Les Murray
To Fly In Just Your Suit
Humans are flown, or fall; Humans can’t fly. We’re down with the gravity-stemmers, Rare, thick-boned, often basso. Most animals above the tides are airborne. Typically tuned keen, they Throw the ground away with wire
Inside Ayers Rock
Inside Ayers Rock is lit With paired fluorescent lights On steel pillars supporting the ceiling Of haze-blue marquee cloth High above the non-slip pavers. Curving around the cafeteria Throughout vast inner space Is a
The Aboriginal Cricketer
Mid-9th century Good-looking young man In your Crimean shirt With your willow shield Up, as if to face spears, You’re inside their men’s Law, One church they do obey; They’ll remember you were here.
On The Borders
We’re driving across tableland Somewhere in the world; It is almost bare of trees. Upland near void of features Always moves me, but not to thought; It lets me rest from thinking. I feel
Performance
I starred that night, I shone: I was footwork and firework in one, A rocket that wriggled up and shot Darkness with a parasol of brilliants And a peewee descant on a flung bit;
Pigs
Us all on sore cement was we. Not warmed then with glares. Not glutting mush Under that pole the lightning’s tied to. No farrow-shit in milk to make us randy. Us back in cool
Bat's Ultrasound
Sleeping-bagged in a duplex wing With fleas, in rock-cleft or building Radar bats are darkness in miniature, Their whole face one tufty crinkled ear With weak eyes, fine teeth bared to sing. Few are
Aurora Prone
The lemon sunlight poured out far between things Inhabits a coolness. Mosquitoes have subsided, Flies are for later heat. Every tree’s an auburn giant with a dazzled face And the back of its head
The Quality Of Sprawl
Sprawl is the quality Of the man who cut down his Rolls-Royce Into a farm utility truck, and sprawl Is what the company lacked when it made repeated efforts To buy the vehicle back
The Dream Of Wearing Shorts Forever
To go home and wear shorts forever In the enormous paddocks, in that warm climate, Adding a sweater when winter soaks the grass, To camp out along the river bends For good, wearing shorts,
Towards The Imminent Days (Section 4)
In my aunt’s house, the milk jug’s beaded crochet cover Tickles the ear. We’ve eaten boiled things with butter. Pie spiced like islands, dissolving in cream, is now Dissolving in us. We’ve reached the
On Home Beaches
Back, in my fifties, fatter that I was then, I step on the sand, belch down slight horror to walk A wincing pit edge, waiting for the pistol shot Laughter. Long greening waves cash
The Meaning Of Existence
Everything except language Knows the meaning of existence. Trees, planets, rivers, time Know nothing else. They express it Moment by moment as the universe. Even this fool of a body Lives it in part,
A Retrospect Of Humidity
All the air conditioners now slacken Their hummed carrier wave. Once again We’ve served our three months with remissions In the steam and dry iron of this seaboard. In jellied glare, through the nettle-rash
Travels With John Hunter
We who travel between worlds Lose our muscle and bone. I was wheeling a barrow of earth When agony bayoneted me. I could not sit, or lie down, Or stand, in Casualty. Stomach-calming clay