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There are more than 200 results, only the first 200 are displayed here.
Some volcanoes are dead bigtime .. Be careful: Don't go near them .. They spit
as she lies there, somehow she feels time creeping — some inchoate sense, sense of the Grim Reaper reaping with his scathing scythe, or Father Time with a sieve ...
mapping the cobbled Parisian dawn .. in search of juxtaposition .. stairways, upturned street vendors' carts .. unglamorous prostitutes, pedlars .. the stillness of odd, aged architecture .. angles, spaces awash with light
They change the sky but not their soul who run .. across the sea: the impartial earth .. gapes for the child of a pauper as for a princeling ... (For Peter Porter)
The same delusion that made us rich .. leaves a Hungry by the doors .. By comparison the 'wealthy' ones, Australian with homes .. on the market, no offers .. bereft in Bankstown .. wails in Warrimoo .. People are and want good.
The old people in the mortuary silence of the doctor’s waiting room, rehearse the look, the patois, become familiar with the creeping symptoms, the medicines of resistance, the gentle small steps on the way.
In one poem Les Murray would reduce the causes of the Black Saturday fires to differences in forest management between 'hippies' and 'rednecks'. Utilising poetry to play the blame game demeans our understanding of the complexity of that disaster.
Lift up a stone, find a spider, fat as a grape ... Run, and I will be tucked up in the heel of your shoe, gnawing at the lining.
193-200 out of 200 results.