Kenneth Slessor: Всі вірші поета

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Sensuality

FEELING hunger and cold, feeling

Food, feeling fire, feeling

Pity and pain, tasting

Time in a kiss, tasting

Anger and tears, touching

Eyelids with lips, touching

Plague, touching flesh, knowing

Blood in the mouth, knowing

by Kenneth Slessor

Elegy In A Botanic Gardens

THE smell of birds' nests faintly burning

Is autumn. In the autumn I came

Where spring had used me better,

To the clear red pebbles and the men of stone

And foundered beetles, to the broken Meleager

And thousands of white circles drifting past,

Cold suns in water; even to the dead grove

Where we had kissed, to the Tristania tree

by Kenneth Slessor

North Country

North Country, filled with gesturing wood,

With trees that fence, like archers' volleys,

The flanks of hidden valleys

Where nothing's left to hide

But verticals and perpendiculars,

Like rain gone wooden, fixed in falling,

Or fingers blindly feeling

For what nobody cares;

by Kenneth Slessor

Snowdrops

The Snowdrop Girl in fields of snowdrops walks,

Whiter than foam, deeper than waters flowing,

Flakes of wild milk gone blowing,

Snowing on cloudy stalks.

The Snowdrop Girl goes picking flowers of snow,

Blossoms of darkness bubbling into dreams,

In a strange country, by the shadowy streams

Where the cruel petals of the Coke-tree grow.

by Kenneth Slessor

Out Of Time

I saw Time flowing like a hundred yachts

That fly behind the daylight, foxed with air;

Or piercing, like the quince-bright, bitter slats

Of sun gone thrusting under Harbour's hair.

So Time, the wave, enfolds me in its bed,

Or Time, the bony knife, it runs me through.

"Skulker, take heart," I thought my own heart said.

by Kenneth Slessor

A Bushranger

Jackey Jackey gallops on a horse like a swallow

Where the carbines bark and the blackboys hollo.

When the traps give chase (may the devil take his power!)

He can ride ten mile in a quarter of an hour

Take horse and follow, and you'll hurt no feelings;

He can fly down waterfalls and jump through ceilings,

He can shoot off hats, for to have a bit of fun,

With a bulldog bigger than a buffalo-gun

by Kenneth Slessor

Wild Grapes

The old orchard, full of smoking air,

Full of sour marsh and broken boughs, is there,

But kept no more by vanished Mulligans,

Or Hartigans, long drowned in earth themselves,

Who gave this bitter fruit their care.

Here's where the cherries grew that birds forgot,

And apples bright as dogstars; now there is not

An apple or a cherry; only grapes,

by Kenneth Slessor

William Street

The red globe of light, the liquor green,

the pulsing arrows and the running fire

spilt on the stones, go deeper than a stream;

You find this ugly, I find it lovely

Ghosts' trousers, like the dangle of hung men,

in pawn-shop windows, bumping knee by knee,

but none inside to suffer or condemn;

You find this ugly, I find it lovely.

by Kenneth Slessor

The Night Ride

Gas flaring on the yellow platform; voices running up and down;

Milk-tins in cold dented silver; half-awake I stare,

Pull up the blind, blink out - all sounds are drugged;

the slow blowing of passengers asleep;

engines yawning; water in heavy drips;

Black, sinister travellers, lumbering up the station,

one moment in the window, hooked over bags;

hurrying, unknown faces - boxes with strange labels -

by Kenneth Slessor

Five Bells

Time that is moved by little fidget wheels

Is not my time, the flood that does not flow.

Between the double and the single bell

Of a ship's hour, between a round of bells

From the dark warship riding there below,

I have lived many lives, and this one life

Of Joe, long dead, who lives between five bells.

Deep and dissolving verticals of light

by Kenneth Slessor

Country Towns

Country towns, with your willows and squares,

And farmers bouncing on barrel mares

To public houses of yellow wood

With "1860" over their doors,

And that mysterious race of Hogans

Which always keeps the General Stores….

At the School of Arts, a broadsheet lies

Sprayed with the sarcasm of flies:

by Kenneth Slessor

Five Visions Of Captain Cook

COOK was a captain of the Admiralty

When sea-captains had the evil eye,

Or should have, what with beating krakens off

And casting nativities of ships;

Cook was a captain of the powder-days

When captains, you might have said, if you had been

Fixed by their glittering stare, half-down the side,

by Kenneth Slessor