Les Murray Poems
|43.||Flowering Eucalypt In Autumn||1/13/2003|
|44.||Predawn In Health||1/13/2003|
|45.||The Dream Of Wearing Shorts Forever||1/13/2003|
|46.||A Retrospect Of Humidity||1/13/2003|
|48.||Late Summer Fires||1/13/2003|
|49.||Music To Me Is Like Days||1/13/2003|
|53.||The Aboriginal Cricketer||1/13/2003|
|54.||Poetry And Religion||1/13/2003|
|55.||On Home Beaches||1/13/2003|
|56.||The Meaning Of Existence||1/13/2003|
|58.||Inside Ayers Rock||1/13/2003|
|59.||An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow||1/13/2003|
Comments about 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...
Late Summer Fires
The paddocks shave black
with a foam of smoke that stays,
welling out of red-black wounds.
In the white of a drought
this happens. The hardcourt game.
Logs that fume are mostly cattle,
inverted, stubby. Tree stumps are kilns.