Kenneth Slessor

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

Kenneth Slessor Poems

41. Cock-Crow 4/1/2010
42. Burying Friends 4/1/2010
43. Chessmen 4/1/2010
44. Polarities 4/1/2010
45. A Bushranger 4/1/2010
46. An Inscription For Dog River 4/1/2010
47. Earth-Visitors 4/1/2010
48. The Knife 4/1/2010
49. The Night Ride 4/1/2010
50. Full Orchestra 4/1/2010
51. Wild Grapes 4/1/2010
52. Five Visions Of Captain Cook 4/1/2010
53. Cannibal Street 4/1/2010
54. A Sunset 4/1/2010
55. Glubbdubdrib 4/1/2010
56. Fixed Ideas 4/1/2010
57. Crow Country 4/1/2010
58. Captain Dobbin 4/1/2010
59. Elegy In A Botanic Gardens 4/1/2010
60. Heine In Paris 4/1/2010
61. City Nightfall 4/1/2010
62. Country Towns 4/1/2010
63. City Nightfall 4/1/2010
64. Out Of Time 4/1/2010
65. Gulliver 4/1/2010
66. South Country 1/1/2004
67. Beach Burial 4/1/2010
68. Mangroves 1/1/2004
69. Thief Of The Moon 1/1/2004
70. North Country 1/1/2004
71. William Street 1/1/2004
72. Sleep 1/1/2004
73. Five Bells 1/1/2004

Comments about Kenneth Slessor

  • Robert Alexander (11/16/2013 10:36:00 PM)

    I reckon Slessor was a sicko. Slessor was a bloody sicko. Probably got abused when he was still weeny.

    19 person liked.
    52 person did not like.
  • Robert Alexander (11/16/2013 10:36:00 PM)

    I reckon Slessor was a sicko. Slessor was a bloody sicko. Probably got abused when he was still weeny.

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

Thief Of The Moon

Thief of the moon, thou robber of old delight,
Thy charms have stolen the star-gold, quenched the moon-
Cold, cold are the birds that, bubbling out of night,
Cried once to my ears their unremembered tune-
Dark are those orchards, their leaves no longer shine,
No orange's gold is globed like moonrise there-
O thief of the earth's old loveliness, once mine,
Why dost thou waste all beauty to make thee fair?

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