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There are more than 200 results, only the first 200 are displayed here.
For those born in the wake of World War II, war stories seemed the greatest fun on earth. But the pity of it is monumental and we come to take it – if not for granted – then at least as part of the fabric of minds that had met with all that was terrible in human experience and all that called out for reverence.
Nam Le is one of the strangest writers in the history of Australian literature and is also one of the most incandescently brilliant — which is very weird if you bear in mind that his primary claim to legendary status is a book of short fiction published in 2008. With 36 Ways of Writing a Vietnamese Poem, Le returns with a new work that encapsulates the brilliance and complexity that fans and critics have come to expect.
A small autograph book from an Australian army nurse in World War II provides a unique glimpse into the lives of those she cared for in Palestine. With sketches and heartfelt inscriptions, the book illuminates the overlooked efforts of nurses whose dedication continued even after the war.
With every Anzac Day, the stories told reflect changing attitudes. Past celebrations focused on patriotism and romance of war, but this year's tone is more serious due to global events. Anzac Day now emphasises remembering, compassion, honouring victims of war, and advocating for peace.
What are the implications of widespread use of Metformin, Pembrolizumab, or Nivolumab, and what do they say about us? Featuring a humourless pharmacist and a thick wad of prescriptions, the story of our complicated relationship with pharmaceuticals is a meandering map of the human condition.
In Shadowline, Uwe's attempts to understand himself and his relationships through theoretical patterns are inevitably uneasy, but his diary entries reveal a man dedicated to personal growth and learning.
so across this bridge of days / lurks a hollowed-out light / picking over the shattered glass of streets / a day when sun / apportions out / this impartial / where the cut & paste / the haste / of swallows is knitting up / all the available light.
In most circles poetry doesn’t matter. It doesn’t put bread on the table, nor raise people to revolt nor even make news unless a grizzled footballer is outed for secretly writing poems. Even in churches poems and hymns are altered to improve their orthodoxy in matters of faith, gender, race or modernity, but rarely their poetic quality.
Daniel Mendelsohn lectures in classics at Bard College, a liberal arts institution in New York State. His retired father, aged 81 in 2011, regrets gaps in his own education, and asks to sit in on his son’s course of seminars on Homer’s The Odyssey. Professor Mendelsohn agrees, and Jay Mendelsohn joins a class of 18-19 year-olds. Later, father and son go on a cruise that retraces The Odyssey where they discover: is home a physical place, or something you carry around with you or within you?
I was invited to read the poetry at Eureka Street by Morag Fraser, sometime in the mists. She shouted me coffee at the Chinese place across Victoria Street from the magazine’s Richmond offices. That was nearly twenty years ago. As we crunched on fortune cookies, she popped the question. I’ve been editing poetry at Eureka Street ever since and have only chosen to let go of the job this summer.
I own my proclivities and short comings / I own the transgressions of those which have inflicted wounds some unhealed / I own the sublime moments of subjective joy / I own little but I am rich in compassion / I own not the land it owns me
Into the sky, black and blue visitation by which we are blessed, or warned. Screaming like lovers en route, regal, snapping for nuts and dominance in the clattering trees.
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