Les Murray

(17 October 1938)

Les Murray Poems

1. A Retrospect Of Humidity 1/13/2003
2. Amanda's Painting 1/13/2003
3. An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow 1/13/2003
4. Aurora Prone 1/13/2003
5. Bat's Ultrasound 1/13/2003
6. Blowfly Grass 3/23/2017
7. Bottles in the Bombed City 3/23/2017
8. Child Logic 3/23/2017
9. Cockspur Bush 1/13/2003
10. Comete 1/13/2003
11. Ernest Hemingway and the Latest Quake 3/23/2017
12. Flowering Eucalypt In Autumn 1/13/2003
13. High-Speed Bird 3/23/2017
14. Holland's Nadir 3/23/2017
15. I wrote a little haiku 3/23/2017
16. Inside Ayers Rock 1/13/2003
17. Late Summer Fires 1/13/2003
18. Music To Me Is Like Days 1/13/2003
19. Noonday Axeman 10/15/2005
20. Nursing Home 3/23/2017
21. Observing The Mute Cat 3/23/2017
22. On Home Beaches 1/13/2003
23. On The Borders 1/13/2003
24. Panic Attack 3/23/2017
25. Performance 1/13/2003
26. Photographing Aspirations 3/23/2017
27. Pigs 1/13/2003
28. Poetry And Religion 1/13/2003
29. Predawn In Health 1/13/2003
30. Quintets for Robert Morley 3/23/2017
31. Ripe In The Arbours Of The Nose 3/23/2017
32. Science Fiction 3/23/2017
33. Self and Dream Self 3/23/2017
34. Shower 1/13/2003
35. Spermaceti 3/23/2017
36. The Aboriginal Cricketer 1/13/2003
37. The Broad Bean Sermon 3/23/2017
38. The Butter Factory 1/13/2003
39. The Conversations 3/23/2017
40. The Cows on Killing Day 2/1/2016
Best Poem of Les Murray

An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow

The word goes round Repins,
the murmur goes round Lorenzinis,
at Tattersalls, men look up from sheets of numbers,
the Stock Exchange scribblers forget the chalk in their hands
and men with bread in their pockets leave the Greek Club:
There's a fellow crying in Martin Place. They can't stop him.

The traffic in George Street is banked up for half a mile
and drained of motion. The crowds are edgy with talk
and more crowds come hurrying. Many run in the back streets
which minutes ago were busy main streets, pointing:
There's a fellow weeping down there. No one can...

Read the full of An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow

The Butter Factory

It was built of things that must not mix:
paint, cream, and water, fire and dusty oil.
You heard the water dreaming in its large
kneed pipes, up from the weir. And the cordwood
our fathers cut for the furnace stood in walls
like the sleeper-stacks of a continental railway.

The cream arrived in lorried tides; its procession
crossed a platform of workers' stagecraft: Come here

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