Andrew Burke
Andrew Burke was born in Victoria, but raised in Western Australia. He started writing poetry at twelve under the influence of Milton et al, and went modern at fourteen after reading Eliot, Pound and Williams.

Since the mid-Sixties, Burke has published in magazines and newspapers, and has had eight collections of poetry published. He has also written and published short stories and criticism, and edited other authors’ work. An early career in advertising gave way to lecturing at universities in mid-life, in Australia and China. Now he has retired to write full-time.

Read more from Andrew at his home.

Recent book

New & Revised Mother Waits for Father Late, 2010, available from Picaro Press $15

What they’re saying about Mother Waits for Father Late

… a vividly realized world full of light and shade and precisely observed details. - Thomas Shapcott

Burke explores the ambiguities of family both mercilessly and tenderly in a language always open to the possibilities of formal experiment and the expanding outreach of unexpected, often quirky, metaphor. The poetry has a natural ring that makes the force of imagination at work in it seem deceptively easy. - Andrew Taylor

… Andrew Burke sings many a satisfying song of love, nostalgia, sadness and joy. Lyrical, lucid and thoughtfully crafted, it is a fine achievement. - Rod Moran The West Australian

Other books
Beyond City Limits (poems of place), ICLL at Edith Cowan University, 2009 - $15 Let’s Face the Music & Dance
On the Tip of my Tongue
Mother Waits for Father Late (first edition)
Pushing at Silence
Knock on Wood
Beyond City Limits

As featured in The Diamond & the Thief – May 10 edition
Reversal draft
By Andrew Burke

Dew released ink
from the words of an open book
at dawn, so words ran
frenetically up the arteries
of gasping presses until
they circled letter by letter,
stop by stop, comma by
comma, back onto
a spinning disk which slowed
to a sudden halt, left to
retire into a plastic carrier and travelled out
to a car as hand luggage. Through
the streets words lay by
their driver through green lights
turning red to be once again in
their tower spinning like thread
until they pushed up keys
to be released into their weaver’s fingers,
pushing past the pressures
of the wrist, clotting
briefly at the elbow to
appear, fresh-faced, wide-eyed,
in a sparking cerebellum cortex to
fade slowly
into vapours of thought …