I have a partially-formed idea up my sleeve, and I need your help. If you have a favorite poem, please send it to me (either as a comment on this posting, or by email) along with a line or two about why you like it. Don't forget to include author and title if you know them. Thanks!
By the way, if you want to see the official press release about the NT Literary Awards (including a photo of me receiving mine), look here. Thanks, Greg, for pointing this out.
The local Katherine paper (a weekly) published an article about me which contained errors in the headline, the photo caption, and within the body of the article. Impressive really, to make so many mistakes in so few words. Might be seen as kind of an art form in itself...
Bittersweet
-
Eyal and I always knew that it would be difficult building a family from
two different countries. It is just now, however, that we have to really
put that ...
13 years ago
Posts
3 comments:
An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow
By Les Murray
The word goes round Repins,
the murmur goes round Lorenzinis,
at Tattersalls, men look up from sheets of numbers,
the Stock Exchange scribblers forget the chalk in their hands
and men with bread in their pockets leave the Greek Club:
There's a fellow crying in Martin Place. They can't stop him.
The traffic in George Street is banked up for half a mile
and drained of motion. The crowds are edgy with talk
and more crowds come hurrying. Many run in the back streets
which minutes ago were busy main streets, pointing:
There's a fellow weeping down there. No one can stop him.
The man we surround, the man no one approaches
simply weeps, and does not cover it, weeps
not like a child, not like the wind, like a man
and does not declaim it, nor beat his breast, nor even
sob very loudly - yet the dignity of his weeping
holds us back from his space, the hollow he makes about him
in the midday light, in his pentagram of sorrow,
and uniforms back in the crowd who tried to seize him
stare out at him, and feel, with amazement, their minds
longing for tears as children for a rainbow.
Some will say, in the years to come, a halo
or force stood around him. There is no such thing.
Some will say they were shocked and would have stopped him
but they will not have been there. The fiercest manhood,
the toughest reserve, the slickest wit amongst us
trembles with silence, and burns with unexpected
judgements of peace. Some in the concourse scream
who thought themselves happy. Only the smallest children
and such as look out of Paradise come near him
and sit at his feet, with dogs and dusty pigeons.
Ridiculous, says a man near me, and stops
his mouth with his hands, as if it uttered vomit -
and I see a woman, shining, stretch her hand
and shake as she receives the gift of weeping;
as many as follow her also receive it
and many weep for sheer acceptance, and more
refuse to weep for fear of all acceptance,
but the weeping man, like the earth, requires nothing,
the man who weeps ignores us, and cries out
of his writhen face and ordinary body
not words, but grief, not messages, but sorrow,
hard as the earth, sheer, present as the sea -
and when he stops, he simply walks between us
mopping his face with the dignity of one
man who has wept, and now has finished weeping.
Evading believers, he hurries off down Pitt Street.
This has long been a favourite poem of mine. Les Murray if you haven't heard of him is an Australian poet from NSW (born 1950 something??). Who coincidently is a friend of my mum's (hemhem)he gave me a book of poems by Sophie Hannah (he thought this was my name) which is also very good.
The poem is set in Sydney CBD where Pitt st. and George st.'s are the two main streets ( parralell) in Sydney city.
The Journey
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.
-mary oliver
mary oliver. a true wordsmith. her spin on life is one i cherish. & i esp. like the notion of mending in general. and then to think of mending a life. true fodder! *polly
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