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You know us. We are your cousin Alice, who tells the story of Nanna's funeral; of how all the cars followed Uncle George in the wrong direction, while a priest stood by the grave, waiting to conduct the burial. We are your dad, who you visit on warm summer nights, and he talks about the old days; when he met mum; when he worked in the cane fields. We are the migrant family next door, who laugh till they cry, telling of how, when they arrived in the fifties, they went to the milk bar for a gelati. The owner just kept saying "Gilleti" and offering them razor blades. We are the Vietnamese mother...

Every third Wednesday we meet. Every third Wednesday we attempt to hone our craft. Stretching beyond rhyme, metre and description to tanka, cento, haiku, and abecedarium while we sip frothy cappuccinos, or perhaps indulge in cake, we go on a journey. When the blending of our words seems like rubbish, we laugh. When they fall flat, we groan and move on. Every now and then, someone will read a poem and we all sit still, poised in silent surrender to the soaring of our spirits and we are grateful for the places that poetry takes us. "Most pleasing of all is the profusion of poetic styles and...