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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.
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.
flame .. Might ignite the instant .. And go wildly on the palsy of the wind .. So that a shock of parrots thunders forth .. Spewing slipstreams of fire .. A vomitus of barbary sparks .. So that our lungs are cooped with ash
To an outsider jazz might seem a mysterious, prowling place because it defies simple definition. This is a journal for slow reading, recommend to those who are not jazz devotees and do not prowl ... yet.
'Have you tried fruit?' said Francis .. 'Nothing to it that crackles and tears in the jaw!' said the head wolf. 'I will bake you bread' said the Saint .. 'It is nothing but air warmed and crusted, Entirely wrong for wolves.' And the thronged wolves .. Began to close
In the dreams of whales we are the sons of Ishmael, / Fleet of limb, / Sheened with droplets of water, droplets of air, / Crammed with kindnesses.
Poem by Grant Fraser
Grant Fraser on Learning Human by Les Murray.
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