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When I met Peter Steele I noticed a spark, a shimmer of wit that almost subverted his serious courtesy. There was a wild mind at work and play, and I would have to run prodigiously fast even to catch at its stirrups. So it has proved: it's been a long, vigorous, and exultantly grateful following.
They change the sky but not their soul who run .. across the sea: the impartial earth .. gapes for the child of a pauper as for a princeling ... (For Peter Porter)
In one poem Les Murray would reduce the causes of the Black Saturday fires to differences in forest management between 'hippies' and 'rednecks'. Utilising poetry to play the blame game demeans our understanding of the complexity of that disaster.
the sweat-shiny, blackened men .. whose households were regulated by the whistle .. they woke or slept by. The BHP, like a bulker tethered .. amidst chimney stacks and luffing cranes .. to a bollard on the Hunter
Despite the best wishes of many, we are yet to resolve the injustices that have resulted from White Australia's brand of apartheid. As Disgrace reveals, reconciliation is more than words. There is much fear and anger to overcome.
Les Murray describes himself as a poet who is religious rather than a religious poet, and celebrates a sense of wonder and mystery. In an increasingly secular age, poetry has a new function as an alternative or complement to religion.
It is a useful truth that every real feat is built on a mountain of failures. The price for poetry's occasional power is the ocean of self-indulgent, mewling muck produced and published annually under the tattered banner of the Poem.
All along the cell-block .. The singing echoes like a threat .. voice flatter than Bob Dylan's .. loaded with false jocularity .. his sweat sour in the grey slot
Melbourne had the strange experience of reading and listening to bushfire reports for five days while neither seeing nor smelling smoke. When the mind has no sensory leads to interpret, words become critical.
Sick of singing from the same song sheet during a perfect storm? Try our innovative 12-step cliche evasion program and see if, at the end of the day, it impacts your speech and enhances your conversation, going forwards into 2009.
I mounted up and rode ... into a dream of silent shuttered houses ... I waited for an outraged God to strike me down ... for flaunting breasts and pubic hair
Although not a beat poem, a Peter Steele poem shares Ginsberg's aesthetic of the poem as measure of breath. Breath is commanding like an original lecture, enspiriting like a true sermon, propulsive like a perfect dinner conversation.
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