Gwen Harwood

(8 June 1920 – 4 December 1995 / Taringa, Queensland)

Comments about Gwen Harwood

  • Patrice (5/24/2019 8:39:00 PM)

    can anyone let me have a copy of The Violets

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  • Tashanson (4/25/2019 5:49:00 AM)

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  • Adolf (4/16/2019 3:58:00 AM)

    Gwen Harwood sieht aus wie Anne Frank und ist auch ein großer Cucklord

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  • hehehe (2/19/2019 3:39:00 AM)

    f a n n y

    ehysahjfdksfxasdfasd

    7 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • Oscar (2/19/2019 3:38:00 AM)

    Gwen Harwood can suck on my

    5 person liked.
    4 person did not like.
  • Lmaoo (2/5/2019 6:51:00 PM)

    Gwen Harwood is a cuck lord

    8 person liked.
    3 person did not like.
  • Chickadee (11/24/2018 4:06:00 AM)

    Didn't she write a poem called 'Father and Child'. I'm doing an essay on it and cannot find it anywhere. Do you mind uploading it? Thank you. But, all of Gwen's poems are amazing. She is extremely talented.

    2 person liked.
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  • Nrop Hunter (11/9/2018 12:54:00 AM)

    This so cool! Can we hit minorities?

    8 person liked.
    2 person did not like.
  • Kentucky has Names (9/3/2018 8:28:00 PM)

    I think she's absolutely spictucelar and woonderful

    7 person liked.
    10 person did not like.
  • Names (9/3/2018 8:27:00 PM)

    I think she's absolutely spictucelar

    5 person liked.
    9 person did not like.
Best Poem of Gwen Harwood

In The Park

She sits in the park. Her clothes are out of date.
Two children whine and bicker, tug her skirt.
A third draws aimless patterns in the dirt
Someone she loved once passed by – too late

to feign indifference to that casual nod.
“How nice” et cetera. “Time holds great surprises.”
From his neat head unquestionably rises
a small balloon…”but for the grace of God…”

They stand a while in flickering light, rehearsing
the children’s names and birthdays. “It’s so sweet
to hear their chatter, watch them grow and thrive, ”
she says to his departing smile. Then, ...

Read the full of In The Park

Estuary

To Rex Hobcroft
Wind crosshatches shallow water.
Paddocks rest in the sea's arm.
Swamphens race through spiky grass.
A wire fence leans, a crazy stave
with sticks for barlines, wind for song.
Over use, interweaving light
with air and substance, ride the gulls.

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