Letters of a Dead Poet
A book appeared in my favourite shop,
fifty fat dollars’ worth.
I had to ease it out
and stroke the satiny skin
of the cover image,
a profile in black and white
of a man with a felt-tip pen.
I speed-read page after page
(they did ask to be read)
but was put off
by the fifty bucks.
Back to the shelves it went
between its brother books
and sadly I walked away.
The thought of the book
tracked me like a stalker,
hissing, stubborn and sly:
you deserve this book,
see it as a reward,
a trophy you’ve earned.
But the cost.
One ambiguous day
steamy with sunlight and rain,
not planning to give in,
I found myself in the shop
and snatched what I’d disguised
among the military texts,
so no one could find it.
Before any thrift could intervene
I ran to the counter and paid,
left with the book in my arms.
I have read it all year; letter
by lucid letter, slowly.
When the end comes I may begin again,
I shall refuse, ever, to lend it.
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