Christine Keeler
Christine Keeler
Eventually, the searing scandal
Settled into stale history,
Like a sediment in the public mind.
The powerful men the teen bedded—
In vivid tabloid editions,
Like hours of pillow-talk
In the lurid political limelight—
Have exited in their mortal flesh,
A final form of nakedness.
A government fell, a suicide imbibed,
And Ivanov, recalled, evaporated
In the Gulag’s lethal oblivion.
Everything is tell-all, now.
Who mourns corrupted innocence?
Her keen beauty has eroded,
The sheening anthracite hair a null grey—
The ravages of notoriety,
Acidulous gossip, the weight of time—
Though the racy photographs
Are deemed works of high art
By the usual high-placed critics.
She is now an obscure footnote
In a low-key Council flat.
What images well in her sleepscape?
Who is there now to think of her kindly?
Rod Moran
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