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. Winter Dawn 4/1/2010
2. William Street 1/1/2004
3. Wild Grapes 4/1/2010
4. Waters 4/1/2010
5. Vesper-Song Of The Reverend Samuel Marsden 4/1/2010
6. Undine 4/1/2010
7. Trade Circular 4/1/2010
8. Toilet Of A Dandy 4/1/2010
9. To The Poetry Of Hugh Mccrae 4/1/2010
10. To Myself 4/1/2010
11. To A Friend 4/1/2010
12. Thieves' Kitchen 4/1/2010
13. Thief Of The Moon 1/1/2004
14. The Old Play 4/1/2010
15. The Night Ride 4/1/2010
16. The Nabob 4/1/2010
17. The Knife 4/1/2010
18. The Ghost 4/1/2010
19. The Country Ride 4/1/2010
20. The Atlas 4/1/2010
21. Taoist 4/1/2010
22. Talbingo 4/1/2010
23. Stars 4/1/2010
24. South Country 1/1/2004
25. Snowdrops 4/1/2010
26. Sleep 1/1/2004
27. Serenade 4/1/2010
28. Sensuality 4/1/2010
29. Rubens' Innocents 4/1/2010
30. Rubens' Hell 4/1/2010
31. Realities 4/1/2010
32. Polarities 4/1/2010
33. Pan At Lane Cove 4/1/2010
34. Out Of Time 4/1/2010
35. Nuremberg 4/1/2010
36. North Country 1/1/2004
37. Next Turn 4/1/2010
38. New Magic 4/1/2010
39. Music 4/1/2010
40. Metempsychosis 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

North Country

North Country, filled with gesturing wood,
With trees that fence, like archers' volleys,
The flanks of hidden valleys
Where nothing's left to hide

But verticals and perpendiculars,
Like rain gone wooden, fixed in falling,
Or fingers blindly feeling
For what nobody cares;

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