Lightning Poetry

 

Lightning Poetry Exercise

with Elizabeth Walton

Creative Writing Researcher, Macquarie University

Lightning Poetry poems from the Booranga workshop conducted by Elizabeth Walton

Footprints

 

paused by the river watching the trees shiver  

warm scent of red dust drifting from the road ahead  

I turn the wheel with confident hands  

heated thoughts subsiding into the deep  

 

the summer breeze lifts my hair cooling my mind  

my lungs filled with memories of childhood  

echoes of others' memories sifting through me  

heated thoughts recede  

 

content in an infinite moment  

listening to the clocks in my mother's kitchen  

warm scent of red dust drifts from the road ahead  

 

 

© Anne Seebach 2026

 

 

winter coffee

the shock of cold air as I step into a winter morning

balancing two takeaway coffees in a too-weak tray

grateful to be able to walk

on the footpath around the lake

free to slow down, notice water cloud trees

on the footpath around the lake

red-rumped grass parrots are not afraid of me

I slow down, notice water cloud trees

then trip over an imaginary bump

burn my tongue from too hot coffee

at the doctor’s watching pedestrians outside

my tongue burning from too hot coffee

think about the footpath around the lake

how red-rumped grass parrots are not afraid of me

and the shock of cold air on a winter morning

© Claire Baker 2026

Lightning Poetry Exercise
with Elizabeth Walton
Creative Writing Researcher, Macquarie University

Don’t think too hard about this. Write short phrases rather than single words.

We will do four exercises, and it would be a good idea to do each one on a separate piece of paper, because we are going to do things with them. In each of the lightning-fast exercises, we will think about one of these things:

•            place

•            something noticed

•            an action

•            a feeling

Exercise one - place:
close your eyes or look out the window and think about somewhere you have stood at some time in your life. Write four short phrases. Start the with “in”, “on”, “at”, or “by”.
Try to write a few words so the place feels real.
For example:

·             in the kitchen grinding coffee·             

·             on the street waiting for a bus

·             at a parking lot behind the beach

·             in a church quiet room, hoping the baby would stop

Exercise two - something you noticed:
Write four short phrases describing a sense you remember noticing. Try to describe a small detail without thinking too much.
For example:

·             the smell of burnt toast

·             sand between my toes

·             the cold slap of winter

·             the bitter tea when the bag was left in

Exercise three an action:
something someone is doing.
Write four short phrases describing a small everyday action. Use a few words so the action feels like a moment:|
For example:

·             whistling, waiting for the kettle to boil

·             tying my shoelaces at the backdoor

·             looking for the key to unlock the front door

·             finding an old coin on the street

·             reading a message on my phone

Exercise four. A feeling:
Choose one of your lines, and describe, what does this moment feel like, in a few words? Don’t say which line it is, just say a few words about the feeling. Repeat with another line – repeat with as many lines as you like.
Example:

·        ·     The blood drained from my hands.

·       ·         My hands stained black, would they ever be clean.

·        ·     Am I the lucky one?

·       ·        Your voice meant everything to me.

Exercise five:
Choose one phrase from each list and place them together, in any order – or you could try in this order:

·             place

·             something noticed

·             action

·             a feeling

You can repeat some of the lines, and change words here and there, so that the lines make sense.

You might like to leave a lot of space around each line, so you can keep adding more of your lines in. Or just copy onto a fresh page. You can tear your pages up and move them around on the desk if you like.

Then, repeat with some more of the lines. Keep weaving them in.

You can keep going until all of the lines are used, if you like, or you may like the way it sounds before doing that.

Example:

Shoelaces

The blood drained from my hands,
tying my shoelaces at the backdoor. 
My hands stained black,
would they ever be clean? 

In the kitchen grinding coffee,
your voice meant everything to me.
Am I the lucky one,
finding an old coin on the street?

Am I the lucky one,
reading a message on my phone
while I look for the key
to unlock the front door?

Yes, this is me.
I am your lucky
number one, walking in
again. 

Don’t think too much about it.

Exercise six:
Now pick a line and see if you can weave it in by using repetition. Keep leaving space, and remember you can tear the sheets up and move the words around if you like.

•            whistling, waiting for the kettle to boil

Shoelaces

The blood drained from my hands,
tying my shoelaces at the backdoor.
I whistled, waiting for the kettle to boil.
My hands stained black,
would they ever be clean?

