the architecture of pear a woman’s work some things are orange stray birds 1–10 the wear of my face you can be cruel to a bee girl in a park how’s the weather in binalong? neighbours strangelands what is he making in there preambles another day exodus ‘war zone tours’ knots please leave the door open bat greyhounds make great pets we tried to tell him red shock jocks his zombies cross my hand like i suffer not the work of fern this is what we do lines all i could see right of way bag (more ducks) happy days felt dark space scintillate ** forecast unlike a black cat catchcry takings threats locks cracks prey penalty ** rips brown goshawk mourning conundrums the refuge of art points signals first things first wheelbarrow hedge who’s been eating the moon back to basics old spice lost property who will bury the pensioners the power of prayer what does it take to make white bleached prayer: quick & dirty arrivals bees diapause summer you don’t pay for any fancy overheads protests nobody’s child kids half price syria’s children blood moon acknowledgements
Lizz Murphy is an Irish-Australian poet who writes mainly between Binalong NSW and Canberra ACT, a habit which began while commuting by bus aeons ago. Now she commutes from Binalong to Canberra part-time by car, still keeping her eye out for poems. She writes in a variety of styles from prose poetry to micro poetry, sometimes incorporating found text and image. Lizz has published fourteen books. The Wear of My Face is her ninth poetry title. She is widely published in anthologies and journals in Australia and overseas. She is a former Canberra Times Poetry Editor and has worked in regional arts development, and as a publicist in arts and publishing. She was once a regional newspaper editor and once upon a time long before that, a shop assistant. She blogs occasionally at A Poets Slant. lizzmurphypoet.blogspot.com
The Wear of My Face is an uncanny and politically powerful collection. It traverses ‘strangelands’ that thrum with colour. Its fragments are suspended in a tender tension, much like the conundrums of the human world it explores. —Sarah St Vincent Welch, writer and image maker
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