Biography of Judith Beveridge
Judith Beveridge (born 1956) is a contemporary Australian poet, editor and academic.
Judith Beveridge was born in London, England, arriving in Australia with her parents in 1960. Completing a BA at UTS she has worked in libraries, teaching, as a researcher and in environmental regeneration. She currently teaches creative writing at Newcastle and Sydney universities and is poetry editor for Meanjin, having previously edited Hobo and the Australian Arabic literature journal Kalimat.
Judith Beveridge's Works:
The Domesticity of Giraffes, (Black Lightning, 1987)
A parachute of blue : first choice of Australian poets. Number one, with Jill Jones & Louise Katherine Wakeling (Round Table Publications, 1995)
Accidental Grace, (UQP, 1996)
How to Love Bats, and Other Poems (Picaro Press, 2001)OCLC: 57312733
Wolf Notes, (Giramondo, 2003)
Storm and Honey, (Giramondo, 2009)
The Best Australian Poetry 2006, with Martin Duwell & Bronwyn Lea (UQP, 2006)
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Judith Beveridge Poems
The Fisherman's Son
Perhaps it was when he first felt his shoulders roll an oar, or when he pulled the thick boots on. Perhaps it was when he saw the curved thin rod of the moon angle into his father’s face and hook
I saw her, pegging out her web thin as a pressed flower in the bleaching light. From the bushes a few small insects clicked like opening seed-pods. I knew some
Mulla Mulla Beach
Before the sea stops a long mile out I hear the blades of fishermen scotching the rocks and their reels beginning to grind like bicycle gears.
Through the end of an old Coke bottle he tracks the flight of a petrel, until it is tattered by sea-wind and another blurred mintage of the sun. Along the pier, he hears the men with their
I have never been bumped in a saddle as a horse springs from one diagonal to another, a two-beat gait, light and balanced, as the four-beats per stride become the hair-blowing,
The sun stamps his shadow on the wall and he’s left one wheel of his bicycle spinning. It is dusk, there are a few minutes
I’ve had my nose in the ring since I was nine. I learned those cubes fast: how to play a blind bargain; how to empty a die from my palm and beguile by turns loaded with prayers –
Mud Crabs, Low Tide
I feel a sharpness under the surface like tin-tacks, Having come down to their soft mud among smells Where most would retch. They sift broken bits, Tuck into their mud; the bay has the sound
To The Islands
I will use the sound of wind and the splash of the cormorant diving and the music any boatman will hear in the running threads as they sing about leaving for the Islands.
Woman and Child
They listen to the myna birds dicker in the grass. The child's blue shoes are caked with garden dirt. When he runs, she sees the antics of a pair of wrens. She works the garden,
Today I watched a boy fly his kite. It didn't crackle in the wind - but gave out a barely perceptible hum.
How to Love Bats
Begin in a cave. Listen to the floor boil with rodents, insects. Weep for the pups that have fallen. Later, you'll fly the narrow passages of those bones,
We heard the creaking clutch of the crank as they drew it up by cable and wheel and hung it sleek as a hull from the roof.
I’ve had my nose in the ring since I was nine.
I learned those cubes fast: how to play a blind
bargain; how to empty a die from my palm
and beguile by turns loaded with prayers –
then sleight of hand. Ten or fifteen years
and you get wrists like a tabla-player’s, jaws
cut and edged by the knuckles and customs
of luck and deception. The fun’s in sham,