Author: Grant Fraser

  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Walking the river valley

    • Grant Fraser
    • 27 August 2018
    2 Comments

    Higher up, with head down in devotion, a kookaburra was beaked out for small murders; with the azure armorial flashed on his wing, he was a rakish monk on his saintly wire; in his taut patience, he was always able to laugh off his murders at the end of the day.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    At St Brendan's

    • Grant Fraser
    • 15 January 2018
    7 Comments

    On days like this, with blisters of tar already softening on the road, the nuns would curdle in the heat, shifting their stays by habit; sometimes, a bead of sweat would tempt their brows. Cooped in our desks, we steered our wilful pens over acreages of white pages.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    A poem for Agnes Bojaxhiu

    • Grant Fraser
    • 04 September 2017
    8 Comments

    Recently published letters have revealed that although Mother Teresa of Calcutta spent many years in her inspiring ministry, she felt, during much of that time, a profound spiritual emptiness.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    The flight into Egypt

    • Grant Fraser, Anne Ramsay and Rory Harris
    • 15 December 2015
    1 Comment

    Behind them that beast of prey, that Herod, was still glaring doom from his trees of thorn, eyes bulging like a fox. And so, by night, Joseph squired their secret way, prayed the morning kind, prayed empty the brigand-haunted roads. Each day they made another cold remove, with the infant swaddled close, and their way marked by quiet nurseries of straw. Joseph kept close his thoughts, measured each horizon, always with the rumour of dark hoofbeats thrumming in his mind.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Worn by remembering, mastered by great age

    • Grant Fraser, Ignatius Kim and Margaret Quigley
    • 24 November 2015
    5 Comments

    Not seven steps from the familiar geography of her room her bewilderment sagged on her walking frame as she shied away from the stern arm that was guiding her ... We composed ourselves upon the couch long enough for her to plead 'But I don't know who you are' as she trembled beneath the insult of my peering eyes and frowned away; and I felt a stranger's smile curdling on my face.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Journey to the margins

    • Marlene Marburg and Grant Fraser
    • 23 July 2013
    2 Comments

    They follow a star, stirring light in their hearts more than the sky, to the margins, where even goats lose their footing. They make a silent journey, growing in hope that the child within and the Child without will recognise each other.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Cronies of the nudge and wink

    • Grant Fraser
    • 14 May 2013
    3 Comments

    When ibis move, they do so in rosters of fastidious steps, each bird as polite as a grandad who is looking for the salt ... Stooped in twos or threes like patient skittles, they whisper quiet inventories of silvered figments and storied frogs.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Rembrandt's denial of Christ

    • Grant Fraser
    • 30 October 2012
    5 Comments

    Peter, I gave you such handsome possibilities, had your face shining like a saint, and yet still, on this third occasion, you can only find a lie.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Spider monk

    • Grant Fraser
    • 30 August 2011
    2 Comments

    Now he is pursed within the curl of his leaf, a monk at watch for those lost souls, whom he might trap in the sneer of his silken intentions.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    The angel's telling smile

    • Michael Healey and Grant Fraser
    • 31 August 2010

    He is Gabriel, delicately boned, familiar, .. he has turned towards the Virgin .. who stands in her long solemnity, .. amongst the sober prophets, .. and the proper saints.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Predator caged

    • Grant Fraser
    • 24 August 2010
    1 Comment

    Soundless as snow .. the leopard comes, .. all of his weight .. is in the gold of his predatory eyes ... behind the heavy, protecting glass ... eternally deprived of prey.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    African parables

    • Grant Fraser
    • 15 September 2009
    2 Comments

    Men who stood before the gate .. trail the weight of empty hands, empty pockets .. Back to the shanties .. Where children are launching imagined craft .. Away from the stench of earth .. Into pools .. the colour of Keen's Mustard.

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