Rod Moran: Casualty
Casualty
My father arrived safely home
From the carnage of Korea,
Surviving the frigid fox-holes,
Lunar shadows like bayonets,
An acetylene ice of starlight,
Where any silhouette was lethal,
A luminous bleed on the snow-drift,
A stark landscape mortar-pocked,
Screaming tsunamis of infantry
In shock-waves across the Yalu.
It was the dark nicotine stain
Along his gaunt trigger-finger,
Like an ironic campaign tattoo,
That finally ushered in death,
Years on in the marl of History,
Killed by the fume that warmed him,
Like cruel shrapnel in his breath,
In an under-belly of the world,
A deadly sub-Arctic of politics,
In his teenage years to heaven.
Rod Moran
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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
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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
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2 mins