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There are more than 200 results, only the first 200 are displayed here.
The sound of the didgeridoo would be heard throughout the land. On each street corners buskers would mark out their patch, playing violins, oud, piano accordion, berimbau, nyatiti, cello, mouth organ, zither, anklung or daduk singing the love songs and epic poems from the many civilisations that have enriched Australia.
Curve it the way neck curves to shoulders, like the inside of an elbow, like a valley in spring. And send it out like glorious orphan; hovering in the style of infinite with no immediate purpose in mind in the unsubtle audacity of now.
As I sit in the Paris end of Collins street, I touch a poor woman's shoulder, and she looks up, her head wrapped in a veil, and I hand her some money. She clasps my hand, says thank you. Fingers count the rosary of coins. How will she know she is loved?
It feels odd to be recycled, my atoms billions of years old, stretching back millennia. What adventures they have had, enterprises begun, projects explored, voyages completed.
Analysts have commented often and at length on the divisive nature of politics in today's USA, citing Trump's inflammatory language and anti-immigration policies. One commentator went so far to say Trump did not 'pull the trigger on Jews in Pittsburgh, but he certainly prepped the shooter'.
The concurrent symptoms for this poem: vague staring into mid air; take to their bed; not eating or drinking regularly; not toileting; not responding. Imagine a child without light in their eyes. It is not a flash back. It is now. It is the Australian people.
Higher up, with head down in devotion, a kookaburra was beaked out for small murders; with the azure armorial flashed on his wing, he was a rakish monk on his saintly wire; in his taut patience, he was always able to laugh off his murders at the end of the day.
In Tahiti I fall ill, bronchitis amid humid splendour. At a summer camp in Dutchess County I get the sack. Cops warn me for hitch-hiking after sundown in Maine. In the wintry Cotswolds I wheeze in a bedewed attic. A lost aunt is found in Liverpool post-Toxteth.
You are saying these people are not good enough because they come from elsewhere. You are saying their English is too creative. You are saying their growing numbers are a constant threat. You are saying they are never as good as you, genetically even. You are saying no.
An old man boarded the bus, seating himself next to me and behind the boys. He was unshaven, and his jeans had seen better days. He sat quietly for a few minutes, observing the scene, and then he tapped the nearest boy on the shoulder. 'I'm impressed by your enthusiasm, and it so happens I've written a poem about that subject. Here it is.'
The evidence, from one line onwards, was unmistakeable Doyle. Imitation was impossible, self-parody ditto. Gore Vidal loved to say that Tennessee Williams knew how to do only one thing, but he did that thing better than anyone else. Brian Doyle's poetry was a bit like that.
'It's hard for a guy to cry endlessly and helplessly. It is. Some remote part of you shouts Man, get it together, this is totally beyond the bounds. But I couldn't stop.' Four previously unpublished poems by Portland author Brian Doyle, who died on 27 May last year.
97-108 out of 200 results.