New York
We were leaving
an afternoon
of coloured glass and temples:
your gloved hand
snug
in my gloved hand.
The sky was later than you’d think.
The way it would have been
when Wallace Stevens wrote his poem.
Giant TVs
had fallen to earth
and neon bubbled hot through pipes.
New Yorkers were hurrying home, dressed
in hats and scarves and cheerful
optimism.
I think we were talking pizza, when
a snow began—
so delicate
it might have been
falling
skyward.
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