A Rhapsody for Ken Slessor

A Rhapsody for Ken Slessor

Ken Slessor, you tosser, your oysters of imagery open;

your bow-tie’s a gig at a wharf where the harbour-lights ripen

on pintles and gudgeons and luminous snags of the oceans,

where hulls at their knocking go ruddering strangest emotions.

Ken Slessor, your whiskies are combed with the Darlinghurst nights;

here ketches and liners go honeymoon in their sleek lights,

and rust on a hull has the tincture of gingery hair …

O daydreamer dandy, you cocktail such bright otherwhere

for whimsies to walk in their cufflinks and green satin boots,

then linger in pawnshops and chat with outlandish galoots,

or scrutinise sea-charts whose scale is one mile to the inch,

all feathered with shoals whose names are John Benbow, Joe Lynch,

while the man on the tram picks the fluff from his three-cornered hat,

“Lieutenant James Cook, sir, delighted, I’ve wanted to chat.”

Ken Slessor, you wizard, what is it so brilliant and…