In the kitchen grinding coffee,
whistling, waiting for the kettle to boil.
Your voice meant everything to me.
Am I the lucky one,
finding an old coin on the street?

Am I the lucky one,
reading a message on my phone
whistling, waiting for the kettle to boil,
while I look for the key
to unlock the front door?

Yes, this is me,
whistling, waiting for the kettle to boil.
I am your lucky
number one, walking in
again.

And now add in another line:

·             And now in a church quiet room, hoping the baby would stop

Shoelaces

The blood drained from my hands,
tying my shoelaces at the backdoor.
I whistled, waiting for the kettle to boil.
And now in a church quiet room,
hoping the baby would stop.

My hands stained black,
would they ever be clean?

In the kitchen grinding coffee,
whistling, waiting for the kettle to boil.
And now in a church quiet room,
hoping the baby would not cry.
Your voice meant everything to me.
Am I the lucky one,
finding an old coin on the street?

Am I the lucky one,
reading a message on my phone
whistling, waiting for the kettle to boil,
while I look for the key
to unlock the front door?

Yes, this is me,
whistling, waiting for the kettle to boil.
And now in a church quiet room,
hoping the baby would stop
I am your lucky number one, walking in
again.

 

And now, in the final step, combining two of the lines so far unused, and weave them in:

·        ·    the cold slap of winter

·        ·    the bitter tea when the bag was left in

Shoelaces

The blood drained from my hands,
tying my shoelaces at the backdoor. I whistled,
waiting for the kettle to boil.

The cold slap of winter, the bitter tea
when the bag was left in.
And now in church, a quiet room,
hoping the baby would stop.

My hands stained black,
would they ever be clean?
The cold slap of winter, the bitter tea
when the bag was left in.

In the kitchen, grinding coffee,
whistling, waiting for the kettle to boil.
And now in a church quiet-room,
hoping the baby would not cry,

the cold slap of winter, the bitter tea
when the bag was left in.
Your voice meant everything to me.
Am I the lucky one,

finding an old coin on the street?
Am I the lucky one,
reading a message on my phone,
the cold slap of winter, the bitter tea

when the bag was left in.
Whistling, I was waiting
for the kettle to boil, while I looked
for the key to unlock the front door.

Yes, this is me, whistling,
waiting for the kettle to boil.
And now in a church room, quietly
hoping the baby will stop.

The cold slap of winter, the bitter tea
when the bag was left in.
I am your lucky number one,
walking in again.

ElizabethWalton.com.au

Booranga Writers’ Centre acknowledges the Wiradjuri people as the traditional custodians of the land in which we live and work and write, and pays respects to Elders past, present and future.

INHERITANCE: Poems from Damen O'Brien workshop

 

INHERITANCE

Poems from the Booranga workshop presented by Damen O’Brien – in response to prompts about using metaphors to express firstly, something we know or are competent at and secondly, something about which we know nothing … I’ve invoked a title of one of Damen’s poems from his collection, Walking the Boundary, 2024, Pitt Street Poetry, for this small gathering.

David Gilbey

 

Having a Good Transmission                         Maurice Corlett

 

I know nothing about how the transmission works

When I drive to Lockhart.

Our car doesn’t speak German.

Neither do I.

And in Australia I have no need to learn.

Living in Europe at the present time

May make it wise to learn a little Russian

With the fears of the western countries justified

Where you need a good transmission

Before the snow comes.

 

A sonnet - musing on mortality                    Carolyn Dodd 

 

Will I live to 100? 

‘They say’ age is just a number 

Isn’t it how you live your life – not how long it is? 

or is that another convenient platitude? 

‘They say’ living to a grand age 

is revered and esteemed, in many cultures 

‘They say’ the Japanese are known for their longevity 

maybe it’s their attention to tai-chi – or the seaweed in their diet? 

‘I say’ didn’t my father live to 86? 

and his father, before him, to the exact same age? 

a reasonable assumption is already at play -  

‘They say’ being an octogenarian has a certain ring about it –  

‘I say’ I’ll be content to turn the lights out 

14 years earlier than a century. 

 

 

Where are all the cicadas?                             Jan Pittard

 

Where are all the cicadas? she queried

not alone in mentioning the absence

of their nutty brown husks and shrill decibels

this summer

Is she nostalgic for her childhood summers?

