Author: Peter Gebhardt

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Don't jumble your words: Elegy for Peter Gebhardt

    • Dougal Hurley and Peter Gebhardt
    • 10 September 2017
    3 Comments

    Belief brings solitary repose, no more mimicking gallant pens, poaching pips from wiser minds. Know the moment, listen and find the ephemeral and the luminous born and nurtured in reciprocity.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Seamus Heaney's poetry workshop

    • Peter Gebhardt
    • 07 August 2017
    2 Comments

    I found years on that my Birth Certificate And Christening Documents spelt out a nominal fate Of which I was totally unaware, Dragging in English, Irish, German lines of past blood, Like good stock, Corriedales and merinos of good fleece.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Poems for John Clarke

    • Peter Gebhardt
    • 17 April 2017
    4 Comments

    It's a bleak sad day, That special voice has been taken away That voice that saw so much, Waged war against the witless and their wrongs, That smothered our lives and hopes And that voice will still sing his songs. Which we are free to hear for ages on.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    My 102 year old grandmother

    • Isabella Fels, Peter Gebhardt
    • 15 August 2016
    3 Comments

    Is she 2 or 102? She can be either. My grandmother sometimes she looks at me in silence with wide naïve eyes. Other times pearls of wisdom seep from her heart: 'Forgive and forget my sweetheart Isabella. Chocolate is your enemy. A good salad is your friend my precious Isabella. Don't do unto others what you don't want done to you my cherished Isabella.' I hold her warm hand. She understands me. She completes me, now that my mother her daughter has left us behind.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    No wonder the warrior-dead still weep

    • Peter Gebhardt
    • 26 April 2016
    1 Comment

    The children are in the park today, running, skipping and laughing. They slide down the cannon, polishing the past with freshly-pressed pants, a mother's delight. 'Always tell the truth,' the mother says, 'If you lie, you'll burn.' ... The day is closing, patient and gentle in its suffering, but the great lies will not lie down. Lies breed lies like flies on dead sheep and the masquerade of maggots makes its creep.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    In the ring with Stevens and Hemingway

    • Peter Gebhardt
    • 29 February 2016
    1 Comment

    Rounds and counts, jabs and feints. Glass jaws and upper-cuts, southpaws and the rest. It was a new word-world. Yet more colonial drill, and blood should spill. Meanwhile there was order by the key, water was washing, banter and barter in brief bargain. Then a jab to the jaw, fishbone cry, a hand cracks, skinless words.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    In awe of David Gulpilil and his barramundi

    • Peter Gebhardt
    • 09 March 2015
    1 Comment

    I want to eat a piece of Charlie's fish, speared with a 'dangerous weapon' and coal-charred, in his country. Charlie talked to the fish, 'What a good fish'. Covenant. Better than the white man's supermarket stuff.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    The words are talking to themselves

    • Peter Gebhardt
    • 07 July 2014
    2 Comments

    We, in the calm, fill out the story-line with the words that will go on living, thriving. And be fresh enough to heal the deep of wounds, when the blood at the front has run out and silence is a bone.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Best of 2013: On Seamus Heaney's turf

    • Peter Gebhardt
    • 09 January 2014
    1 Comment

    Ten years ago, my wife and I went to Dublin. Upon our arrival at the hotel there were three notes waiting from Seamus; the first suggested a meeting, the second drinks, the third 'Heigho, we'll have some scrags'. He picked us up in a Mercedes Benz. I said something about a poet and such a car, 'Never mind it's got a broken window'.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    On Seamus Heaney's turf

    • Peter Gebhardt
    • 04 September 2013
    8 Comments

    Ten years ago, my wife and I went to Dublin. Upon our arrival at the hotel there were three notes waiting from Seamus; the first suggested a meeting, the second drinks, the third 'Heigho, we'll have some scrags'. He picked us up in a Mercedes Benz. I said something about a poet and such a car, 'Never mind it's got a broken window'.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Auden dines with Barry Humphries

    • Peter Gebhardt
    • 04 March 2013
    1 Comment

    What I fear is that on Judgment Day one's punishment will be to hear God reciting by heart the poems I would have written had my life been good.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Dead father's voice comes home

    • Peter Gebhardt
    • 08 October 2012
    2 Comments

    'Coming up to Canberra was the worst. We came through some pretty atrocious thunderstorm weather ... It really is a delightful aircraft to fly even in those conditions.' Voice of Stuart Graham Pearce, killed as a test pilot in 1976, as heard by his son Guy 36 years later.

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