Vivian Smith: Two Poems

Olive Pink   Reader, I’d never heard of her before a friend returned from Alice Springs with bits and pieces of her well told story, her garden and her work with local tribes.   It sounded like a Werner Herzog film.   I smiled when I heard her name, the colours and the strangeness went together: born in Hobart 1899, anthropologist and botanist, intrepid, independent, truthful, firm, she clearly saw what others couldn’t see and looked exactly like my young grandmother— a pinch of mischief twinkling in her eye, a way of just persisting, undeterred.   Vivian Smith    …

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