Clive James
Clive James (1939–2019) was a distinguished critic, poet, author, television performer, journalist, and lyricist. He was born and raised in Sydney, where he attended Sydney University. From 1961 he lived in England. Among his countless publications are nine poetry collections, four novels, a translation of Dante’s Divine Comedy, five volumes of memoirs (most famously Unreliable Memoirs), and many collections of literary and television criticism. He wrote for ABR twenty times between 2001 and 2015.
Kogarah (suppress the first ‘a’ and it scans)Named by the locals for the creek’s tall reedsThat look like an exotic dancer’s fansWhen dead, was where I lived. Born to great deeds
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On the Hiryu, Hajime ToyoshimaStarred in the group photos like Andy Hardy,He was so small and cute.
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On the Hiryu, Hajime Toyoshima
Starred in the group photos like Andy Hardy,
He was so small and cute.
His face, as friendly as his first name
(In Japanese you say hajime at first meeting),
Could have been chirping: ‘Hey, why don’t we
Put the show on right here in the barn?’
After Pearl Harbor he was one of the great ship’s heroes
And the attack on Darwin promised him yet more glory ... (read more)
I won’t this time. Silent at last and shunted Into its siding in the Victorian Arts Centre The container train started its journey in Yugoslavia Two years before it arrived in Gippsland Among trees that echo Albert Namatjira.
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Too many of my friends are dead, and others wreckedBy various diseases of the intellectOr failing body. How am I still upright?And even I sleep half the day, cough half the night.
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The wild White Nun, rarest and loveliest Of all her kind, takes form in the green shade Deep in the forest. Streams of filtered light Are tapped, distilled, and lavishly expressed As petals. Her sweet hunger is displayed By the labellum, set for bees in flight To land on. In her well, the viscin gleams: Mesmeric nectar, sticky stuff of dreams.
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Peter Porter b. Brisbane 1929, d. London 2010
The sky is silent. All the planes must keepClear of the fine volcanic ash that driftsEastward from Iceland like a bad idea.In your apartment building without lifts,Not well myself, I find it a bit steepTo climb so many stairs but know I mustIf I would see you still alive, still here.The word is out from those you love and trust –Time is so short t ... (read more)
The Lions at Taronga
The leaves of Tower Bridge are rigged to openFor any taxi I might chance to catch.They say that when the ravens leave the Tower
It means they’ll use my rain-stained study skylightAs a toilet. I can see Canary Wharf,A Russian rocket packed around with boosters
Lit up to launch at dawn from Baikonur.The Blade of Light is cleared for butterfliesTo crash-land. When that lens- ... (read more)
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