keywords: Four Poems

  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Four poems for Seamus Heaney

    • Various
    • 10 December 2013
    3 Comments

    I was brought up to become a Scottish Protestant boy in exile from the country that was my father's homeland. You grew up to be at home in your history and tongue; my father banned your accent, set me to elocution, as if your speech was my speech-defect. Our history lay elsewhere, even as we were living it.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Four Chinese poems

    • Yang Xie and Hu Xian, translated Ouyang Yu
    • 27 November 2012
    2 Comments

    Today I saw a rich man. I knew not what his brains and intestines were like ... Today I saw an old man, one hand holding an old bag, and the other, pressed on his upper abdomen. He looked pale, his head covered in sweat, and the corner of his mouth, it kept quivering.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Last of the cat poems

    • Karl Cameron-Jackson and Mike Hopkins
    • 06 March 2012
    5 Comments

    With fresh blood in your mouth you are no longer cat, house-trained to please. Now you kill wantonly, revel in the fear you invoke in others. Man was created, just like you, to run free in the killing-fields ... Is this what God meant you to be? To revert to what you once were?

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Ten short poems

    • Various
    • 02 November 2010
    4 Comments

    Lost — Waiting for Spring — God owes me Royalties — Niche — Folding & Flying — Judas and Jezebel  — Donne captains a ship of fools — Home — Loose Change — election

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Election week poems

    • Mark Carkeet and Graham Kershaw
    • 17 August 2010

    They're elderly, unstable, probably a couple, their cheerful eyes sprung like steel against the cold, their hands arthritic, resigned; their grip carrying no conviction. Concentration lapses. People fail to see. This has never been a Labour town.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Three Jesus poems

    • Various
    • 05 September 2007
    1 Comment

    If Jesus was a swimmer he'd be you, blue flippers for sandals, sinewed torso arrowing the surf

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    After the fire

    • Andrew Hamilton
    • 10 February 2020
    6 Comments

    After the fire/they found a nail preserved in glass/and piles of dust and ash. After the fire/this place lost its memory/of trees cleared, a slab hut/of fences, a verandahed timber house/and a circle of orange trees.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Fellow creatures

    • Ross Jackson
    • 03 February 2020

    With blazes nearby, TV news bars well on fire, we human animals are panicked, feel the shudder of rotors above our roofs. Very soon thirsty helitankers will thunder down to drink from our neighbourhood lake. May we remember tomorrow, nothing will be more worried than pelicans in broken reeds, the night heron in its naked tree.

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  • RELIGION

    Wash Day at Le Carmel, Lisieux, circa 1895

    • Rita Tognini
    • 28 January 2020
    5 Comments

    It's definitely the flesh and blood you, Thérèse, not the Little Flower of church statues and holy pictures, milky with sanctity. It's the frank-faced-child-in-lace-trimmed-dress-and-sturdy-boots you. It's the fourteen year old, hair-atop-head-in-a-bun-to-look-older-for-the-Bishop-so-he'll-let-you-take-the-veil you.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Headland daydreaming

    • Peter Ramm
    • 30 September 2019
    2 Comments

    This place is new to my son, who doesn't know that satin bowerbirds pilfer the brush ... He's busy tracing each scribble in each gum, and my hands are full of his hands, faintly heavy — faintly delicate. A towering deciduous fig hangs over us; its branches are neural pathways, thin at their tips the way memories thin in time.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    The lattes have been had

    • Geoff Page
    • 11 September 2019
    5 Comments

    They feel a shyness and a fear/taking off their clothes. Gravity has had its say/regarding shape and size. Their bodies are a narrative/permitting no disguise. There’s been no rush — or just a bit — the lattes have been had.

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  • ARTS AND CULTURE

    Migrating to Chongqing

    • Na Ye
    • 02 September 2019

    All right, Chongqing, let my dry skin fall in love with your moisture, my eyes used to the desolation and wind and sand ... Your sudden flashes of lightning and thunder, commotion of dripping water, and the heaving quietness, the fate of history.

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