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In the lead up to the winners reveal for our 2023 writing contest, Tertangala is showing some of the work submitted by UOW talent. Our first is a poem from Paige Jenkins. Enjoy! I tiptoe down the green sea od fading blues to yellow as the darkness gives way to
CULTURE
Written by K.M.D. I’ve always been a Barbie girl. Ever since I was little. My favourite of the Barbie films was Barbie in the 12 Dancing Princesses. I had over 30 Barbie dolls which are now lurking in some tub under my bed. Oh, and one Ken.
Dear current and past contributors, Our website registration lapsed in 2020, meaning we lost work going back to 2013. We are working on a way to restore past content on the current site and will update you on social media with our progress. All the best, River McCrossen, interim editor
*The Tertangala does not endorse shoplifting or any crime in that matter. However, we understand that many will have to do what they have to do to survive. This editorial is not reflective of the Wollongong Undergraduate Students Association (WUSA) or the University of Wollongong. The outrage against our University
CULTURE
The first time I visited Sarcasm the guy at the gate checking ID cards told me I wasn't weak enough to be seeking refuge. Knowing my own poverty, I assured him he had it all wrong. 'I don't care. Fuck off,' he replied.
The love of blue and redness, No green nor minor greys. Of ordered seats and houses Is in your veins ablaze, Strong love of clear division And policy resolute I know but cannot share it, My love is for dispute I love a hung parliament, A land of sweeping range,
From the moment our eyes first met, Until your last dying breath, Never could I have foretold, What warmth you brought from the cold. It was only upon finding you, Could I discover a part of me, And with the light, you shined through, I found the courage I was
On Saturday nights, we have dinner at a restaurant she selects from a list on her phone of Trivago’s Top Places to Eat Out in our city. This is our thing, our couple’s thing. In the bathroom mirror, I watch her reflection sweep black liner across her glossy
‘I can see all of Sydney from up here. It’s fucking beautiful, Mum!’ were the last words my son would speak to me. Or shout, rather, from the top of the Norfolk Pine. Then would come the creek and snap of its tallest branches, the thumping of my heart,
I’m sitting at the window seat on the lower level of a train, caked in layers of clothing like strata. I’m early but the train was already here getting cleaned, and they said I could sit inside to keep out of the chill. It’s frozen and dark
at the bottom of stairs I am waiting big stupid grin splayed across face it’s your lunch break (or the end of an early day) a bouquet of flowers crooked against my forearm or a tiny flower that fits in my palm (no one is really sure) and you