The Poems of the Month for July 2026, selected by 2026 Anthology editors Elizabeth Salna and Erica Jolly, are Life’s Uncertainties by Maeve Archibald and Men of Small Islands by Mike Riddle. The commended poems are Prelude by David Cookson, Nocturne by Martha Landman, Abdullah by Susan O’Brien, and Odysseus Kicks for Goal by Barbara Preston.
Life’s Uncertainties
Maeve Archibald
What If lions had a bad hair day
would the hairdresser curl up in fear
What if peacocks were shy
would politicians open their eyes
What if song birds forgot the tune
would we pass there a weary time
What if kookaburras forgot how to laugh
would we recognise the joke
What if the world stopped spinning
would we all fall into love or out
What if the sky hid her face
would we know the black hours spent
What if your words fell like leaves
would we be led to the question
What if something long forgotten surfaced
would we fill that unforgiving minute
What if I fell over the edge of the future
would I dare to leave friends and all
What if my true feelings overstepped the mark
would you still go hand in hand as my comrade
What if the mournful mopoke should call my name
would I set foot on the road less travelled
What if Wagner evoked my ring of destiny
would my sense of wonder begin a song cycle
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Acknowledgements to:
Samuel Taylor Coleridge – The Ancient Mariner Part III
Gerard Manley Hopkins – 44
TS Eliot – The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock
Rudyard Kipling – IF
Emily Dickinson – Till The End
Ralph Waldo Emerson – Love and Thought
Robert Frost – The Road Not Taken
Richard Wagner – The Ring Cycle
men of small islands
Mike Riddle
on tumbling Sherkin off the coast of Cork
walking the grass, to slow cloud and sea slip
tagging an unpretentious
Mick, Mike, or Michael O’Connor
crossing over barbed wire into the trench
of an ancient but long-gone promontory fort
talking into the night, to sea slap and cloud scamper
with the same dour-faced, crisp-minded island man
leads me to realise that such men
are graced with vision
see more of their world
know more of mine
safe in their wisdom
of staying put
Prelude
David Cookson
Though petite, like porcelain
she has chosen as musical soulmate
an acoustic double bass
nestling in that baby blue hard case,
taller, wider, bulkier than she
which despite dinky wheels
she must tote to study, later to gigs
and while perseverance, long fingers
bid fair for Elgar, 4am dreaming
of her name in lights,
firstly she must endure
corpse in the case jokes
off-key blue boyfriend banter
and today chant apologies
for barked shins, bruised bums
as she and her bull fiddle
battle Rundle Mall’s mayhem
that is Friday afternoon.
Nocturne
Martha Landman
When dusk settles and evening sets in,
the sun disappears with the toot-toot
of the cockle train as it steams uphill
along Encounter Bay, its wheels
clacking on the tracks against
the never-ending backdrop of cars
swish-swashing on the road between
Victor Harbour and Goolwa. How
restless we are, always travelling
from one point to another
like a pendulum that never stops.
Birds flirt and flutter across the lawn
before they turn in for the night,
loud with crickets, and the old
oak tree thumps its acorns
on the roof. Underneath it all,
the soft murmur of neighbours’ voices
enfolds like a cloak around me.
And late at night when I get into bed,
a branch’s screech against the window
takes me back to childhood, to the sound
of nails on a chalkboard and I’m glad
for the oblivious state of sleep.
Abdullah
Susan O’Brien
Abdullah
gently interrogates the music
the music
gently interrogates Abdullah
Abdullah is the music
Odysseus Kicks for Goal
Barbara Preston
Four points the difference, seconds to go, the tall full-forward, a look-alike for the brave trickster Odysseus – aquiline nose, curls tender on the forehead, classical beard, a statue in the flesh – soars like Icarus towards the sun and takes a screamer above the pack, forty metres from goal.
The crowd quietens, praying fervently to the footy gods. But who decides?
The full-forward with the best stats in the competition, with only eyes for the flag?
Or the gods, who’ve lost interest in the game anyway – they may as well be on Mount Olympus as they drink beer and squabble in the bar of the heavenly member’s stand.
A girl by the fence with sea-green eyes, wearing Circe’s braids, blows the full-forward kisses, but he knows never to be distracted by Beauty.
The three fates, disguised as umpires, watch dispassionately as the champion settles. He says a silent prayer to Athena, screws his eyes against the lowering sun, as though searching again for Ithica, then spears the ball toward goal and glory.