‘Master is gone; the Apprentice forlorn’
Vale Les Murray (17th Oct 1938 – 29th April 2019)
Not knowing any better
I sent them off to Quadrant
got back a letter
“I’ve taken ‘The Conqueror’
and scribbled on the rest
They seemed to need it
Send more before I am old.”
So I did, hoping,
and he always wrote back
a strong, bold hand:
“You’ve used ‘black’
twice in the same stanza;
fix that and send again.”
But then
“No, on a second read
this one’s lost its magic.”
And then
“Sorry, I can’t like any of these.”
And
“Your muse has let you off too lightly.”
Though now and then he took one.
I had a clear picture of the farm,
meant to drive there one day
as a pilgrimage
drop in unannounced,
never did,
then there was On Bunyah.
Didn’t need to after that.
Saw him read at the House
a few years back
the Pope of poetry
the faithful seeking blessings,
a great shy, shambles of a man
stumbling but infallible
an institution already dying.
But the words ring true.
They now remain forever.
Christopher Nailer
Les Murray reading at the Midland City Hall
In Midland, he is on the prowl.
A Grizzly bear without the growl:
wandering through a field of verse.
Jolly shaman without a curse.
Unflappable and kindly owl,
he’s planting poems with a trowel,
for us to peck at like a fowl,
their sonorous seeds to disperse.
in Midland.
Scattering consonant and vowel;
smiling face and jocular jowl,
plucking wisdom out of a purse
while questioning a universe
that is ,at once, both fair and foul.
In Midland.
Derek Fenton
Aloysius’s Lament
in memoriam Les Murray 1938 – 2019
Master is gone; the Apprentice forlorn,
his unfinished works, shadowed, in repose –
the mentor has died, a mentor is born.
The cauldron is cold that fired the morn,
his watchful eye, so sharp yet so kind, closed,
Master is gone; the Apprentice forlorn.
Grief smothers the day, the heart’s page is torn,
so small in death, his white hair, a white rose,
the mentor has died, a mentor is born.
He left you complete and found you half-formed.
Works you presented, so many he chose,
Master is gone; the Apprentice forlorn.
There is no tomorrow, the soul is sore,
the beloved’s fled, you cannot follow,
the mentor has died, a mentor is born.
Pick up your tools, Aloysius, and soar,
there’s much you must give, before you can go.
Master is gone; the Apprentice forlorn –
the mentor has died, a mentor is born.
Joe Dolce
The Promise
‘Taller When Prone’ by Les Murray:
A volume of poems each Title a poem
at the end ‘Winding Up at the Bootmaker’s’
turned to find fourteen pristine pages
Peered into the blank shadows of the binding
felt the creamy nap of the paper
seeking a lead an inkling a thrust of rustic divinity
Read and un-read my expectations
Flicked back to the poems to read ‘Cattle-Hoof Hardpan’
heard the breath in four short lines
Curiously related to ‘The Man in the White Bay Hotel’
coveted the idea of being ‘unrescued’ at life’s end
Harmonised a Score to the beckoning beat of
‘Jimmy Sharman’ and the ‘Malley Show drums’
A ‘Wyandotte Hen’ fluffed up her Golden Lace feathers
poised on one leg stared one-eyed through the words
In the peculiar light of the corrugated iron Show Pavilion
‘Marble cakes in ribboned pens’
tri-coloured layers dipping and rising
with the clicking heat and aroma of a wood-burning stove
Closed ‘Taller When Prone’ on my lap
untended the memories and moved on
The sequel would be found in ‘Waiting for The Past’
with the promise of winding up ‘On Bunyah’ to fill the void.
Helene Castles
When Reading Poetry by Les Murray
Everything is as expected, yet new;
as a memory or a déjà vu.
The way sentences form as though
his brain has connected to mine
and his point of view is mine.
And when he cries
his tears come from that place
of holding time to attention —
I’ve been to that place, listening;
when words make sense.
There, music is in a Celtic key
and haunts the skin on arms
until returning sanity gives back
an ability to breathe normally.
Marilyn Peck
Madam: Archbishop Fisher (July-August 2024) does not resist the attacks on his church by the political, social or scientific atheists and those who insist on not being told what to do.
Aug 29 2024
6 mins
To claim Aborigines have the world's oldest continuous culture is to misunderstand the meaning of culture, which continuously changes over time and location. For a culture not to change over time would be a reproach and certainly not a cause for celebration, for it would indicate that there had been no capacity to adapt. Clearly this has not been the case
Aug 20 2024
23 mins
A friend and longtime supporter of Quadrant, Clive James sent us a poem in 2010, which we published in our December issue. Like the Taronga Park Aquarium he recalls in its 'mocked-up sandstone cave' it's not to be forgotten
Aug 16 2024
2 mins