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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.
An actor is holding a skull in his hand. Life has nothing to say. Someone is waiting to disembark from a bus. The stage is holding its breath.
Italians are a people of integrity / who celebrate a celibate celebrity.
Guided by divers and ropes, via a birth canal, from the womb of the cave in a dark mountain, through the tightness of crevasses. Hold your breath ... surrender fear ... heave in the labour from death to life. Why is it disasters create heroes?
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.
Movements of time — Farewell to ancient granite. Greetings to gleaming streams and striating ribbons of colour.
She was in her eighties then. And I was thirteen. Now eighty, I've retrieved that memory of hers and hold it as I would my own.
We share a love of poetry, having come to Gerard Manley Hopkins from opposite directions, her from religious ecstasy, me from the dark sonnets. In the 1980s we met, in a shelter for Aboriginal women in Collingwood. My next memory? Ursula introducing me to the granddaughter of Kelly's sweetheart, an old woman dying in a Melbourne hospital.
I know we are a cultured society that forbids ever talking about 'if tomorrow never comes'. But tomorrow is never a promise to anyone.
When I drink coffee I roll it over my tongue and remember how I grew the beans myself on my own plantations in Guatamala. I hope my secret family there is doing well. I captain this battleship in tight formation with destroyers and frigates. My contemporary dance company is in constant demand. I am a busy man but I sleep well.
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.'
181-192 out of 200 results.