Quince
Quince
It’s not easy to peel the grubby yellow skin
from a knuckle of quince and even with a sharp knife
the paring is difficult. You stack the slices
so they crowd together on pallid pastry,
as anaemic as refugees on a forced march.
The names of camps pop unmusically
into your mind: Treblinka, S-21,
Estadio Nacional. What creative impulse
turns an orchard into a concentration camp?
Will you and I finally turn away
from the oven of our own making,
to cook something wholesome and sustaining?
O long sonnet, late volta, in the ceramic dish
the pie is all goodness, the steaming,
rose-coloured quince sits on the spoon
as if it can already hear the applause.
Andy Kissane
Many will disagree, but World War III is too great a risk to run by involving ourselves in a distant border conflict
Sep 25 2024
5 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