Theatre of War
The studio portrait of ’44
was in classic triangular form:
me the child, my mother, and sister, all in our Sunday best.
My mother wears pearls and a violet spray,
I lean in the crook of her neck, brush her cheek.
My sister, older, hardly touches although
the photographer did suggest
we should nestle in close:
he planned a “madonna with young” effect.
We look so soft and shining,
the perfect family left behind.
When it reached my father’s camp
in steepest dank New Guinea
he wrote straight back, unsatisfied.
“How about some leg? Never mind the kids.”
We sent him one my sister took:
the raven hair upswept and a skirt undone
to allow the barest glimpse of ankle, one calf.
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