Beaver was born in Manly, New South Wales. He was educated at the Manly Public School and at the Sydney Boys' High School. He worked at a number of jobs, as a cow farmer, in radio, as a wages clerk, a surveyor's labourer, fruit-picker, proof-reader and journalist, before deciding to write full-time. From 1958 to 1962, he lived in New Zealand and Norfolk Island.
In 1961 Beaver's first book of poetry was published. He wrote his first poem in response to the dropping of the atomic bomb at Hiroshima, and continued to write even while working as a labourer. Thanks to his marriage, he was able to become a full-time writer. Even though he suffered from bipolar ... more »
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Bruce Beaver Poems
At the foot of a northern pylon of the Harbour Bridge I have kept my vigil since the mighty span was built. I come early in the day from worn-out corners of the area and sit when the sun is out until the waning afternoon,
Outside the cathedral at five the cats congregated and I was fulfilled feeding them. I would shuffle in my modest skirt and tatty shawl
He’ll come back to you in the darkest night shambling, robust still, not a little noisome. He’ll perch his large object-overlapping frame on the edge of your bed and unravel a repertoire
Poem for Adrienne Rich (II)
Reading your poems makes me want to make again. Something stirs in me that is no longer man-root, no longer the male imperative
Poem for Adrienne Rich (I)
Wonderful woman, proud to be a person in this day and age of swapped sexes. To feel love for one’s own kind (sex is just an arbitrary accident) —
I was friendly with a woman once. It was an unusual experience. There were certain innate boundaries and the inevitably marked frontiers.
I’m on intimate terms with so many parts of the night daylight seems duller and far more prosaically formed. At first feebly I learned night’s calisthenics then how to apply them in the arena of day;
Another king I knew had twelve champions, each chosen for his astrological sign. My favourite was the Piscean who combined courage and gentleness but who eventually
Ten adults at a laden table, two children sitting on the floor, one dog to bark when it was able, who could ask for anything more.
Letters to Live Poets (XII)
Three anti-depressants and one diuretic a day seven and five times a week respectively save me from the pit. I pray while I’m taking them and in between doses
Letters to Live Poets (VI)
Pain, the problem of, not answered by dogma, orthodox or other- wise. The only problem being how to bear with. You may have an
Letters to Live Poets (I)
God knows what was done to you. I may never find out fully. The truth reaches us slowly here, is delayed in the mail continually
Lauds and Plants (XIV)
<i>Like a bridge over troubled water, I will lay me down Simon & Garfunkel</i> what does the world know of you and me together what does it know of us together why should it care
East of Atlan
<i>for Dorothy Porter </i> Square white roofs with square white towers. Above them, balconies of white abutting, tables richly bearing
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At the foot of a northern pylon of the Harbour Bridge
I have kept my vigil since the mighty span was built.
I come early in the day from worn-out corners of the area
and sit when the sun is out until the waning afternoon,
thence to another role, another manifestation of duty.
On my way I pass a cavern echoing with traffic noise.
When the sun is setting it blazes up like a testing tunnel
of the cosmic fire at the beginning and ending of universes.
It reminds me we are not that far in time from a kalpa’s ending.
More than four thousand million years in the ...