Kenneth Slessor

(27 March 1901 – 30 June 1971 / Orange, New South Wales)

Kenneth Slessor Poems

If you see a poem only with title, it is listed that way because of copyright reasons.
1. A Bushranger 4/1/2010
2. A Sunset 4/1/2010
3. A Surrender 4/1/2010
4. Adventure Bay 4/1/2010
5. Advice To Psychologists 4/1/2010
6. An Inscription For Dog River 4/1/2010
7. Beach Burial 4/1/2010
8. Burying Friends 4/1/2010
9. Cannibal Street 4/1/2010
10. Captain Dobbin 4/1/2010
11. Chessmen 4/1/2010
12. City Nightfall 4/1/2010
13. Cock-Crow 4/1/2010
14. Country Towns 4/1/2010
15. Crow Country 4/1/2010
16. Crustacean Rejoinder 4/1/2010
17. Earth-Visitors 4/1/2010
18. Elegy In A Botanic Gardens 4/1/2010
19. Five Bells 1/1/2004
20. Five Visions Of Captain Cook 4/1/2010
21. Fixed Ideas 4/1/2010
22. Full Orchestra 4/1/2010
23. Glubbdubdrib 4/1/2010
24. Gulliver 4/1/2010
25. Heine In Paris 4/1/2010
26. In A/C With Ghosts 4/1/2010
27. La Dame Du Palais De La Reine 4/1/2010
28. Last Trams 4/1/2010
29. Lesbia's Daughter 4/1/2010
30. Mangroves 1/1/2004
31. Marco Polo 4/1/2010
32. Mephistopheles Perverted 4/1/2010
33. Metempsychosis 4/1/2010
34. Music 4/1/2010
35. New Magic 4/1/2010
36. Next Turn 4/1/2010
37. North Country 1/1/2004
38. Nuremberg 4/1/2010
39. Out Of Time 4/1/2010
40. Pan At Lane Cove 4/1/2010
Best Poem of Kenneth Slessor

Five Bells

Time that is moved by little fidget wheels
Is not my time, the flood that does not flow.
Between the double and the single bell
Of a ship's hour, between a round of bells
From the dark warship riding there below,
I have lived many lives, and this one life
Of Joe, long dead, who lives between five bells.

Deep and dissolving verticals of light
Ferry the falls of moonshine down. Five bells
Coldly rung out in a machine's voice. Night and water
Pour to one rip of darkness, the Harbour floats
In the air, the Cross hangs upside-down in water. ...

Read the full of Five Bells

William Street

The red globe of light, the liquor green,
the pulsing arrows and the running fire
spilt on the stones, go deeper than a stream;
You find this ugly, I find it lovely

Ghosts' trousers, like the dangle of hung men,
in pawn-shop windows, bumping knee by knee,
but none inside to suffer or condemn;
You find this ugly, I find it lovely.

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