Keywords: Australian Poems
There are more than 200 results, only the first 200 are displayed here.
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ARTS AND CULTURE
- Brian Matthews
- 01 February 2013
2 Comments
He appeared in the doorway of my study one day in 1971 and asked if I was the one who was starting a course in Australian literature. His voice was soft and melodic, his accent beautifully Irish. Born in Belfast in 1947, he had grown up amid the horrors of 'The Troubles' and would in later years refer to himself as 'a recovering Catholic'.
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ARTS AND CULTURE
- Chris Wallace-Crabbe
- 29 January 2013
2 Comments
For what, I ask you, was somebody called our saviour in the turbulent middle-east (still in trouble, of course it must be) two long Ks ago? Light flickered on dwellers in death's dark shadow yet those turbulent sandy nations truckle on, just where their ancestors ambled out of Africa toward the hideogram of history.
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ARTS AND CULTURE
- Kevin Gillam
- 22 January 2013
dear hoist, still standing? still spinning? still lapped by buffalo? we loved you. weren't allowed to of course. but we did. draped over, swung from, cranked up and down, merry-go-round on green sea. Mum's peeling carrots, voice piercing the flywire.
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ARTS AND CULTURE
- Morag Fraser
- 09 January 2013
Peter Steele SJ – priest, poet, teacher, essayist, homilist, and friend – died on Wednesday 27 June 2012. During Eureka Street’s first months, in 1991, he gave its editor some riding instructions. Media magnate was not his style. ‘Publish the very best writing you can lay your hands on’, he said. That was it. But it was more than enough. Friday 29 June
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ARTS AND CULTURE
Ceilings creep upward in silent communion. Porcelain hands like the soft robes of Jesus, reach across a domed fresco from Bethlehem to Nazareth ... When darkness settles on rocks and stones, old churches shrug back into themselves, back into their timber rafters that squeak a thousand Amens.
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ARTS AND CULTURE
- Barry Gittins
- 11 December 2012
1 Comment
Becalmed, bereft, besieged by race memory and hip pocket absorption, a nation of travellers and seafarers swallow leaders' sleight-of-hand, as they conjure pirates from refugees, demons from daughters, sons and lovers.
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ARTS AND CULTURE
Have this photograph ... In the body strewn pavement see the cardboard huts. Digitally processed. Glossy finish. As I rattle my tin, may it rattle your conscience?
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ARTS AND CULTURE
- Peter Bakowski
- 20 November 2012
3 Comments
What a gift is hunger. Because of it your ancestors left their caves, explored plains, valleys, rivers, seas. Their adventures became stories, paintings, songs. There's the story of each person, on the trains, trams, street corners. How vulnerable you are, how strong you are.
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ARTS AND CULTURE
- 2012 Blake Poetry Prize
- 13 November 2012
6 Comments
It's the alcohol that makes me white. The magic of intoxication suits my dreaming fine. I want to be civilised. The harder I drink the whiter I get. O how I want to imbibe like a gentleman ... I want God to make me white and rich and fat.
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ARTS AND CULTURE
- Anne Elvey
- 06 November 2012
This is the wild thing that turns to loam, the seal pup dead on the shore, a fish caught in a crevice of rock when the tide ebbs.
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ARTS AND CULTURE
- Grant Fraser
- 30 October 2012
5 Comments
Peter, I gave you such handsome possibilities, had your face shining like a saint, and yet still, on this third occasion, you can only find a lie.
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ARTS AND CULTURE
- Michael Sariban
- 23 October 2012
4 Comments
When ideology smashed the cathedrals, turned icons into rubble, congregation into crime, religion fell down in a heap, or seemed to ... Most people believed they knew better: countless lips kept doggedly whispering the fine-print headlines of saints. If the State was a rock, religion flowed round it.
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