David Lewis Paget
AUSTRALIAN POET. Born in Nottingham, lived in Great Barr, Birmingham, until the age of 13, when migrated to Australia. Lived in Adelaide, joined Air Force at 21 and became Instrument Fitter. Began writing poetry during duty crew and guard weekends. In 1976 fulltime to Flinders University of South Australia, Bachelors degree in English and History. Wrote and published a magazine for the unemployed called 'Bread'. Wrote and published monthly magazines 'Trader's Gate' and 'Central Yorke Peninsula Mercury' for three years in the late 1980's. Ran printing and publishing business Mushroom Graphics until 1990, then Cottage Print until 2005. Gave up poetry for five years, and wrote eight novels in ... more »
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- The Blood of an Englishman -new-
- The Winding Path -new-
- The Landslide -new-
- The Horror Tales of the Greats -new-
- Goodbye! -new-
- The Fisherman -new-
- I Wish I Could Be Like You! -new-
- The Wake -new-
- Thicker than Water -new-
- Return of the Wanderer -new-
- The Girl with a Deadly Charm -new-
- The Non-Event -new-
- The Egg
- The Grotto
David Lewis Paget Poems
Her hair was as black as a starling's tail, Her cheeks as pale as a swan, Her eyes, like two slim moonstones, glowed And her mouth was the Holy Grail.
Father & Son
There is the family photograph That is your father’s face, There is your father’s father Grey-gathering years apace;
No-Name The Cat
The cat and I stare at the room No-name the cat, the cat and I, She stares at me, I at the gloom The house lies still as a vaulted tomb.
On The Death Of My Father
My brain has turned to ash, and yes, My mouth is dust, And love is grief, and death is But the loss of trust;
A Lover's Verse
A sylph is passing my threshold stair, Drifting her fragrance through the vine, Promising dreams of a never-could-be From the loss and the lapse of a former time.
From trench to trench You followed me, to speed My penance at the midnight hour of life, Once all was lost, and mine the greater need
Blue Mountain Coffee
I take my seat at the Golden Grove And watch the waitress, Xu, She's sweet and pert, and her shortened skirt Shows off a dimple or two;
They came from a line of fishermen, Way back, two hundred years, The sons of a dour old Kentish man, Who'd braved the First World War;
Life, a Play In three parts, now Is two parts done.
Love is a Fleeting Thing
Happiness is a Trojan Horse That invades your surly gates, It only comes at the best of times And at other times, it waits,
I did but see you once, and that Upon some distant screen, You spoke of life and love, and death, And wickedness, supreme;
The black-haired girls are graceful, like gazelles, Their haughty stares would strike a ‘lao wai' blind, As they cruise on through streets, where rubbish spills, Ignoring all, the poverty, the slime.
The Blueshell Bar
From Monday through to Friday and, For some, on the weekends too, There’s a constant round of students here Attacking the Chinglish stew,
I lived in a block of service flats Right next to a power grid, The endless hum made my mind go numb And infected all I did.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Her hair was as black as a starling's tail,
Her cheeks as pale as a swan,
Her eyes, like two slim moonstones, glowed
And her mouth was the Holy Grail.
She'd played in the dirt of the village street
So long ago, so long...
She'd swum in the pools of the mountain stream,
But now, that girl had gone.
While I still rise with the early bird
To tend to my father's fields,
As the only son of an only son
I watched the woman leave.
She cried sweet tears as she said farewell
And vowed to come back, and soon,
But the village streets of a western ...