Is a summer without cicada trill a poor depleted season?

Is she concerned for ecosystems?

There is art using cicada nymph shells

exhibited right here on campus

their seven year life cycle is noted

their absence not explained

bushfires hasten their emergence from underground

- guess it’s not comfortable there when it heats up

So where were they this summer?

I heard them once or twice

ringing out on Willans Hill

hidden from our sight.

 

 

‘The naked sword between them’               David Gilbey

What’s happening? asked my cool hairdresser

handing me a whiskey at my monthly cut & style.

A poster of beard fashions magics Ned Kelly

to an Iraqi refugee; vintage surfboard prayer

tokens; a full-frontal stuffed chimpanzee

on the merch table. I’ve just finished reading

Han Kang’s Greek Lessons for the third time.

Do you get it now? Mostly … two damaged voices:

a mute woman fixated on language and a nearly

blind man fixated on seeing. Haunted by Buddhism

they speak a dream in Ancient Greek’s middle voice.

it’s more a series of pictures in an art exhibition

or an avant-garde piece of music like Stravinsky’s

Rite of Spring. What’s that like? Pagan, tribal …

Tom turned off the salon’s rappy, croonish beat

and found a track, adjusted the volume

to what he thought would least annoy his patrons.

After ten minutes he tuned back to rock’s solace.

Hey, I really get this but it’s making me anxious

and I’m worried your haircut won’t survive.

Can the Earth be round?                              Christine Brickhill

How do you know the earth is round?

What is roundness?

I know that apples, oranges and soccer balls are all round

But, if I squash them, they become flat and juicy

Now juice is not round

It is not a shape

Does it want to be a shape?

Has it been asked?

It would be different if was a cricket ball

solid and unable to be squashed

Have you ever seen an ant fall off a cricket ball?

Have you ever seen a person fall off the earth?

Well no

I don’t think so

So of course we may conclude

that the earth is indeed round.

Booranga Writers’ Centre acknowledges the Wiradjuri people as the traditional custodians of the land in which we live and work and write, and pays respects to Elders past, present and future.

Wagga Wagga Sonnets

 

Wagga Wagga Sonnet Sonnet

For the February writing workshop at Booranga, Keri Glastonbury presented the group with ‘prompts’ for seven couplets to construct a kind of modern sonnet.

Here are her notes:

Let's all write a contemporary sonnet that is just a 14-line poem (no rhyme scheme). The contemporary sonnet can reflect our era of distraction – the sonnet used to be structured with specific points where it would shift or swerve. But as David said last night what if attention shifted mid-line or didn't wait until the last rhyming couplet to put a different spin on the preceding stanzas? 

I wrote Newcastle Sonnets with around three seconds of conscious memory, then jump cut to the next phrase or idea. ADHD? It's like bricolage or collage (nothing new but infused with effect of the internet on our concentration spans). Your sonnet will be a container for noticing. It will map attention. I often think of mine as a form of mental chimney sweeping. Quite instinctual, though sometimes I come up with actual metaphors (like casting Kelpies in muster dogs).

Wagga is already fragmented: river/highway/defence/Uni/agriculture/heat/fog/suburbia/Wiradjuri Country. So we'll be writing a place sonnet (even though sonnets are traditionally about love). When we put the fragments together the poem thinks for us. The meaning comes from juxtaposition, not explanation. This is called parataxis. 

Write two lines that name a Wagga Street (mapping); two lines that reference the weather; two lines that address a specific person; two lines that reference a past memory in Wagga; two lines that mention The Daily Advertiser (perhaps satirically); two lines that give instructions to the reader related to a rural or regional activity. The turn –  end with two lines beginning ‘Meanwhile I…’ (to replace the traditional volta). 

Each line is a co-ordinate and forms a map of place that couldn't be described directly. If a line surprises you, it's the moment the poem becomes smarter than the writer.

When we read our drafts we were all surprised at some of the continuities in our discontinuous imagining. Keri suggested we publish them as ‘The Wagga Sonnets’. Lachlan Brown suggested we might seek to collaborate with local artists to publish a visual version.

Here is the first iteration … David Gilbey

Wagga Wagga Sonnets

The palpable relief of Fitzmaurice Street—

the groovier end (ever since the opium dens)

then all the way down to the old tip where I’d crack

frozen puddles with my hockey stick.

