Les Murray

Previously unpublished work from the giant of Australian poetry

A poem

  Plucked chook we called Poultry, or Fowl, a meat rare in our kitchens, crepe-skinned for festivity or medicine. As Chooks alive, they were placid donors of eggs and mild music. Perches and dark gave them sleep. Then came the false immigration of …

Adventures in lexiconia

Death gets into the suburbs, but sleek turnover highrise keeps it out of mind   and wilderness, wrapped in its own deaths, scarcely points us at ours,   but furred rusty machines, and grey boards unglazed for heritage or holiday –   you …

Haze went from smoke-blue to beige gradually, after midday. The Inland was passing over high up, and between the trees. The north hills and the south hills lost focus and faded away.   As the Inland was passing over lungless flies quizzing …