A Present from Christmas Last
I toss the shirt into the wash—
To rid it of its factory must.
A gift from my father,
Though he didn’t choose it.
My sister did—shopping
Being for him out of the question
Christmas last.
This gift seemed more a duty
Being fulfilled. When I thank him
He looks at me blankly.
He has no idea.
Among all the gifts he gave
This the last
And he’s no idea
Why I kiss him, and kiss him again.
This gift, adrift of his love,
Like the card he could only mark
Bypassed him completely.
In this now the third week after his death
I toss a new shirt into the wash.
And watch it tumble then submerge
Along with every other thing there.
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