Les Murray

I came to Geneva by the bullet train up from church kero lamps” it must have been the bullet train. I rolled in on a Sunday to that jeweled circling city and everything was closed in the old-fashioned way. In the city of Palais and moored Secretariat I arrived in spring when the Ferraris came . . . . Continue Reading »

They’ve had so many jobs: boiling African porridge. Being printed on. Paving Paris, flying in her revolutions. Supporting a stork’s nest in Spain. Their suits are neater abroad, of denser drape, unnibbled: they’ve left their parasites at home. They flower out of bullets and, . . . . Continue Reading »

We never heard what my mate heard descending to the Dead Sea by bus: a jet fighter far below him streaking north gomorrah and SDOM! Our trip was nearly in peacetime. I remember my surprise at my first view of our goal, not a white brine pan, it twinkled cheerfully blue like any sunny lake. It . . . . Continue Reading »