark undergrowth.

[Above: First 8 lines only]