Eight short poems
He looked at the stand of Mountain Ash
by Grants Picnic Ground and he said—
This would burn like a bastard.
You young loners with your books and iPods
I can see you, eschewing peer group pressure.
He said he saw a crane circling above Heathmont Station.
The gum trees loose down their bark
nubile young women with draperies.
Their wrinkled armpits.
The third button on her silk shirt is undone
she has lost her mobile phone at the disco barn
but she won’t ring her own number because
she wants it to come back without doing anything.
I went to touch him but he said—
No! I’ve been kicked in the head.
oh that dog—she knew when i spelt w-a-l-k
so then i spelt it k-l-a-w and she still knew
I was travelling forward and back, forward and back.
Nobody bothered me. They left me alone.
When I woke, I knew where I must have been.
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