Fay Zwicky

Made ghosts in all their country’s warsthey come, the young men in my dreams with shattered skulls, intestines trailing in the sand, the mud, the stuff the TV doesn’tshow unless it’s Africa. Or someplace else where colour doesn’t count, democracy a word  they carted like a talisman, a passport to the candles, bells of sainthood. ... (read more)

Without the support of a recognisably unified literary tradition, the Australian poet has had to come to terms with the diverse elements of an increasingly heterogeneous culture. Australia is, was, and ever shall be, someone else’s country, a homeland so fundamentally altered as a concept as to be no longer comfortably recognisable as ‘Home’. Paradoxically, if anything has drawn Australian p ... (read more)

After John Bunyan My Mužka (‘little fly’ in Czech)Goes softly but she goeth sure.She stumbles not as larger creatures do,Her journey’s shorter so she may endureMore puissant than do those who further go. Right at my feet she canny curls,She makes no noise but delicately pawsThe bony beast appointed for her meal,Feeds quiet, a marvel of containment. Her modest inch of soul shines clearFro ... (read more)

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