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There are more than 200 results, only the first 200 are displayed here.
Perhaps we were too directive / as we tried to guide while staying connected / with one so young, distracted. Yet there was response. Rules relaxed to laughter / as through best and worst we mucked / together; skills and knowledge grew / living side by side.
Amid shifting perceptions and the fluidity of names, our understanding of self dances on the edge of subjectivity. Traversing the landscape of literature, we're invited to confront our own reflections, to ask what truly defines us in a world that is ever-evolving, and to look beyond the obvious and into the heart of our shared human experience.
You might think that, if anyone could pull off the establishment of a treaty, a great poet and a great policy maker, working in harmony, would surely have the best chance. But this was not the case: when Judith Wright and H.C. Coombes advocated for a treaty throughout their lifetimes, they were unsuccessful.
I have played Gandhi, King Tut, gangster, giant, elf, / but a lifetime of lifetimes destroyed my mental health: if you’re all things to all men, you’re no one to yourself.
Can Artificial Intelligence write good poetry? While AI has vast linguistic resources to mimic human poets and creating compelling verse, there remains a distinction between competence and true poetic brilliance, mirroring the broader debate around our relationship with AI, and the very essence of human creativity.
A forgotten, faded poem by Judith Wright, found in a second-hand book, explores the tension between humanity and the rise of computers in the 1960s, artfully questioning the supposedly superior nature of these early machines, reminding us of the enduring value of human experiences and qualities.
We pass North Head, that place of isolation, unspoiled silence still where campfire smoke would once have greeted / Arthur Phillip with his claim. We’re on our second drink by now / and some among us pause, imagining a Gadigal / imagining that we’re / the first ship of some Final Fleet / returning whence it came.
They knew secret restaurants where / You had to knock at a little door with a hatch. And they rose each day at six sharp to train / Before striding into glass towers, And one of them, she said, had read Proust / And told her it was ‘great’, Only he (or she) / Pronounced it ‘Prowst’ like Faust / And all his envy turned to air.
The bakery is clean and bright, service cheerful. Mother waits at the counter while her daughter brews coffee. Cooking is done out the back / to fill the cut-back menu / and maintain the family’s dream. The business survives as well as most.
Where the highway of man and the desert intersects there’s a dude on a cross with a crown of spinifex who’s dying in the stifling heat. A mulga lurks below his feet, then slides across the sand alone, condemned to rule a desert throne.
Filling up the Webster-pak’s / a weekly exercise / designed to keep me vertical / with sparkle in my eyes. Fresh from Chemist Warehouse as / my tempo wanes and waxes / my pills dispel my latest ills — if not quite death and taxes.
But my red carriage rolls its trundling way / beneath the glare of that auroral show, its flakes of rust conceding time’s betray, / the toll imposed on Adam’s clay in slow / extraction of deep veins of anthracite.
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