Keywords: Australian Poetry
There are more than 200 results, only the first 200 are displayed here.
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ARTS AND CULTURE
It never looks like hard work. I’ve just rolled my sleeves up while I stare at an old shoe in the corner of the room for hours. I’ve sweated a day in my life as I skewer a stare right through the Friday morning waitress – the brick wall behind her.
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INTERNATIONAL
- Gillian Bouras
- 30 July 2014
11 Comments
So there the marble figures lie, grey and blurred, and with an infinite capacity, I think, to touch the heart. The tomb was radical for its time, in the sense that Richard had decreed that his effigy should not be higher than Eleanor's; her figure also appears to lean towards his, and most moving of all, Richard's has one gauntlet removed, so that his bare hand holds that of his wife. Her feet rest on a little pet dog, his on a small lion.
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ARTS AND CULTURE
Poor old fellow, angular, pinched awkward man, taut and pink-faced ... Everyone hesitates to take him in, wincing at his eagerness, and protecting conversation from his fantastic interruptions ... recently he discovered the name of his mother, long dead, and found some brothers ... Now a gush of communication after the long legal amnesia, he reports a big barbecue to celebrate the discovery of belonging after all.
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RELIGION
- Frank Brennan
- 23 July 2014
1 Comment
'Rohan provides a detailed and accurate analysis and history of the word games that have gone on between the Vatican and the Latin American bishops and theologians wrestling with the concept of the preferential option for the poor.' Frank Brennan launches The Preferential Option for the Poor: A Short History and a Reading Based on the Thought of Bernard Lonergan, by Rohan Michael Curnow.
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ARTS AND CULTURE
- Peter Gebhardt
- 08 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
- John Ellison Davies
- 17 June 2014
5 Comments
The woman next door is not talking to her husband. She rakes a garden argument, punishes leaves, brawls with flowers, frustrated by the strength of weeds, kneels on a stone and swears. Inside the house her husband smokes and reads the paper, turns each urgent page, amazed that he is not news. He wonders who writes true histories of pain, of hate. Newsprint stains his fingers like guilt.
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ARTS AND CULTURE
- P. S. Cottier
- 27 May 2014
2 Comments
mona lisa with monobrow, smiling past watchers as she spots the gay god, the god who goes down, sweet curser of figtrees, just to perplex theologists.
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ARTS AND CULTURE
- Shane McCauley
- 20 May 2014
2 Comments
Muffled exclamations send Italian syllables into the far pale blue... the small cannon balls bounce across the peaceful green... the men huddle convene for a verdict.
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ARTS AND CULTURE
Everything green wants up, a drought and you, position the head right under the tap, ancient propellors over the land, guess who cast them? This is the month of Sundays
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ARTS AND CULTURE
- Philip Salom
- 25 March 2014
1 Comment
Post-God voices of you complained: there were so many of you there were none. And, pre-God, there was less than one of you. That's a hard call. That's a stern said. Back off in the beginning colloids of an all-or-nothing exploded you. How scary are you? The Dough-maker's hand was poised, unseen in the shadows. Then in tactile, alarmingly, quarkily, scrolling and shaping you. A life-hand a touch. Retreating into the dark.
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ARTS AND CULTURE
- N. N. Trakakis
- 11 March 2014
2 Comments
After being shown in by the girly secretary into his spacious office, you were invited to sit in a corner chair, from where you stared at his polished black shoes, and his new brown cardigan.
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ARTS AND CULTURE
- Lisa Brockwell
- 25 February 2014
13 Comments
I find myself on tuckshop duty with my dearest friend; we didn't see this coming at university. I learn more than any woman like me needs to know about slashing paddocks. I visit the vet at least once a week. I picture my husband dying in a car crash; this dark bubble rises out of the mud of me much too frequently. Shouting at my five year old, I can't believe it is up to me to keep this baby alive when I am all naked flailing heart.
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