At the old Ambo Station David’s still taking names

for the open section like a working Kelpie:

I’m 17 and Les Murray is up the stairs

at Romano’s Hotel, teetering majestically!

The Daily Advertiser owns that particular font—

but the font of all knowledge now requires media literacy.

Agronomists recommend adding lime

to the dahlia beds of our dotage.

Meanwhile, I eye off the shortbread on the table

like dominos. Keri Glastonbury

chewing on Peppermint Drive

a helicopter unwraps the apiary

no rainbow for kangaroos heat-

struck, shit-hopping the saplings

the ghost of my dead wife would be astonished

at Lloyd’s creamy, crowded sprawl

I’m last chorus girl on the plaque

of the Shakespeare Club’s knot garden

Neill emails Daily Advertiser blips but

Sam and I like ‘Mountflattened’

ag. students debate better to scatter 

wild oats broadly than direct drill

meanwhile I must inspect my bees for varroa

still hopeful of a honey bounty David Gilbey

Fitzhardinge shorted along terrace flats
heat melting established potholes
dry wind captures singed leaves
of stressed trees shedding
Michael is missing  no action
‘Where are you?”
Newtown Park was abundant
animals and birds now caged
news grows old in the Daily Advertiser
kept for tomorrow’s fish and chip scraps
propagate plants amid the solar panels
leave some nature to survive
meanwhile, I toss shower water
on the wilted frame of the hydrangea Robert Rathbone

Trail Street looms – old D.A. building

Next, former mayor’s house, ‘Gissing-lite’

Brucedale horizon – January 12th

Storm is approaching; now hits with brute force

My first day in Wagga, a day of beginning

Workplace consuming; no time to reflect

Adrian Wintle, sharp critic of ‘Arts’

His weekly D.A. piece a humbling reflect

School teachers say how discipline’s lost

I say, ‘Bring back the cane!’, then teaching can start

I contemplate now what the future may hold

I’d love to predict but that’s being too bold Ian Stewart

Gregory Crescent has a new surface

pot holes buried under bitumen layers

heatmelt gives off tarry fumes

sun-perfumed

don’t call the ambulance

let’s have a party instead

nosebleed in a caravan

sleeping on carpeted floor

fireman states ‘it was hot and smoky’

scrapmetal clear-out by fire

John Deere sales leap skywards

oversized machinery self-drive

Meanwhile I empty crumbs from the toaster

hum four seasons in one day Claire Baker

 

Will there be a park in Morrow St?

Tomorrow for the SOACT show

Don’t expect to get a shady spot

’Spose Basement Theatre’s cool enough?

G’day Sam! Of course you’d be here!

Your element – final performance time

Nooks and crannies hiding fine

Entertainment for the town’s great and good

The Addy gave the last play a rotten review

No more free tix wasted on that rag!

Out in full force were Wollundry Rotarians

Narrandera poets lamented “We’ll all be rooned!”

Fearless audience could only agree – treading

The boards with local repertory – a tough gig Carolyn Dodd

The old Union Bank on the corner of Forsyth and Johnston

Italian porticos and a ruptured convex traffic parking mirror

slanting shadows and gusty winds

guard and buffet a grand edifice

I see ‘Ducky’ crossing the street past the servo

recognise his eponymous hairstyle and shuffling gait

on our first visit we patted donkeys and were surprised

to find our motel led onto a Baptist church and the Myer car park

began by consulting the Daily Advertiser everyday

wouldn’t advertise the fact now

the RFS reminds us to clear our gutters

and have a water source ready

meanwhile I contemplate how stealthily Wagga has impinged

from getting lost on campus to sitting here entrenched Jan Pittard

I dream sometimes of Ziegler ... Street? Crescent? Road?

(I can’t remember)

Oversaturated by sun

and burnt parchment dry

Maisie lives there so it’s ’78

(old then, much older in the dreams)

In her acid-green house

Which is never where it should be

Reading of her death in the local paper

And laughing. A lot.

Well, crashing a tractor in Anzac Parade

That is newsworthy (dreamworthy) yes.

Meanwhile I keep walking

Past a house only there when I sleep. Lorraine Manton

Booranga Writers’ Centre acknowledges the Wiradjuri people as the traditional custodians of the land in which we live and work and write, and pays respects to Elders past, present and future.