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There are more than 200 results, only the first 200 are displayed here.
One hundred and eighty years on, we walk the Myall Creek Memorial Way ... there's a quietness amidst our camaraderie ... murdering rage and gall are quieted, smell of gun powder spent, yet screams that cried that stark cold night still sigh amidst the sway ...
I closed my eyes to draw new thought. When I reopened them an empty stone slab lay before me in a cavern rough-hollowed but flooded with a light that had penetrated its roof. Mary hovered in the light, as a gull is both sea and air, in a flowing robe, her outstretched hand bearing the cincture I would need to recount the mystery to the others.
The work that's held my undivided heart now hangs upon the lip of the inane, a path I've struck, unwinding meaning's ball, or else a futile tangle, every day more lost to telos, purpose and design. No one else seems to have passed this way.
I moved to the Land of Magic, found it full of mumbo-jumbo. I bounced to the Kingdom of Rhythm, too many ups and downs. I went eagerly to Warm-and-Fuzzy, soon bogged down in treacle. I trekked to the Republic of Religion, it was open only on Sundays.
'English became the best pigeon in the world, it picked up stuff from everywhere.' In this never-before-heard interview from 2013, the late great poet Les Murray reflects on his work, on language, and on what poetry actually 'does'.
I asked Les then what he anticipated at the end of what was for him a very earthed life. Les was phlegmatic — he imagined a reunion with his parents (his mother died when he was 12) but was content to 'wait and see ... we are on certain post-mortem promises after all'.
'Another thing you should note about the deer,' Augustine gestures to the crowd. 'They cross a stream in single file. One deer lays its head on the back of its forerunner, and the leader changes place often. In these ways they carry one another's load and show us how to bear burdens of our sisters and brothers.'
To google yourself is the gravest of errors / Your screen is replaced by the mirror of terrors.
A wooden doll lies in a pretty white box, the spirit of the child, dead inside dreaming, residing and displayed on a mantelpiece.
There are those who are living, aged a few minutes younger than the soil; there are those who are loving, aged a few hours younger than the soil ... The soil is to claim them for eternity, and they too will be older than the living, who are filling the seconds with their life story.
What a poor showing. This collection of the desperate clinging to a dream so old it is just a tattered mumble for old men in the fading light. All myth and spittle.
To devote the same day to reflection on both Down syndrome and on poetry, though probably unintended, was a very human thing to do. Precisely because one is so commonly regarded as a defect and the other as an idle activity, we need to be reminded that both are a gift.
145-156 out of 200 results.