Poem written in remembrance of Les Murray. 3rd in Newbies + Open Poetry Contest. |
Homage to Les Les Murray, that is, Australian poet (yes, I know, oxymoron), Bard of the Outback, native of New South Wales, a better man than even Gunga Din, died just yesterday, well, April this year and the world much worse in consequence. In the back streets of the web I found him in a poem called Vindaloo in Merthyr Tydfil and how unlikely can you get, Aus poet in Wales, the home of (bows low) Dylan Thomas? He sang truth in the neon lights, gazed unblinking in the bright day of a desert continent, could write of pigs in language all their own, then draw a man weeping in terms divine, sing of bush poems and thorns, of city streets and a woman turning like a comet to the sun. Who now will speak for us, the words birthing in our depths, the suppresséd thoughts we could not say? Just you, Les, a man so loved even his enemies wept at his funeral. Australia’s you were but also their gift to the world and in some future unimagined, when you take your place amongst the greats, my oxymoron joke will die pariahlike and dry as dirt. Lines: 35 Word Count: 194 Free Verse |