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There are more than 200 results, only the first 200 are displayed here.
The sound of the didgeridoo would be heard throughout the land. On each street corners buskers would mark out their patch, playing violins, oud, piano accordion, berimbau, nyatiti, cello, mouth organ, zither, anklung or daduk singing the love songs and epic poems from the many civilisations that have enriched Australia.
As I sit in the Paris end of Collins street, I touch a poor woman's shoulder, and she looks up, her head wrapped in a veil, and I hand her some money. She clasps my hand, says thank you. Fingers count the rosary of coins. How will she know she is loved?
'A year on, Paul would be well pleased. On seeing this full church, he would think, "I can still draw a crowd." On seeing the sanctuary, he would think, "They need one Jesuit and two diocesan priests to replace me."' Homily on the first anniversary of the death of Fr Paul Coleman SJ.
How best to extract them from their cozy dens? Whispering endearments and professions of love does not produce the desired results. Nor does opening curtains, turning on the lights, singing annoying songs, turning on a television or radio, or serenading them on a tuba. These strategies have all been unsuccessfully trialled.
'After he retired from the bench, John was a great advocate for the vulnerable who missed out on all sorts of political and economic fronts. He was not only an advocate but also a practical helping hand.' Homily from the Requiem Mass for the repose of the soul of John Thomas Hassett.
When I watch the video 'How women become gay', it hurts. Not because of the anti-gay content, but because it uses language about God's love, the type of religious language I grew up with, to sneak past my defenses. For a moment, despite years of learning to accept myself, I waver.
We had some books at home so I wasn't wholly deprived but I did have to discover reading without any real parental guidance; English wasn't even our home language. But when I started working at my local public library, it became clear that while I might have been the child of refugees, for many, libraries themselves were a refuge.
Grieving the death of a tree seems a common experience, but I had rarely heard about it. We share stories of the loss of loved ones or pets, but not of specific trees. Are we less comfortable acknowledging the depth of this relationship? Does it challenge our cultural understanding of the natural world and our place within it?
We share a love of poetry, having come to Gerard Manley Hopkins from opposite directions, her from religious ecstasy, me from the dark sonnets. In the 1980s we met, in a shelter for Aboriginal women in Collingwood. My next memory? Ursula introducing me to the granddaughter of Kelly's sweetheart, an old woman dying in a Melbourne hospital.
'If only we could sit down with Palestinians for a bowl of hummus, all the problems would be solved,' says my Israeli friend, as we wipe hummus down with warm pita. He isn't the first to say this. Indeed, a film was made about the virtues of hummus, which asked if a regional love of hummus be the recipe for peace. Personally, I'm not so sure.
No LGBT+ person can be certain how someone else is going to react. When I came out, I felt like I was risking my relationships. Whenever someone who didn't know about my sexuality told me they loved or cared for me, I mentally added a 'but': 'But that might not be true after I tell you.'
The evidence, from one line onwards, was unmistakeable Doyle. Imitation was impossible, self-parody ditto. Gore Vidal loved to say that Tennessee Williams knew how to do only one thing, but he did that thing better than anyone else. Brian Doyle's poetry was a bit like that.
85-96 out of 200 results.