Whiteout
Death’s the brand, the dishwashing wonder
For encrusted reputations
Men who the minute they’re laid in a box
Are elevated several stations.
The widow who wore a lifetime’s tongue
His arrogance, his armpits, his fears
Starts in at once, marital housework
Mourners help with crocodile tears.
Tight-fisted, short-tempered, belittler
Humping her mute, averted eyes wild
Now: “Poor Theo, hardly complained at the end.
Thin soup and the morphine. Cried like a child.”
Sixty years she sweeps, buckets and bleach
Her rewrite unchallenged—Respect For The Dead.
The hospital burned his stained blue pyjamas.
She might have a decade. Clean, wide double bed.
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