Worm
Enveloped tightly
in food
mingled with indigestible sand.
Eat, the only way to move,
randomly, enticed by a crack here
a succulent morsel there,
infinitely flexible,
deflected by a stone,
a fork, a spade,
menacing vibrations
from some other living thing,
no backbone for a fight
in the black back lanes
of the earth.
No advertising space
no subterranean billboards
no missiles on bitumen
no beauty no ugliness no vision
no ethics, for what do morals mean
for a living thing,
meandering at digestion pace
alone, in the damp darkness,
trailed by
a labyrinth of excrement.
Few pleasures,
the massaging slip of moist clay,
a tasty nematode,
the frisson of meeting by chance
a fellow creature,
a slow glide along the parting
between flesh and bone of a buried thing,
recently deceased.
Ron Wilkins
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